Why, oh why, do I still have to read articles desperate to convince me that housework is intrinsically fulfilling? It fucking isn't. And all the glorious rhapsodies sung to the undeniable satisfaction of a clean house does not and will never magically turn the process of cleaning itself into an enlightening slice of personal fulfillment.
I'm just so bloody pissed off that the infernal suggestion that women should derive their self-worth from a clean countertop yet persists. Men who know how to scrub a goddamned floor aren't subjected in the pages of the fucking Washington Post to silly pieces gushing about how fulfilling it ought to be to their gender to engage in the "creative pursuit" of cleaning their "little kingdoms." Nor should they be. And, meanwhile, as long as the focus remains on the alleged value of cleaning, the actual value and sacrifice of cleaning for others goes unacknowledged (and unvalued). This horseshit cannot be retired fast enough.
Honestly, going on about how creative and fulfilling it is to clean your own house is as preposterous as suggesting that adult humans can find self-respect and meaning in wiping their own arses after taking a dump. Some tasks are just freaking functional. Unless you're cleaning your butt with a canvas that will, say, serve as the basis for a multi-media project commenting on the state of American journalism, it ain't creative. It's just the stuff you do so that life doesn't suck more than it has to.
Ann's got more.
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