by Kathy Soltani

Created on: July 13, 2010   Last Updated: July 14, 2010

When I'm in the mood for an activity that's mindless and repetitive, stifling to my creativity and generally demeaning, I head straight for the housework.  Now, don't get me wrong.  I understand that a measure of maintenance is necessary to the preservation of a household.  I also appreciate the value of order in an all too chaotic world.  What mystifies me is why, when the toilet paper spindle is empty and the curious storage container of mystery leftovers in the back of the fridge turns navy blue, all eyes turn toward me.  When they do, I immediately feel icy, accusatory fingers probing my conscience.  At their first tingly touch, I shiver and freeze.  Soon enough, the feeling thaws and is replaced by the first smoldering embers of indignance.  Why me?  Why are they looking at me?

I am not your average homemaker.  While I do enjoy turning out the occasional successful recipe or feel triumphant in the face of an empty laundry basket, I do not enjoy housework.  My idea of interior decorating is making my bed and kicking the dog toys under the couch.  My household organizational skills extend only to making sure that opening the freezer doesn't cause any immediate injury.  I know that there must be some kind of pay off to keeping an immaculate linen closet or an accurate inventory of baking staples but whatever it is, it is lost on me.  I just don't see the value in routinely performing tasks that will be undone by family members or could be done just as well or better by someone else.  The treadmill of housework is an exercise I can do without.  The sheer number of housekeeping tasks to be performed is mind-numbing.  The very idea of cleaning the oven, organizing the garage or turning the mattresses is enough to cause a depression relieved only by a couple of "medicinal" cookies and a nap. Isn't there more to life than a clean oven or nicely appointed pantry? Who really cares about this stuff?

Martha Stewart would be appalled by my attitude toward the domestic arts.  The queen of domesticity would chide me for my unkempt dresser drawers and the errant weeds growing out of my back steps.  She would, no doubt, have a creative application for the wastebasket full of dryer lint in the basement and the pile of old Sports Illustrated magazines that have taken up residence under my desk.  My idea of creativity is painting the perfect seascape or designing an extravagant

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