It’s Not the Chores; It’s Those Dreadful Decisions

I have often heard the sardonic term “house husband,” but I never thought of it as applying to me.

Surely, I thought, the feminists had not made so many gains in recent years only to have the insufferable epithets by which they were once defined passed on to men.

It is not that I think “housewife” is a demeaning term; millions of women regard themselves as housewifes and are proud of it. On the other hand, many other millions despise the term and all that it means.

For some years now, I have been working at home, while my wife works outside at the Southern California Counseling Center. I must confess that when we first made this change, reversing our old routine, I did not automatically pick up all the chores that she had previously done.

For one thing I do not do the shopping, except that I usually keep us in wines and spirits. My wife does the shopping on the way home from work. On Saturdays she takes the laundry to the Laundromat and brings home the previous week’s load. During the week she does the ironing. She seems to have some affinity for it. Usually she irons while she’s watching television.

Also, she does the cooking. I get my own breakfast and lunch, but she usually pops a couple of microwave dinners into the oven when she comes home from work and we eat while watching sex and violence on television.

The heavy housework is done once a week by a cleaning woman.

Apparently that leaves me little to do. Don’t kid yourself. This past week alone the details of housekeeping that I have had to attend to have driven me up the wall.

First, the Fire Department required, as it does every year, that we eliminate the weeds around the canyon behind our house. That is a job that always costs more than $200. Fortunately I have a good man who knows when it’s time and comes around to my door. I just tell him to go ahead.

Then the refrigerator broke down. We had to move all our frozen foods down to the refrigerator in the garage and of course I had to call Montgomery Ward to ask for service. They said we were covered by our warranty and sent a man promptly. He said the fridge needed a new timer and put one in.

Then the television went out of sync. We were getting a hideous double image and the sound was breaking up. At the same time I decided that me might as well add HBO, so we could see more sex and violence.

I called Cable TV and told them my problem. They said they would send two men--one for each job. I said I would be home between 1 and 5 p.m. Later I got a phone call from Cable TV. It was a recording. A woman said that if I was going to be home from 1 to 5 p.m. to hang up immediately. I hung up. More and more, conversation seems to be out of date.

Meanwhile, the refrigerator went out again. I called Montgomery Ward and they said they would send out another man. Meanwhile, a man came from Cable TV. He had to go under the house and replace the cable. Then he went up a pole outside and dropped a new line. He had not only fixed the double image, he had installed HBO.

“Another man is supposed to do that,” I said. Installation was supposed to be free if I contributed $10 or more to the Woodcraft Rangers. He shrugged. “Tell him it’s already in.”

The second man came. I told him HBO was already in. He shrugged and asked for a check. I gave him a check for $25 for the Rangers.

Today, the second refrigerator man came. He said the door wasn’t shutting properly.

Meanwhile, the brush man said his crew had finished clearing the brush and he wanted a check. He suggested that I also employ him to clean the leaves off the roof.

“Your roof’s going to leak,” he said. I told him to go ahead.

It isn’t only that these exigencies are disruptive of one’s work; the worst part is the decisions, the wear and tear, the stress.

I don’t look forward to the day we start remodeling.