I am definitely NOT!
Look at the desperate joy on this poor woman’s face! God love her, she’s probably well away on the Prozac! And, to be blunt, who the hell wears a frou-frou blouse to clean the rancid u-bend?
Cleaning the house every day? Polishing the doodads? Dusting all surfaces? Ironing the sheets? Ironing the clothes? Sewing? Knitting? Cooking? Doing the washing to such perfection that creases etch themselves in (out of fear), the scent of flowers (natural rather than chemical, of course) wafts winsomely around the house and whites come out so blindingly bright that even dull days seems sunlit?
I know many women who seem to derive true and genuine joy from their Goddess label and all the, to me tedious, work it entails.
I, undomesticated from the earliest age, and largely uninterested in creating a show home, find the whole thing utterly baffling!
I mean, okay, zooming the hoover round from time to time, dislodging the worst of the dust and spiders and cobwebs, making sure the black ring round the bath buggers off every once in a while, keeping the lime scale (and so forth!) which lurks down the loo under control – yes, all fair enough!
Changing the sheets and bunging washing in the machine: Yup, can cope with that – and hanging it out afterwards can be quite good fun, especially if, like me, you have a rabbit to commune with and fresh raspberries (from the canes at the bottom of the garden) to shove into your greedy maw.
Some aspects of cooking I adore: Cakes, puddings, er, cakes, er, biscuits, ice cream – but you won’t find me at my best with Sunday roasts or five course dinner for twelve!
I am not a woman who has a neat rack of darning mushrooms in every size and colour. I have never had the patience for darning, to be frank: Bloody boring waste of time, in my opinion, when one could be enjoying oneself playing music or having sex!
See, thing about all this Domestic Goddessing is that, like the Augean Stables of yore, there’s no sodding end to it: You shovel out wheelbarrows full of shit (er, family detritus) and still the metaphorical horse pad is as full as ever. You could, and many do, go completely bananas trying to keep on top of it all. It could preoccupy you to such an extent that you forego the weekly slightly drunk shag because you’re too busy combing and deodorising the shag-pile!
Some Domestic Goddesses become so obsessed by the whole thing that OCD sets in – and, in the frantic race to iron, clean, purge everything, they find themselves disinfecting the husband along with the toilet, and ironing the kids while putting the clean shirts to bed with a lullaby.
When a child (or a spouse, come to that), desirous of conversation, gets told, by the Apron-clad Super-Woman, ‘Not NOW, dear, I’ve got to de-ice the freezer, get to the bottom of that smell in the airing cupboard and Brasso Granny’s old kettle set…’ you know that your DG has parted company with the nurturing instinct – and, indeed, what I would call basic warm humanity – and become, instead, a terrifyingly efficient robot!
Now, I know that living in a complete tip, with toilets so festerous that even Fungus the Bogeyman might rear back in horror and grass you could lose a carthorse in, is just as bad in a very different way – and I certainly wouldn’t wish to exist in what basically comes down to a Midden…
But, when all is said and done, there is more to life than having the perfect house. People, for starters – and fun and laughter and spontaneity and imperfection and relaxation!
Love the sentiments on this one – but will you just LOOK at the fatuous grin (gurn, more like) on this gel’s face? Come ON! Anyone who has ever tried to clean a bath will know that sweaty, blotched, abraded, filthy and homicidal is far closer to the true state of affairs!
I always think that the word ‘housewife’ says it all really: The truly dedicated Domestic Goddess often ends up far more married to, and intimate with, the house itself than her poor husband!
But then, presumably, he is proving that he’s a Proper Man by toiling and tinkering under cars, on top of roofs, in toasters, toilets and malfunctioning televisions – while doing the regular B&Q runs for the exact same part he has tried, and failed, to fit on countless occasions previously.
Now, my attitude is this: If it needs doing, pair up, you husbands and wives – have a bloody good laugh (and your own weight in chocolate and booze) and do the job together (much more fun!) and then get in the shower, a deux, and…or just roll around on the carpet and…or make up the bedding together and…
You get my point, I am sure!
So, count me out on the Goddess, Domestic Variety, front; but, if you want a humorous dame to help, to be your assistant (in a womanly kind of way), to laugh and swear and balls everything up with you, I’m your man – er, woman!
As long as I don’t have to wear a pristine pinny or do my hair in those ridiculous sausage roll waves!