Girlfriend Update
Here I sit, in the apartment. My boy is at class. I am not. Today is special and I do not have class until this afternoon, and thus I am here, supposedly trying to finish this paper, which has been giving me no end of grief all weekend long.
Obviously, I am not finishing the paper. But even if I should fail the entire course because of this and have it be the prelude to never again completing a research paper and dropping out of college, I take comfort in the fact that I shall make a very good housewife.
I am a feminist in my own way. By that I mean I do not go around crusading for pro-choice rallies and whining about not having enough women in Congress and in the future I will not pitch a big hairy fit about compromising my career in order to stay home and raise kids because why can't HE do it? I do, however, appreciate the fact that I am a indeed woman and I am aware that there are things that I can do which my boy, being very much NOT a woman, cannot. That is my form of feminism.
One of these things that I can do that my boy cannot is, apparently, keep the kitchen area of the apartment to a suitable level of not-icky.
This is likely a personal thing, and has nothing to do with man versus woman. I am sure that there are men out there who are finicky about making everything clean and shiny and women who only wash dishes when they need them and never wipe down the stove after they've cooked. And in all fairness, he keeps the bathroom pretty nice. Regardless, I found myself thinking as I madly scrubbed the stove that here I was, being the epitome of a housewife, cleaning the home while my man goes off to do what he does. And quite honestly, this does not bother me in the slightest. I am not an oppressed woman, trapped under the shackles of this male-dominated world. I cleaned that kitchen because I did not think it was clean enough, and by golly, if you want something done you had damn well better do it yourself.
And in the end, it works. He hates doing dishes about as much as he hates waking up in the morning, and I find a deep satisfaction in knowing that everything is nice and clean. Some day, we will get married and have kids, and although I take comfort in the fact that he would happily stay home with the kids while I worked if things turned out that way, I would much rather be self-employed, so that I may have the best of both worlds and make money in the comfort of my own kid-filled home. I love to sew, and I love to do the grocery shopping, and I love the gentle tediousness of things like laundry and dusting and making things pretty. Thus, despite this paper, I shall enjoy being a housewife, and anybody who looks down on me for sliding into the stereotypical female role will promptly discover that I move rather quickly for a woman in a skirt and that the heels of my boots hurt when I kick you. Because, if I am going to be a stereotypical woman, this also means that I am going to be catty and employ lots of hair-pulling and below-the-belt maneuvers, and that can really hurt when you do it right.
Obviously, I am not finishing the paper. But even if I should fail the entire course because of this and have it be the prelude to never again completing a research paper and dropping out of college, I take comfort in the fact that I shall make a very good housewife.
I am a feminist in my own way. By that I mean I do not go around crusading for pro-choice rallies and whining about not having enough women in Congress and in the future I will not pitch a big hairy fit about compromising my career in order to stay home and raise kids because why can't HE do it? I do, however, appreciate the fact that I am a indeed woman and I am aware that there are things that I can do which my boy, being very much NOT a woman, cannot. That is my form of feminism.
One of these things that I can do that my boy cannot is, apparently, keep the kitchen area of the apartment to a suitable level of not-icky.
This is likely a personal thing, and has nothing to do with man versus woman. I am sure that there are men out there who are finicky about making everything clean and shiny and women who only wash dishes when they need them and never wipe down the stove after they've cooked. And in all fairness, he keeps the bathroom pretty nice. Regardless, I found myself thinking as I madly scrubbed the stove that here I was, being the epitome of a housewife, cleaning the home while my man goes off to do what he does. And quite honestly, this does not bother me in the slightest. I am not an oppressed woman, trapped under the shackles of this male-dominated world. I cleaned that kitchen because I did not think it was clean enough, and by golly, if you want something done you had damn well better do it yourself.
And in the end, it works. He hates doing dishes about as much as he hates waking up in the morning, and I find a deep satisfaction in knowing that everything is nice and clean. Some day, we will get married and have kids, and although I take comfort in the fact that he would happily stay home with the kids while I worked if things turned out that way, I would much rather be self-employed, so that I may have the best of both worlds and make money in the comfort of my own kid-filled home. I love to sew, and I love to do the grocery shopping, and I love the gentle tediousness of things like laundry and dusting and making things pretty. Thus, despite this paper, I shall enjoy being a housewife, and anybody who looks down on me for sliding into the stereotypical female role will promptly discover that I move rather quickly for a woman in a skirt and that the heels of my boots hurt when I kick you. Because, if I am going to be a stereotypical woman, this also means that I am going to be catty and employ lots of hair-pulling and below-the-belt maneuvers, and that can really hurt when you do it right.