The Accidental Feminist

We sit surrounded by empty granola bar wrappers and other plastic-packaged foods in various states of undress. There are also half eaten bags of dried fruits, candles that have tipped over and rolled about, tea cups bottomed with the vestige of early morning breakfast, bath towels placed over chair backs waiting to dry, CDs, DVDs, maps, books, keys, cosmetics, receipts, the phone, water bottles (empty or full, we do not descriminate) things we have confiscated from the dog's gaping maw, a pair of new beaded leather flats and other recently purchased souvenirs...it's a veritable hodge podge of needful everyday things that have all migrated at some point to the dining table that doubles as our office space.

My house is a mess.

The kitchen contains not a single clean dish and hasn't (if the truth be told) for quite some time, unless you count the ones at the bottom of the sink, submerged in soap filmed water for three days straight. It is my excuse for not cooking. Not that I'd be inclined to do much in the way of culinary creativity anyway. Sometimes, when we've scraped together enough elbow grease to get things back in order I'm filled with inspiration and attack a dinner menu with great gusto. The result, however, is a messy kitchen, yet again exploded with vegetable peels, dirty silver, and endless pots and pans I'm too apathetic to be bothered with again for a long, long time.
I've admitted before to my weakness for tossing dishes out in favor of buying new ones and had worked really hard this past year to break such a wasteful habit but we just made our first sacrifice: a plastic tupperware container that had been demoted from food storage to pennicillin incubator.
When I showed it to Hamid, opened it so that all the glory of it's aroma could enchant him, and asked if he wanted to wash it or should I toss it out his reply was, "That's easy to wash." so I said, "Go ahead." and he said, "Throw it away." So I did.

I have not done laundry for over a week; sleeves and shorts and pant legs stretch out from the laundry room floor as if in escape mode. I do not hear their stinky-sock appeals for a thorough wash and would not care even if I could; leaving them to welcome whatever new bits of clothing I sometimes gather up from the bedroom floor or various bathrooms and doorknobs to toss on top of the pile.
The clothes that are clean have taken over the entire fourth bedroom, dubbed 'the closet', and although we bought at least a hundred stylish silver hangers they are cold and lonely on their bars. The clothes are everywhere but.

Hamid and I were surveying the damage today, in awe of just how messy we are. I'm guessing it's a symptom of having so much space. Our previous house was the size, in its entirety, of one of our small bedrooms so it commanded at least some effort in the way of organization - but that's no excuse really. We laugh and talk about the dilemma over our messy tables, floors, and countertops, ignoring the obviously desperate condition of our kitchen in particular, and we get to the part in the conversation where my guilt over not cooking, not cleaning, and generally not giving a damn comes into play. Hamid makes it clear he doesn't hold it against me and knows full well he could clean if he really felt it was necessary. But he doesn't. And neither do I. And the cycle repeats itself with nothing done and no one complaining. But still, there's that socialized idea that lingers somewhere in the periphery of our marriage that says I'm supposed to be on top of these things, that it's supposed to make me happy and fulfilled or something. I'm the wife. It's almost like there's this unwritten job description compelling me to take on these most unfabulous domestic activities whether I feel like it or not.
Whatever.

The truth is, I will clean if it seems like a fun thing to do, which is pretty much how I live the rest of my life...this approach works well for me. When it's fun, it's truly a cathartic experience and I am at one with my mop and my size extra small pink rubber gloves (purchased in and brought back from Turkey because Nepal only has extra large yellow ones which are just so unacceptable.) When I'm in that rare space of PineSol bliss, high on ammonia and bleach, scrubbing away at the worries of the world inside my very own house I'll go until every.single.thing is right back where it should be and glistening with a germ-free shine. But the mood hasn't struck me for eons and so it goes..

In the meantime, I do my best to try to shove the 'I'm a bad wife.' thoughts to the back of my mind and pretend I can't see what's going on around me; looking instead for more dishes to offer up to the garbage can gods of household detritus - at least that way, there's that much less to feel guily about.