What the Fuck Happened to Tim McGraw?

This was going to be a rant but I'm currently being distracted by an old recorded episode of Ellen with Tim McGraw on it.  And he's wearing glasses and has stupid hair.  Glasses and no cowboy hat=no sexy.

So why would I rant?  Because I still can't wrap my head around the death of the women's movement or at the very least my own morphisis (sp?) into a simpering stupid housewife.  So no I'm not really stupid nor do I really simper but despite being pissed off at my husband I just spent the last 45 minutes running around cleaning up so it's neat and tidy because I don't feel like I can relax until it is clean.

The other day I made some half-joking half-not comments to my husband about the leisurely life he leads in where he gets up to children fed, maybe dressed, coffee made.  Then if he hasn't dressed already he goes upstairs to the closet and to his dresser to find clothing that week after week just magically re-appears there, clean.

He never has to plan a meal.  He rarely cooks.  He detests cleaning.

These are the things I don't do:  shovel, mow the lawn, talk to bankers or car salesmen.  This list used to include picking up dog shit but this summer I wasn't interested in waiting for him to do it any longer, so out I went.

I loved school.  Especially university because I loved Sociology and Feminism and talk of the Women's Movement and feeling like I was going to be one of these liberated intelligent driven women. 

Oops.

Instead I have grown my hair long, wear gel nails and am waxed to the hilt because these are all things my husband finds attractive.

Fuck.

I work two part-time jobs and yes I consider my jewellery hawking a job because I put a great deal of time into it.  And I do everything else too.

Fuck.

Tonight my husband asked if I was going to come to the hockey game with him.  This was after we'd already established neither of our older children would be available to watch the two younger children.  To make this painfully clear, WE DID NOT HAVE A BABYSITTER AND HE KNEW THIS.  So when I gave a curt "no" followed by an equally curt explanation of our child care situation he became "curt" as well and said he was merely asking a question.

What kind of stupid piece of shit question is that?  You know the fucking answer.  Yes I'd like to go but that doesn't mean I'm able too and if you have not done anything to remedy that situation this afternoon then go fuck yourself.

Instead he's at the hockey game and I did homework with the seven year old, cleaned up the kitchen, tidied the living room and put both boys to bed.

Fuck.

Sometimes I see older couples out and the man will be well groomed and attractive; sometimes only because he appears to really take care of himself.  Then I'll look at his wife and wonder what the fuck happened to her.  She might be overweight, have three inch roots, just essentially look like a bag of shit and I'll wonder what she looked like when they met and why she let herself go like that.

I think I now know the answer.  It's so tempting sometimes to just say fuck it and throw in the towel.  Fuck cleaning.  Fuck make-up.  Fuck. it. all.

As far as I can tell the Women's Movement resulted in us being able to work outside of the home (still for less than equal pay).  We can wear pants.  Um...yeah, so there's that.  To date, I only know of one marriage that even resembles an equal partnership.  And I'm quite good friends with this couple.  And its hard not to seethe with envy or spend copious amounts of time comparing circumstances.  Often I'm left wondering what I've done to not deserve the same kind of treatment.  Then I give my head a shake.

The worst part may be what my children are learning.  My daughter currently states she will never marry or have children.  I can't say that I blame her.  My seven year old brought me down an arm load of socks today for me to fold.  We bought him new ones yesterday and upon taking a pair out of the pack to wear today, he thought it prudent to get the rest down to me ASAP so I could get busy doing what I'm here for.

What. the. fuck.

So if I don't like it, change it?

Sure, how?

Thoughts?  Suggestions?

Maybe we could hold a forum, sponsored by Three Olives Grape Vodka, to discuss?  Maybe I need to write the next 'Feminine Mystique'? Wish I'd been born a walrus?

For now it appears I will problem solve with peanut butter cups.

Fuck it.