Un-domestic Goddess

Anyone who knows me is aware of how much I intensely dislike anything remotely resembling domestic chores. My mother tried very hard to teach me how to be house proud, but there just always seemed to be something more interesting to do – starting from when I was about five years old, and I was sent to my room to tidy up my toys and would always get distracted by a book instead.

I think actually I take after my dad, who also hates housework, but being a man he can get away with it. If a man hates housework, that’s OK – he’ll have a wife or a mother who will do it for him. If a woman hates housework, she’s a slob.

OK, so I’m a slob. I cheerfully admit it. But I have no problem with paying other people to do the jobs I hate to do, so I have a cleaner instead. She comes once a week and dusts, vacuums, cleans the bathroom, mops the floors, tidies away the stuff we’ve left on the floor, scrubs the kitchen counters and loads and turns on the dishwasher. She’ll also unload it, if we’ve left the clean stuff in there, which often we do because we argue about whose turn it is to unload it.

She doesn’t do the laundry, however. I do have to deign to stuff my laundry in the washing machine and pull it out again. In our house we have a basket for laundry and a separate basket for ironing. They are both always overflowing. But we don’t have enough closet space to have everything washed and ironed all the time, so that’s fine.

Our ironing arrangement is simple: I iron my clothes, and my husband irons his. Well, he knows better than to let me loose on his work shirts, even if I was inclined to do someone else’s ironing (which I am not). My mother did try to teach me how to iron. Really, she did. I chose not to pay attention. I probably had my nose buried in some book or other at the time.

But I really hate ironing. If I could find someone else to do that for me, I’d be set.

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