*stares blankly*

There’s something seriously wrong here.

Heh, I know you think I’m going to go on another 45 year-old, middle-classed, working woman’s diatribe about how the middle class is committing suicide by their poor choices in governmental leaders, but no.  What we have to discuss here is something way more important.  Earth shattering, really.  And y'all need to know about it.

Were you aware that work shouldn’t be split 50/50 in a marriage or resentments will develop? 

*puppy head tilt left*

*puppy head tilt right* 

What. 

The.  

Fuck? 

http://shine.yahoo.com/event/financiallyfit/economics-the-key-to-happy-couples-division-of-labor-2455003/

My bullshit meter has really been working overtime lately so you’ll have to excuse me if I’m off base here a little bit, but Dory, sweetheart, you’re cracked.  Epically.  Well, unless by 70/30 you meant that my hubby was going to do 70 percent, and I was responsible for 30.  Then it’s perfect actually.

Dory, honey, I’m going to set you straight on a few things about marriage since it appears you were hitched just yesterday.  Happy and marriage used in the same sentence is pretty much an oxymoron. 

Don’t misunderstand.  A person can be gloriously happy and be married, but the point is it’s work.  Most times a whole lot of work.  If you see a happy couple who’s been married for any length of time (15+ years), it’s because they’re all in and do all they can to make it work (and also perhaps because there’s a written agreement to avoid sharp objects while verbally warring).

And no matter what you seem to do in the context of marriage, there’s going to be resentments and strife of some sort.  Part of the territory when you live with and screw the same person for years (and years), exclusively, I say.  Take it from me.  Happy as hell, married 23 years, but I have no doubt that there have been days my boy has seriously considered holding my own pillow over my head until the kicking stops.  (Oh.  Now that I think about it, maybe that’s just my idea for him, particularly when he’s snoring in tandem with our hound and sleep is eluding me.)

As for this idea that each spouse should do what they’re good at *starts shaking head*, ah, no.  Not necessary to sort by virtue of speedy skill.  There’s trickery to be had here, D-gal.  Trickery of the sneakiest sort.  You can prove yourself crappy at all jobs (at least all the ones you don’t really want to do), but this doesn’t mean you should be awarded the “get out of jail free to go sit and watch the ball game instead because you finished the 30 percent you were good and speedy at” card. 

Case in point:

“Gee, sweetheart, I don’t know how my red running sock got in with your lacey whites.”  (Pink.  I fucking hate pink.  And he knows it, too.  Grr…Don’t think for one minute I don’t get the ruse happening here.)

“Yeah, loverboy, sorry about the 53 holes in the vinyl siding out front that you’ll have to repair later.  The hooks for the Christmas wreaths are right where I want them…now.  Perhaps if my mind wasn’t obsessed with A) how fucking cold it is outside the day after Thanksgiving, and B) how much I just love the color of my new pink panties…  *smirks*  Well, next time we’ll both get it right.”

And we do.  The learning curve is furiously fast when you start thinking damage control.  Promotes an honest effort to do your half, too.  I’ve learned to measure twice and cut once; he’s learned that red socks can hide in the darnedest places.  See what I mean, Dory?  Don't have to be good at the job; you just have to do it.  50/50.  Partnership.  Even Steven.  Committed to the split up the middle.  Just how we like it.

Oh, and one final thing…you’re wrong about the dishes, too.  My mate actually likes doing them, especially when he can do them by hand.  Yes.  You heard me right.  Mr. Mom?  Maybe.  Reminiscing the years when he thought marine biology would be a career choice (right up until he married the woman afraid of sea life forever trapping him in the frozen state in which we live)?  Possible.  Then again, it could just be that he’s a super-freak, he’s super-freaky, yow…