“All women become like their mothers. That is their tragedy. No man does. That’s his.”
-from The Importance of Being Earnest
I know it’s a little highbrow for me to open with an Oscar Wilde quote, but that line has been running through my head all afternoon. I’m standing in the kitchen preparing a casserole for tonight’s dinner, in honor of Preppy’s parents visiting from Mississippi. It’s their first viewing of the house, which of course required a week’s worth of scrubbing, rearranging, dusting…and now cooking.
As I stand at the stove in my apron, stirring the sauce for baked mac and cheese, the image of my mother tending to company settles in my mind. My sister and I always go batty trying to convince Mama to just SIT DOWN when we visit, but she just acts like she can’t hear us and keeps right on cooking. Now I’m doing the same thing. I wonder what Wilde would say.
I’m down to my last few days before I leave town and begin rehearsals for the play I’ll be touring around the country, officially marking the death of Topher the Househusband. The last few months of domesticity have been really informative for me- I’ve discovered I have no actual capacity for it. Don’t get me wrong- I can wash, I can fold, I’m a perfectly competent cook. Cleaning requires no talent beyond the basic willingness to do it.
-from The Importance of Being Earnest
I know it’s a little highbrow for me to open with an Oscar Wilde quote, but that line has been running through my head all afternoon. I’m standing in the kitchen preparing a casserole for tonight’s dinner, in honor of Preppy’s parents visiting from Mississippi. It’s their first viewing of the house, which of course required a week’s worth of scrubbing, rearranging, dusting…and now cooking.As I stand at the stove in my apron, stirring the sauce for baked mac and cheese, the image of my mother tending to company settles in my mind. My sister and I always go batty trying to convince Mama to just SIT DOWN when we visit, but she just acts like she can’t hear us and keeps right on cooking. Now I’m doing the same thing. I wonder what Wilde would say.
I’m down to my last few days before I leave town and begin rehearsals for the play I’ll be touring around the country, officially marking the death of Topher the Househusband. The last few months of domesticity have been really informative for me- I’ve discovered I have no actual capacity for it. Don’t get me wrong- I can wash, I can fold, I’m a perfectly competent cook. Cleaning requires no talent beyond the basic willingness to do it.
You can train a slow-witted child to scrub bathroom grout, it’s not what one would even call a skill.
Here’s the damn issue: I’ll throw all this energy into going to the grocery, preparing a lovely meal, doing the dishes, and I get the proper brownie points for my labors. But the next day, you have to eat AGAIN. Sometimes TWICE. So you gotta cook more food. And then there are more dishes. I don’t know why nobody ever explained that vicious cycle to me, but it’s a real drag. Same with laundry. I’m convinced my fiancé is somehow wearing four complete outfits a day without me noticing, because there’s no rational explanation for the turnaround on our wash rotation.
Since Preppy gets up and goes to work daily, he naturally assumes that I’ll be performing my domestic tasks every day. But there’s a key difference- Preppy has a boss. If he doesn’t do his job, someone will fire him pretty quickly. If I leave laundry piled up while I write plays and watch baby animals on YouTube, I don’t have a supervisor lurking around my office busting my balls about it. Well, except for Preppy, when he comes home. So then it’s like my future husband is my boss, and that shit never works out because everybody secretly can’t stand their boss. It’s what makes the world go ‘round.
And worse, for reasons I can’t explain, Preppy can clean the entire house and fold three loads of laundry (including fitted sheets) in the time it takes me to scrub the toilet. I have no idea how he does it. But then he stands there in the sparkly kitchen and asks sincerely why the hell these things take me so long. And I want to answer that I would clean faster if I didn’t keep getting distracted by the voices in my head, but I have yet to figure out how to say that without sounding crazy.
Is this a gender thing?
Here’s the damn issue: I’ll throw all this energy into going to the grocery, preparing a lovely meal, doing the dishes, and I get the proper brownie points for my labors. But the next day, you have to eat AGAIN. Sometimes TWICE. So you gotta cook more food. And then there are more dishes. I don’t know why nobody ever explained that vicious cycle to me, but it’s a real drag. Same with laundry. I’m convinced my fiancé is somehow wearing four complete outfits a day without me noticing, because there’s no rational explanation for the turnaround on our wash rotation.
Since Preppy gets up and goes to work daily, he naturally assumes that I’ll be performing my domestic tasks every day. But there’s a key difference- Preppy has a boss. If he doesn’t do his job, someone will fire him pretty quickly. If I leave laundry piled up while I write plays and watch baby animals on YouTube, I don’t have a supervisor lurking around my office busting my balls about it. Well, except for Preppy, when he comes home. So then it’s like my future husband is my boss, and that shit never works out because everybody secretly can’t stand their boss. It’s what makes the world go ‘round.
And worse, for reasons I can’t explain, Preppy can clean the entire house and fold three loads of laundry (including fitted sheets) in the time it takes me to scrub the toilet. I have no idea how he does it. But then he stands there in the sparkly kitchen and asks sincerely why the hell these things take me so long. And I want to answer that I would clean faster if I didn’t keep getting distracted by the voices in my head, but I have yet to figure out how to say that without sounding crazy.
Is this a gender thing?
When Wilde said no man becomes like his mother, did he mean no man succeeds in becoming his mother, despite his best efforts? Is the ability to multi-task household and career management something only women can do? Or, more likely, am I just prone to sloth and easily distracted? Oh well. I suppose some things are meant to be a mystery.
On the plus side, I’ve grown very skilled with gravy and sauces lately, which is a skill I can use in the future. That’s what Autumn 2008 was for me. My book came out, I did a lot of laundry, and I learned how to make gravy.
Two days later, I head to The Springer Opera House in Columbus. I’ll be living on the top floor for the duration of rehearsals, which thrills me to no end. Living in a hundred year-old opera house! I wanna take to wearing a half-face mask while I play the pipe organ and roaming through the catacombs late at night. Surely they have catacombs.
On the plus side, I’ve grown very skilled with gravy and sauces lately, which is a skill I can use in the future. That’s what Autumn 2008 was for me. My book came out, I did a lot of laundry, and I learned how to make gravy.
Two days later, I head to The Springer Opera House in Columbus. I’ll be living on the top floor for the duration of rehearsals, which thrills me to no end. Living in a hundred year-old opera house! I wanna take to wearing a half-face mask while I play the pipe organ and roaming through the catacombs late at night. Surely they have catacombs.
If I grow weary of that, I can head up to the street to the local gay bar, apparently called Club Questions. Don’t you love the names of gay bars in smaller cities? No offense to Blake’s, Mary’s, or Oscar’s, but gimme a gay bar name with some story behind it, like Boneshakers, Rumors, or Please Don’t Tell My Wife I’m Here.
Upon my arrival, the stage manager gives me a tour of the Opera House. It feels good to be back at work in a theatre, doing what I do best, or at least do better than laundry. We round a corner and face a wall of fame featuring all the legendary performers who trod the historic stage- everyone from Ma Rainey to Burt Reynolds. And, on his first American tour, Oscar Wilde. I stop and stare at his photo. The smug dandy stares back at me, smirking. It’s like he somehow knows about the day I accidentally set a loaf of French bread on fire.
Alright, Oscar. This man couldn’t become his mother, but it wasn’t for lack of trying. I’ll hang up my apron and get back to work now.
Upon my arrival, the stage manager gives me a tour of the Opera House. It feels good to be back at work in a theatre, doing what I do best, or at least do better than laundry. We round a corner and face a wall of fame featuring all the legendary performers who trod the historic stage- everyone from Ma Rainey to Burt Reynolds. And, on his first American tour, Oscar Wilde. I stop and stare at his photo. The smug dandy stares back at me, smirking. It’s like he somehow knows about the day I accidentally set a loaf of French bread on fire.
Alright, Oscar. This man couldn’t become his mother, but it wasn’t for lack of trying. I’ll hang up my apron and get back to work now.
