Ranty McRant

Okay. I’m taking a break from the trying-very-hard-to-be-PC-me to publish a short rant about my job.

The thing is – and there’s no way around this, I’m sorry – I work with a lot of WOMEN.

And this is what I want to say about that: I cannot begin to express how many minus fucks I give about how often you should wash a dish rag. If I have to listen to another story about child birth or Easter curtains or how ‘housework is a labour of love’ I will blow a fucking fuse.

Where are all the people who don’t give a fuck? My kind of people? Where are the people who like heavy metal, who read Shakespeare, who laugh at sarcasm, who don’t notice when a shirt isn’t ironed?

I’m so sick of pretending to care about BORING THINGS. I clean the house when social services knock on the door. I don’t give a shit if someone’s husband doesn’t pick up his socks – in fact, I’ll probably side with him if things get ugly. I’m not even going to insert a subordinate clause about how those people are more needed than me to make a society work because fucking hell, I’d rather survive for just ONE DAY and then starve to death than have to listen to another sanctimonious monologue about how housework is undervalued.

You know what? If it’s undervalued, maybe that’s because in the end, NO ONE CARES ABOUT DUST BUNNIES.

So what’s a person who makes a rant like this doing in home economics research? YOU MAY WELL ASK. My life is a joke.

On the plus side – yes, there is one – when I got home, I pedalled away on the exercice bike for half an hour on pure frustration.