Essay: The Hideously Pointless Nature Of Housework

Last Sunday I spent my entire morning doing housework: vacuuming, wiping counters, picking up toys/clothes/random piles of crap, running load after load of laundry. By late afternoon, you couldn't tell I'd done a single thing. Toys were strewn everywhere, at least three different people of the male persuasion had tracked mud and pine needles all over the floor, there was a pile of dirty dishes sitting in the sink despite the invitingly-emptied dishwasher, and the kitchen table was blanketed in a thick layer of crumbs. Also, a pair of socks had been carelessly tossed onto a lamp. SOCKS. ON A LAMP.

"That's it," I said through gritted teeth while surveying the damage. "I am on STRIKE."

Here's what I didn't do for a full week: I didn't wipe the kitchen counters, I didn't vacuum the floors, I didn't put dirty clothes in the laundry, and I didn't take clean clothes out. I didn't fill the dishwasher or empty it, I didn't swab toothpaste off the mirror, and I didn't pick up a single, solitary toy.

Want to know what happened? Visit The Stir to find out.

Flickr photo by go greener oz

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