Cinderfella

I’d like to refute recent findings that Australian men make the worst husbands when it comes to housework.

I’d like to … but I can’t.

See, my Beloved comes from a long line of folk who expect the woman to do the housework while the man does the breadwinner thing. (But he can never remember to bring bread home though, can he?)

And so he’s of the opinion that he works such long hours he shouldn’t be expected to turn around and do any work once he comes home, not even on weekends. Whereas since I am currently unemployed again (thanks to that car accident), I really have nothing better to do than wander round with a duster, apparently.

According to the British research, Aussie blokes don’t like helping out around the house, and are less likely than any other country in the study to offer to do the chores.

Now not having been married to any man from Norway (the best in the survey), the UK, USA, the Netherlands, Ireland, Sweden, Spain, New Zealand, Japan, Germany, not even Austria (unless you're a little dyslexic), I cannot comment on how domesticated those male creatures might be.

I only know that most men of the Terra Australis variety verily and merrily support the findings.

Now, I’m not complaining really, well ok just a little. But with good reason. In the hours that my Beloved is not out there earning the family income, he is either asleep, or off in some virtual reality of a computer game. And I have to be feeling particularly brave to ask him for some help (even if it’s something I have trouble doing, thanks to a bad back).

So I did a little experiment recently. After I had been accused once too often of “doing nothing around here” … nothing is in fact what I did. Only as far as matters pertaining purely to him, mind you.

I still bought and prepared the food, dutifully packed and unpacked the dishwasher and did the other washing up by hand, and also ran the kids’ school clothes through the washer and dryer as needed. I still wiped down the basins, bath and shower, and scrubbed the yukky bits off the toilet bowls as needed; I also emptied the rubbish and recycling, and picked up and packed up all the detritus that comes with kids; I simply left his clothing to fold itself (I did wash it for him though, couldn’t help myself- there’s nothing quite like the aroma of sweat and diesel fuel to urge one towards the washer).

I also refused to do any extra duties, like yard work, changing lightbulbs, or stuff like that.

Two weeks later, guess whose clothes are still sitting in the laundry baskets where I had dumped them? Or to be more precise, I should say whose clothes are sitting all around said baskets- since someone has been in there foraging for something to wear.

And guess who’s been caught out flicking a light switch with no response too many times to count? Same person who has tripped over the lawnmower sitting in the exact same spot it was left a fortnight before.

Grrrrr.

Seems my little experiment backfired on me, didn’t it. And it’s looking highly likely that the sight of this avalanche of laundry will force me to do something about it after all.

Along with the rest of the stuff I “never do around here”.

All I need now’s a couple of ugly stepsisters and the fairytale’s complete.

Oh well, at least I feel I’ve well and truly proved the story about Aussie men and their lack of enthusiasm about housework. So I can do the “I told you so” dance to my heart’s content, if ever my Prince Charming takes me to the ball.

Hmmm.

Maybe in my next life my Fairy Godmother will send me a nice, single, Norwegian fella instead.

Jx
©2009