Pom-Poms
When I was little, sometime before the age of six, I distinctly remember wanting to be a boy. I remember the first time that I realized that this perhaps wasn’t normal and that it struck my parents as odd, perhaps even disturbing: I had a pink pom-pom, (you know, the kind with plastic pom-pom hair) and a white handle. I was running around with the pom-pom between my legs - handle pointing out the front, very intentional (I suppose) mimicking a penis. I was thrilled. I felt as I had come one step closer into boyhood. And I had done it without having to like trucks or play sports. I was a girly little girl, even though I wanted to be a boy. I liked my Barbies, and I liked playing with my mom's makeup. It always seemed that boys had more fun though; that they didn't get teased and never had to worry about, well, anything.
My mother however, must not have been so thrilled at my discovery. I don't remember the look she gave me, but it was enough to profoundly embarrass me out of my boy fantasy.
***
I mention this, because while I am nowhere near “butch”, I feel like I belong in the mens camp on a lot of issues, especially domestic ones. Last night while my class was on break I started "chatting" with another graduate student in the class (we are about 5 grad students out of a class of 40). We were talking about the nightmares of moving, and she told me that she had just moved in with her boyfriend, and so on. Then she starts telling me about how she is "training" him to clean up, to put his clothes away, to pick stuff up off the stairs. She "taught" him to hang shirts that he's worn only once inside out on the hangers. He is even so cute as to bring her water before she goes to bed.
I couldn't help but think - oh my god, she and R should get together and vent about how their partners don't intrinsically understand their domestic hygiene plan. And then I started to feel bad for her boyfriend. What kind of life is that? Feeling like you have to comply with rules that you find irrelevant? What if you don't care if there is crap on the stairs? Who gives a damn if there is mildew in the bathroom?
Of course I sympathize with this guy. I don't care about those things, yet out of love and mutual respect I do my best to play along. For reasons unknown to me, it takes a Herculean effort on my part to sweep the floor, even though it is I who without fail litter it with rice and cereal droppings. I have to consciously force myself to wipe down the bathroom counter. I am so lazy, that I put garbage items - things like wrappers and yogurt lids - in the sink until I find the inspiration to put them in the trash. I always, always leave my hair in the shower drain.
I haven’t always been this way. When we lived in Ocean Grove, I was constantly cleaning, organizing and trying to make our tiny dust bin of an apartment more pleasant. At the time, R was landscaping for Mike the insane landscaper who had a million jobs and R as his sole employee. He was out the door at 6:30 in the morning and wouldn’t get home till 11 most nights, including Saturdays. Of course he wasn’t gonna clean. All he wanted to do was sit the fuck down, not worry about how the apartment looked. I saw how exhausted he was, so I understood this. But still, there was that little tug at annoyance that this was our first apartment together and we weren’t sharing in the excitement of making it our home. And here’s where I think the real issue lies: I was on break from school, so I was working at the time, but much fewer hours than he was. Because I was still in school, and needed the money I was earning for the following semester, R was paying the bills. R was legitimately tired, there is no doubt about that. But my feeling that the weight on the home front was being pulled unevenly, had more to do with the fact that I knew that weight somewhere wasn’t being pulled right, but it was dollar weight and not Spic n’ Span weight.
In Ocean Grove, R was paying the bills, like I am paying them now. Its’ not that I like to live in filth – I appreciate a clean house, always have. But because for 3 years now I have been the primary breadwinner in our family of two, I have felt like it is not my job anymore to do the house work. This is stupid and pig headed, yes, I know. But its true. And it’s the closest I have come to understanding why I resent being asked to put my own things away.
Is this how men felt in the 50’s? Have I inhabited the body of a pre-feminism enlightened man? It does warrant further looking into how gender roles are more acutely defined by economy than we normally assume. Maybe it’s less about nature vs. nurture than it is about who’s used to bringing in the dough. The truth is, even though there exists an undercurrent of resentment at the fact that we can barely make ends meet and that its’ my job to figure out how, I really wouldn’t want it any other way. I like wearing the proverbial pants – it beats the feeling of being slighted and guilty at the same time.
Of course, we could both split the cost of everything. Wouldn’t that be novel? (Just in case you are starting to think we are some bizarrely retrograde couple, that’s where we are headed, having been delayed for various reasons.) I guess this is what most people do, and I suppose it works. I’d be really curious to see how couples who contribute equal parts financially fare in the domestic power struggle; to see whether the same guilt/entitlement still exists, or whether it starts to fall away.
At least I don’t run around the house with pom-poms between my legs anymore.
My mother however, must not have been so thrilled at my discovery. I don't remember the look she gave me, but it was enough to profoundly embarrass me out of my boy fantasy.
***
I mention this, because while I am nowhere near “butch”, I feel like I belong in the mens camp on a lot of issues, especially domestic ones. Last night while my class was on break I started "chatting" with another graduate student in the class (we are about 5 grad students out of a class of 40). We were talking about the nightmares of moving, and she told me that she had just moved in with her boyfriend, and so on. Then she starts telling me about how she is "training" him to clean up, to put his clothes away, to pick stuff up off the stairs. She "taught" him to hang shirts that he's worn only once inside out on the hangers. He is even so cute as to bring her water before she goes to bed.
I couldn't help but think - oh my god, she and R should get together and vent about how their partners don't intrinsically understand their domestic hygiene plan. And then I started to feel bad for her boyfriend. What kind of life is that? Feeling like you have to comply with rules that you find irrelevant? What if you don't care if there is crap on the stairs? Who gives a damn if there is mildew in the bathroom?
Of course I sympathize with this guy. I don't care about those things, yet out of love and mutual respect I do my best to play along. For reasons unknown to me, it takes a Herculean effort on my part to sweep the floor, even though it is I who without fail litter it with rice and cereal droppings. I have to consciously force myself to wipe down the bathroom counter. I am so lazy, that I put garbage items - things like wrappers and yogurt lids - in the sink until I find the inspiration to put them in the trash. I always, always leave my hair in the shower drain.
I haven’t always been this way. When we lived in Ocean Grove, I was constantly cleaning, organizing and trying to make our tiny dust bin of an apartment more pleasant. At the time, R was landscaping for Mike the insane landscaper who had a million jobs and R as his sole employee. He was out the door at 6:30 in the morning and wouldn’t get home till 11 most nights, including Saturdays. Of course he wasn’t gonna clean. All he wanted to do was sit the fuck down, not worry about how the apartment looked. I saw how exhausted he was, so I understood this. But still, there was that little tug at annoyance that this was our first apartment together and we weren’t sharing in the excitement of making it our home. And here’s where I think the real issue lies: I was on break from school, so I was working at the time, but much fewer hours than he was. Because I was still in school, and needed the money I was earning for the following semester, R was paying the bills. R was legitimately tired, there is no doubt about that. But my feeling that the weight on the home front was being pulled unevenly, had more to do with the fact that I knew that weight somewhere wasn’t being pulled right, but it was dollar weight and not Spic n’ Span weight.
In Ocean Grove, R was paying the bills, like I am paying them now. Its’ not that I like to live in filth – I appreciate a clean house, always have. But because for 3 years now I have been the primary breadwinner in our family of two, I have felt like it is not my job anymore to do the house work. This is stupid and pig headed, yes, I know. But its true. And it’s the closest I have come to understanding why I resent being asked to put my own things away.
Is this how men felt in the 50’s? Have I inhabited the body of a pre-feminism enlightened man? It does warrant further looking into how gender roles are more acutely defined by economy than we normally assume. Maybe it’s less about nature vs. nurture than it is about who’s used to bringing in the dough. The truth is, even though there exists an undercurrent of resentment at the fact that we can barely make ends meet and that its’ my job to figure out how, I really wouldn’t want it any other way. I like wearing the proverbial pants – it beats the feeling of being slighted and guilty at the same time.
Of course, we could both split the cost of everything. Wouldn’t that be novel? (Just in case you are starting to think we are some bizarrely retrograde couple, that’s where we are headed, having been delayed for various reasons.) I guess this is what most people do, and I suppose it works. I’d be really curious to see how couples who contribute equal parts financially fare in the domestic power struggle; to see whether the same guilt/entitlement still exists, or whether it starts to fall away.
At least I don’t run around the house with pom-poms between my legs anymore.
posted by beef at 1:34 PM
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