Damnit! My Husband Did the Dishes Again

An except from the diary of a moderately wealthy upper (maybe upper, upper) middle class housewife who used to be trailer trash

 What do I come home to each night? A spotless house, closets full of fashionable clothing; a candlelit dinner served up on white linen with wine and chocolate cake for dessert, and my family waiting for me to sit down before they start eating. A page straight out of Vogue magazine where fine dining and Prada are a matter of course, where all that is required is dressing for dinner, sliding into a chair and saying, "Hello. My day was wonderful. How was yours?"

You know that lifestyle? Well, you can have it. All of it, including the file mignon and the deeply satisfying sex with the love of my life.

   I'm done with it. Done. Done. Done.

It's impossible to explain how exhausting it is listening to the kids, ages 4 and 16, talk about how they're on the honor role at preschool, or making captain of the football team. The older one is always putting together plans with his dad to visit a soup kitchen on the weekend or donate his allowance to the homeless.

And my husband, George? He's a piece of work. You've probably already guessed I never do any housework, never mind cooking. But him! After a tough day at work as a millionaire stock broker, he's the one who wants to throw together our gourmet dinners. Often his loving and careworn face peers at me from between courses of butternut bisque and fresh-caught lobster and he says something like, "Darling, my days are always the same. I want to talk about your day. How do you feel about your new personal trainer? Did you watch Oprah?"

It's all I can do to stop myself from leaping across the table and scratching his eyes out. Can't he see he's suffocating me?

Dear God, deliver me from the hell that is my home life. I don't ask for much, but I did feel it was my right to live the life with which American housewives have bonded over for centuries, one with a never-ending pile of laundry, floors to mop, babies to diaper. Was it too much to expect that I would be like so many others and, five minutes before my husband came home, throwing Hamburger Helper on the stove for dinner? And what about domestic violence? Has that ship sailed, too? It's so common; I wouldn't have been surprised to have had to endure a little spousal abuse. Although my husband does beat me - he beats me home each night so that he can dust.

I know that I'm the most boring housewife on the block because when I'm having coffee with my girlfriends I haven't a thing to complain about. To relieve the stress of keeping their kids fed and their homes clean, they're are all having nervous breakdowns or affairs with the UPS man. The inability of women with children under the age of five to maintain some kind of adult life is apparently problem in every home. Not ours! I do whatever I like whenever I want to. My loved ones, those bastards, just want me to be happy.

I'm so desperate, I re-hung a few outfits in the closet after I wore them thinking I'd have some laundry to do and something to talk about, but George chose that day to stay home and get caught up on a little housework. Of course he found my dirty laundry stash and washed all of it, and a few pairs of slacks that had never been worn, before I had a chance.

Donna, my best friend? Her life is completely different. When she comes home from a ten-hour shift cashiering at the drug store, it's to dirty laundry, a baby with a wet diaper and a rash, and a beer-drinking husband watching football in his wife-beater t-shirt.

 When I heard that story I couldn't help myself. I ran to the bedroom, pushed aside the mints George so thoughtfully places on the pillows and soaked the pink satin shams with my tears.

I'm near the end of my rope. Yesterday, after a full day of repair and rejuvenation at the spa, I opened the door and caught George in blue rubber gloves fooling around with a bottle brush and some recyclable containers.

He looked up, pale with guilt.

"We've talked about this," I whispered.

 "But...", he sputtered.

I was so mad, I didn't know what to do. I fled to our priceless collection room and called Donna. "Damnit, my husband did the dishes again," I hissed.

George followed me, obviously wanting to eavesdrop. I was so frustrated I didn't even get off the phone before letting him have it.

"Why can't you ever leave your underwear on the floor?"

"Housework relaxes me," he mumbled. "Are you still talking to Donna?"

"Yes. I want her to hear this. I want her to know what I'm up against."

Obviously trying to steady himself, he began to work on his antique tea cups. "I thought you liked a clean place," he said.

"Do you know what Donna's husband did today?" I raged. "Do you want to know?"

"Yes," he said, but I could tell he didn't care. He was dusting a tiny, expensive trivet that came with the collection.

"He changed the oil in the car."

"I change the oil in our car," he responded.

"But do you track oil from the garage to the bathroom?"

George flushed.

"Do you ever think about anything but yourself?"

As usual, George stomped into the kitchen, but this time I didn't feel bad at all. As much as it hurt him, I was glad. I was glad I'd finally spoken my truth. But I'd left poor Donna hanging on the other end of the line.   

"Are you OK?" she asked.

"Not right now. But I will be." I knew he was in there, somewhere, probably churning butter using only the finest ingredients, but I didn't even have the strength to scream obscenities at him. He'd taken all the fight out of me.

"Can I come over?"

"OK," Donna said. "But I got to warn you. I'm not going to be able to talk my husband into wearing anything. He's sitting on the La-Z-Boy in his BVDs."

Donna was always such a show off. "Lucky you," I said.