A day which fell through the cracks.

Today was arduous. Today sucked. I took twice as long to get things done, simple things. Washing plates in the sink. Swiffering the floor. Going to the post office. Making dinner. Doing laundry. Stuff that women do every day, some of them with little children to take care of, all at the same time. I had other plans for today, none of which I got around to doing, owing to my slowness. I wanted to unravel the shrug I began knitting last winter in order to fix the sleeves, which are too tight. I also wanted to buckle down to reading The Three Musketeers that Misty got as a birthday present for me last year, so I can practise my French before I go back to work. Then I wanted to look at the coding for Sam's photography website, which isn't loading properly, to see if I can fix it. But by the time I was done with the chores it was very late in the day and Hooman had already returned home, at which point communal evening life begins and solitary hobby-horsing ends.

Housework is still detestable. When confronted by a basketful of dirty clothes, I become paralyzed and something inside me boils with rage. In those moments, I repeat what a friend once told me, with regard to his wife's complaints: "If she would stop thinking about it and just do it, it wouldn't be so bad." He's both right and wrong, of course. Thinking about things too much sometimes makes them worse than they are. For that reason, it's best to take a deep breath and just do whatever needs doing. But it's the fact that a person is obliged to do things for the -- quote good of the household unquote -- that's so loathsome. Whether or not a person loves or hates doing chores has no bearing on the fact that they are done out of obligation, plain and simple. Not acknowledging that is just bad. But still, repeating my friend's advice helps unblock my paralysis.

When doing laundry, I usually pack a book for myself to read while the clothes are in the machine, and I try to frame laundry time as two full hours where I can "do nothing" with no feelings of guilt. I'd checked out a book from the library by Martha Lawrence, called Cold Heart of Capricorn, part of her astrology detective series, which I intended to read while the clothes were spinning and tumbling. But someone had left the November 2007 issue of Elle at the laundromat with Scarlett Johansson on the cover, which I read instead.

There towards the back was an article that fascinated me, about an actor who had only dated two people in all his life, an ex-girlfriend followed by the woman who would eventually be his wife. The interviewer asked, if each could have one chance to have sex with another person, in such a way that was deemed fair and legitimate to their spouse, who would it be? Out of genteel sportsmanship, he balked at naming a name. So his wife chose Jessica Alba for him on his behalf, to which he replied, "I guess that would work." His wife chose some guy whose name I forgot, and when the interviewer asked, "Who's that?" He replied, "That's my best friend!" and you could sense the indignance.

There was also an article about Ellen DeGeneres in which she said she sometimes bought lingerie for Portia. I think it's gross when people buy lingerie for their lovers, whether it's girl-guy, or girl-girl. I'm not sure why.