Homemaking research (so far) consists of a daunting stack of burly, heavy books that tell me the minutiae of things I thought I was doing perfectly fine. Sure, hand me a manual of helpfulness, but don’t insist that my homemaking is ineffective if I have linens in my pantry closet (thank you, NYC real estate) or dust under the bed (which is sheathed and skirted from the world, by the way.)
My book, this book that’s under construction right now, will certainly not point fingers or make you feel bad about doing something one way versus another. Value judgments are a slippery slope; I propose we be more meaningful, more intentional in our choices. I intend to bring people together (strength in numbers!), to make the prospect of what I deem valuable not so daunting to modern ladies (and gents.)
I’m outraged by a presumptuous “modern” homemaking manual author, who manages pointing fingers while apparently working, child-rearing and general wonder womanry. I became so incensed before bed last night that I had to put the book down for fear of losing sleep (concocting scathing retorts to her claims.)
On the subway, today, it hit me. The big retort monologue:
“Oh, yeah? Well, lady, what are my options here?
Hmmm, on the one hand, there’s my best shot, which leaves lots of holes, pretty lace as I like to think of it; or there’s always giving up and living in an IKEA jungle, hiring a cleaning person, ordering takeout or simply dining out every night, using my house as a place to stash my stuff so I don’t have to carry it all with me everywhere I go [because I’m never home] READ: because my house is as homey as the Alaskan tundra (and I’m not an Inuit.)
I’ll take option one. Don’t judge me.”
This is surely why Anne Taintor exists, to calm my nerves.