Day 343: Don't Let the Facts Fool You, I'm Not Housewife Material

I have been living a lie and it is slowly killing me. These last two years I have moved three times and been mostly unemployed. From all outside appearances, I am the thing I was never meant to be: I am a housewife. Gasp! Now before you all start jumping down my throat about being judgmental again, let me clarify that I am not insinuating that housewifery is bad, just that I am not suited for that role in the least.

First off, I’m bad at it. I hate to clean and rarely do it. Consequently, there is no five second rule in my house. If you drop it, it will likely be covered in cat hair so I don’t recommend putting it in your mouth, in fact, picking it up at all is somewhat optional. I like clutter and despite my recent determination to achieve that empty backpack, I am still living the life of a 18-piece mismatched set of luggage. I don’t have any children, which is usually a prerequisite for the housewives club and finally, I’m not really gossipy, garden-friendly, or fond of The View.

I like having someplace to go in the mornings. That wonderful feeling of accomplishment when you’ve put in a long day or finished a big project is something laundry just does not give me. I like having lunch at the office or drinks after work. I even miss my morning commute – though I will admit that the current commute of padding from bed to kitchen in PJ’s and slippers is pretty awesome. Still, I miss the purpose of work outside the home and the built-in excuse for why the house isn’t clean. (Too busy! Rough week at work! I consider the office my home!)

All this wouldn’t be so terrible if it weren’t for the fact that I have traced my current housewife status to the reason I am so cranky and depressed of late. It hit me with all the subtlety of Ann Coulter’s penis envy, I hate being a housewife and I’m taking it out on everyone I know. It may come as no surprise to you that I have a certain gift for being a bitch. What can I say, I go with what I know. Anyway, after practically eviscerating the husband via an ill-timed phone conversation Friday I started to trace back over what is happening in my life and I finally figured it out.

Shockingly, even after a year of self-immersion via this blog, copious amounts of wine, scotch and Jack, and more alone time than even I ever wanted I still didn’t really see it coming. Up until now, I contented myself with the belief that a job offer would come any day now. Well, that just isn’t really happening. Temp jobs and freelance gigs do not a career make and the reality is, like it or not, I’m a damn housewife. I even bake and take my treats into the husband’s office. I might as well don and apron and Tivo “Army Wives.”

Though I guess it’s not too late. I have identified and admitted the problem after all, so a cure should be just around the corner, right? Well, considering that a cure will require a full-time job offer, maybe not, but if I stay alert and understand why I am moody and acting out maybe I can overcome this affliction. My greatest fear is that I will wake up in five years to discover that I actually enjoy cleaning and that nothing pleases me more than knowing my darling husband sincerely enjoyed tonight’s dinner. Never mind, I don’t really think that’s a possibility, my excessive four-letter vocabulary doesn’t really shout Domestic Goddess, more like “fucking clean it up yourself!” You can’t change your nature and the housewife just isn’t in mine.