Telepathy Not A Thing, Women Hardest Hit
For Mother’s Day I asked for one thing: a house cleaning service.
In the pages of Harper’s Bazaar, Gemma Hartley bemoans the chore of getting her multiple bathrooms cleaned by someone else. Actually, the clean bathrooms are, it turns out, a secondary concern:
The real gift I wanted was to be relieved of the emotional labour of a single task that had been nagging at the back of my mind. The clean house would simply be a bonus.
It’s been said, here at least, that when someone uses the term “emotional labour” unironically, the person doing the mouthing is most likely a bit of a nightmare. Say, the kind of woman who complains about the “emotional labour” of hiring a domestic cleaner. Or the kind who bitches about her husband and his shortcomings in the pages of a national magazine, where friends and colleagues of said husband, and perhaps his own children, can read on with amusement.
My husband waited for me to change my mind to an “easier” gift than housecleaning, something he could one-click order on Amazon. Disappointed by my unwavering desire, the day before Mother’s Day he called a single service, decided they were too expensive, and vowed to clean the bathrooms himself. He still gave me the choice, of course. He told me the high dollar amount of completing the cleaning services I requested (since I control the budget) and asked incredulously if I still wanted him to book it.
Details ensue.
What I wanted was for him to ask friends on Facebook for a recommendation, call four or five more services, do the emotional labour I would have done if the job had fallen to me.
Many details.
I had wanted to hire out deep cleaning for a while, especially since my freelance work had picked up considerably. The reason I hadn’t done it yet was part guilt over not doing my housework, and an even larger part of not wanting to deal with the work of hiring a service. I knew exactly how exhausting it was going to be. That’s why I asked my husband to do it as a gift.
This, it seems, was unknown to said husband and so, alas, ‘twas not to be.
I was gifted a necklace for Mother’s Day while my husband stole away to deep clean the bathrooms, leaving me to care for our children as the rest of the house fell into total disarray.
She ain’t happy.
In his mind, he was doing the thing I had most wanted—giving me sparkling bathrooms without having to do it myself.
Again, the psychological intricacies of Ms Hartley’s preferences regarding bathroom cleaning do not appear to have been expressed directly to Her Loving Other, who, we’re told, “willingly complies to any task I decide to assign to him.” Perhaps he, or one of his friends, will read Harper’s Bazaar, at which point the full scale of her discontent will become apparent. Why Ms Hartley chose not to convey this issue directly is not entirely clear. Though it seems she’s been quite busy publicly cataloguing her husband’s faults – which extend from telepathic inadequacy to a failure to return gift wrap to its usual storage location:
I stumbled over the box of gift wrap he had pulled off a high shelf two days earlier and left in the centre of our closet. In order to put it back, I had to get a kitchen chair and drag it into our closet so I could reach the shelf where it belonged.
This goes on for some time. It’s not just gift wrap disarray, you know. Shoes are also left untidily. Sorrows accumulate.
“All you have to do is ask me to put it back,” he said, watching me struggle… “That’s the point,” I said, now in tears, “I don’t want to have to ask.” The crying, the snapping at him — it all required damage control. I had to tell him how much I appreciated the bathroom cleaning,
Ah, a breakthrough. Direct communication – gratitude, even – and without the nagging.
but perhaps he could do it another time (like when our kids were in bed).
Damn. So close.
Then I tried to gingerly explain the concept of emotional labour… Delegating work to other people, i.e. telling him to do something he should instinctively know to do, is exhausting. I tried to tell him that I noticed the box [of gift wrap] at least 20 times over the past two days. He had noticed it only when I was heaving it onto the top shelf instead of asking for help. The whole explanation took a lot of restraint.
Hubby’s restraint, and his own possible causes of exhaustion, are left to the imagination. We are, however, treated to the inevitable feminist boilerplate. We learn, for instance, that,
Walking that fine line to keep the peace and not upset your partner is something women are taught to accept as their duty from an early age.
This, too, it seems, is exhausting. Though readers may have doubts regarding Ms Hartley’s professed reluctance to complain.
After describing her husband’s puzzled reactions to criticism as “patriarchal,” and by implication despicable, Ms Hartley resumes her listing of his faults, and her own seemingly endless woes:
Reminding him of his family’s birthdays, carrying in my head the entire school handbook and dietary guidelines for lunches, updating the calendar to include everyone’s schedules, asking his mother to babysit the kids when we go out, keeping track of what food and household items we are running low on, tidying everyone’s strewn about belongings, the unending hell that is laundry…
While hubby merely works full-time to keep a roof above their heads, then cleans the bathrooms, prepares dinner and “does dishes every night habitually.” All “without complaint.” The selfish bastard.
Possibly sensing that her case is not quite as sound as she might wish, Ms Hartley, a freelance writer and poet, then turns to her peers for reinforcement:
“What bothers me the most about having any conversation around emotional labour is being seen as a nag,” says Kelly Burch, a freelance journalist who works primarily from home.
Again, we’re invited to weep at the “emotional and mental energy” expended while remembering birthdays and writing shopping lists. Even brushing a daughter’s hair. Truly, feminists are heroic, undaunted and indestructible. Goddesses walking among us. And in the face of such crushing odds:
Even having a conversation about the imbalance of emotional labour becomes emotional labour.
But of course.
It gets to a point where I have to weigh the benefits of getting my husband to understand my frustration against the compounded emotional labour of doing so in a way that won’t end in us fighting. Usually I let it slide,
I’m sure you do, madam.
It feels greedy, at times, to want more from him.
Ah. Now there’s a thought worth pondering, perhaps at length. Instead of, say, rushing to doctrinaire posturing and self-flattering excuses.
Yet I find myself worrying about how the mental load bore almost exclusively by women translates into a deep gender inequality.
Never mind.
I know it’s not going to be easy for either of us to tackle the splitting of emotional labour, nor do I ever expect it to be completely equitable. (I’ll admit that I probably enjoy certain types of emotional labour far more than my husband, like planning our meals and vacations.)
Planning holidays. Will the oppression never end?
But if we’re lucky, he’s got a whole lot of life left to hone his emotional labour skills, and to change the course of our children’s future.
Yes, a lifetime of scolding, until one of them dies.
At this point, I’m wondering what the compliant and accommodating husband will make of Ms Hartley’s article, should he have time to read it in between his chores and full-time job. And what of their children? Will they too be impressed by their mother and her feminist credentials? A woman who insists that “women aren’t nags,” while complaining about the “emotional labour” of hiring servants to clean her bathrooms, and how “exhausting” it is.
Answers on a postcard, please.
Via Christina Hoff Sommers, via Darleen. 
That.
That.
I suppose you have to marvel at the level of self-indulgence required for a person to publicly declare, in a national magazine, how oppressed they are by booking holidays and hiring cleaners. And how exhausted and mentally put-upon they are by writing shopping lists and remembering birthdays. All while waiting for applause. As if such griping made them a sympathetic figure.
Though, of course, it wouldn’t be the first time.
“What bothers me the most about having any conversation around emotional labour is being seen as a nag,” says Kelly Burch, a freelance journalist who works primarily from home.
But you are, Blanche, you are a nag!
[/Bette Davis voice]
One also wonders what the writer gets her husband for Father’s Day.
Again, we’re invited to weep at the “emotional and mental energy” expended while remembering birthdays and writing shopping lists. Even brushing a daughter’s hair.
He chose poorly.
He chose poorly.
I’m assuming this is the husband, so you may want to hold off on declaring too much sympathy.
I stumbled over the box of gift wrap he had pulled off a high shelf two days earlier and left in the centre of our closet. In order to put it back, I had to get a kitchen chair and drag it into our closet so I could reach the shelf where it belonged.
Is this the wrapping paper he used for the necklace he bought her? 🙂
As I’ve said here before; ‘ emotional labour’ seems simply to consist of not being a c**t 24/7.
As I’ve said here before; ‘emotional labour’ seems simply to consist of not being a c**t 24/7.
And which, as you can imagine, poses certain, rather obvious problems for a great many feminists.
Perhaps he may put in more effort when it comes to hiring a divorce attorney.
The only surprise, given the tone of the article, is why he hasn’t already availed himself of such a service already.
Walking that fine line to keep the peace and not upset your partner is something women are taught to accept as their duty from an early age.
I’m not a woman, but I know dozens and dozens of them. Not one of the women I know was “taught” to accept such an arrangement as “their duty”. Not one. And not one of them behaves as though she were.
Perhaps this is just a thing among very privileged women.
Walking that fine line to keep the peace and not upset your partner is something women are taught to accept as their duty from an early age.
Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha…doesn’t sound like any woman I’ve ever dated or married.
“What bothers me the most about having any conversation around emotional labour is being seen as a nag,” says Kelly Burch, a freelance journalist who works primarily from home.
So close to self-awareness here. Take away two words in that quote and it’s spot-on. Maybe there’s hope for this one.
So close to self-awareness here.
And yet, inevitably, she veers away. Because every sound and exemplary marriage is based on very publicly cataloguing the errors and inadequacies of your partner.
Hmm, I don’t think this has anything to do with house cleaning or emotional labour ( whatever that is), it is about her desire to emasculate her beloved. Her resentment and frustration lie with his refusal to buy into it. Barstard, f@#$ the patriarchy.
I once opined to a friend that I was tired of being the person who knows where everything is and where everyone is supposed to be. A mother of three young children herself, she pointed out that it is this that makes you the ‘mother’. We shared another bottle of wine and I was ok again.
Hmm, I don’t think this has anything to do with house cleaning or emotional labour (whatever that is), it is about her desire to emasculate her beloved.
There is, I think, an odd dynamic. One Twitter reply used the term abusive.
These people have absolutely no self-awareness, have they? How can anyone write this, presumably proofread this, publish this, and not for one moment think ‘Maybe this is a bit too much..’?
These people have absolutely no self-awareness, have they?
Again, to write this with the belief that you’re the sympathetic party, the one deserving of affirmation and applause. For being so terribly feminist.
And so, she moans about “gender roles” and “gender inequality,” while unwittingly confirming a major stereotype about the differences between men and women, the premise of endless jokes and comedy sketches.
Not one of the women I know was “taught” to accept such an arrangement as “their duty”. Not one. And not one of them behaves as though she were.
No, indeed. As I read that line, I pictured my sisters-in-law, none of whom would describe themselves as feminists, then started laughing.
when someone uses the term “emotional labour” unironically, the person doing the mouthing is most likely a bit of a nightmare.
Time for some Social Justice Kittens?
Pity eh? To think that all that angst and suppressed anger springs from her childhood jealousy of not being able to experience the joy of writing her name in the snow.
“Walking that fine line to keep the peace and not upset your partner is something women are taught to accept as their duty from an early age.”
*snort*
“Hmm, I don’t think this has anything to do with house cleaning or emotional labour ( whatever that is), it is about her desire to emasculate her beloved.”
I wouldn’t put it quite in those terms. I think it’s more about control, not of her husband per se, but of the household as a whole. Since my father died, my brother and I have been living with my mum, since she can’t cope on her own. He can be very but-I-shouldn’t-have-to-ask at times.
Let’s face it, the best representation of this situation in fiction isn’t a husband and wife; it’s The Odd Couple.
In order to put it back, I had to get a kitchen chair and drag it into our closet so I could reach the shelf where it belonged.
She had to move a chair!!! #stunningandbrave
He told me the high dollar amount of completing the cleaning services I requested (since I control the budget) and asked incredulously if I still wanted him to book it.
Patriarchy in action folks. Feel that raw masculine power. Today’s key phrase is ‘effective delegation’.
It is just so emotionally draining to keep a house with this husband doing his part all wrong while I manage to keep writing about it endlessly, under deadline I might add, and doing the million and one things I do such as turning on and off lights, moving from chair to desk and back, finding the tv remote misplaced on the coffee table (infuriating, but I smile and gently remind him to please, please for once in your life do something I ask instead of waiting to be corrected like a schoolboy) instead of being properly wedged between the sofa cushions…
such as turning on and off lights,
Actual guffaw.
In order to put it back, I had to get a kitchen chair and drag it into our closet so I could reach the shelf where it belonged.
And drag it into our closet!!! Drag it my friends! Why it must have weighed a pound (or less). Maybe it was one of those huge jumbo rolls that you can buy? In which case maybe it should stay at ground level?
Oh, and BTW, although only working freelance from home I still control the entire household budget. Husband goes ahead and makes decision without my approval – patriarchy. Husband defers decision to me – emotional labour. Feminism features not bugs.
such as turning on and off lights,
If you poke through madam’s Twitter feed, you’ll see that this isn’t the first time she’s written about “emotional labour,” which, rather conveniently, seems to be a catch-all excuse for the self-absorbed, the neurotic, and tiresome cows generally.
How can anyone write this, presumably proofread this, publish this, and not for one moment think ‘Maybe this is a bit too much..’?
Makes you wonder how the article looked before editing
What I wanted was for him to ask friends on Facebook for a recommendation, call four or five more services, do the emotional labour I would have done…
I do not see these labors as having any emotional burden, unless viewed from the perspective of someone with an anxiety disorder and possibly a large side of depression.
But we know the Woke aren’t like that at all.
I do not see these labors as having any emotional burden, unless viewed from the perspective of someone with an anxiety disorder and possibly a large side of depression.
Well, quite. Like much of the world’s population, I have to keep track of birthdays and grocery shopping, social gatherings, deliveries, etc., but I’ve yet to find it so unbearable that I’ve felt a need to write sorrowful articles in Harper’s, let alone burst into tears. But then contemporary feminism compounds vanity and resentment and exacerbates neurosis. Psychologically, it seems quite poisonous. The kind of thing youngsters should be warned about – not inculcated into, as Ms Hartley suggests.
…exacerbates neurosis.
It’s what a properly run cult does.
Doesn’t she realise if she gets an Echo and some Hues, she can bark orders and never have to touch a light switch again?
And, like her husband, I suspect, Alexa never answers back…
He told me the high dollar amount of completing the cleaning services I requested (since I control the budget) and asked incredulously if I still wanted him to book it.
Talk about Kafka-trapping.
Men are told all the time they have to learn to control their nature, but “feminist” women are allowed to indulge theirs? Being an overly emotional, manipulating, unempathetic bitch isn’t anyway to go through life.
Her husband sounds like a selfish prick. Doesn’t he know that doing these things isn’t enough. They must be done precisely when and how She-who-must-be-obeyed wants them done.
Being an overly emotional, manipulating, unempathetic bitch isn’t anyway to go through life.
[ Large and gaudy cocktail slides down bar towards Darleen. ]
[ Followed by a sausage roll that looks suspiciously familiar. ]
Clickhate or Feminist Cuntnip? Likely both I’m sure.
Normally one could squint and see a silver lining in such drivel. Namely that we are so unbelievably rich and safe that this sort of twattery can thrive. However recent events prove that it’s indeed Karen’s world, and we’re just simping through it.
tiresome cows
Band name.
It’s no nevermind to me, dear host, but hopefully this is the first and last time someone must gently ask you to stop pushing the sausage.
Heh.
She can spend three hours with her girlfriends drinking wine and bitching about husbands, but it never occurs to her to ask if they have any recommendations for a good cleaning service. Too much emotional heavy lifting, that.
Walking that fine line to keep the peace and not upset your partner is something women are taught to accept as their duty from an early age.
Walking that fine line to keep the peace and not upset your partner is something men are taught to cope with by stopping off at the pub for a pint with their mates. It seems odd that women don’t have an equivalent coping mechanism. One might think that the three-hour, wine-fueled bitch sessions would serve, but evidently this is not so.
Being an overly emotional, manipulating, unempathetic bitch isn’t anyway to go through life.
One supposes it’s no picnic being married to one, either.
She should accept this as the white woman’s burden, the noblesse oblige of existing on a higher moral plain than the dumb apes we call men.
I find it a tad ironic that an article bewailing “emotional” labor, is full of old ads touting stuff designed to reduce women’s actual physical labor and which set the conditions for lots of free time for those so inclined to make up problems like “emotional” labor.
Being an overly emotional, manipulating, unempathetic bitch isn’t anyway to go through life.
The older I get – and the more I have to deal with recent graduates – the more I realize that Dean Wormer was right about everything.
spicy mountains
Band name.
Also, this kind of fatuousness isn’t reserved to woke feminists; it’s increasingly a characteristic of middle-class women in general. I’m part of several recipe groups on Facebook dedicated to the bewildering array of kitchen appliances I own, and by a brobdingnagian margin the most common post there is some form of “my husband did something dumb with the appliance, what should I do” followed by a deafening chorus of replies advising divorce and/or physical abuse.
But, but.. Life is so HARD! We Queen Bees should be treated like, well, queen bees, with worker bees and feeder bees and nursery bees and not have to think (Emotional Labour) or even move.
So let me see if I have this right. This top-of-the-food-chain, empowered, independent, self-confident, decision-making feminist has decided it is too tiresome and wishes somebody else, preferably husband, would usurp her authority and simply tell HER what to do?
wishes somebody else, preferably husband, would usurp her authority and simply tell HER what to do?
Nature will not be denied.
EDIT – would usurp her authority, TAKE CONTROL and simply tell HER what to do, thereby relieving her of all this emotional labour?
[she] wishes somebody else, preferably husband, would usurp her authority and simply tell HER what to do?
Very much so, actually. The very act of writing the piece, as David has noted many times, is part of her grand humiliating sh!t test her husband – and society at large – keeps failing. It’s a desperate cry for help in the same way a junkie crashes their car into the police station. Only if the police quietly cleaned up the mess and replaced the car.
hopefully this is the first and last time someone must gently ask you to stop pushing the sausage.
There is a lot of emotional labor in making such a request. 😀
Also, this kind of fatuousness isn’t reserved to woke feminists; it’s increasingly a characteristic of middle-class women in general.
Well, it’s status-signalling. What Instapundit might refer to as “luxury beliefs.” Oppression, even contrived or transparently delusional oppression, is very in right now. And offhand I can’t think of much that’s more tiresome than listening to pretentious pinheads signalling their status to other pretentious pinheads.
If I were the husband I would spend my emotional labor by devising a plan to squirrel away assets and find a vicious female lawyer and use the published article as evidence of emotional abuse and instability to divorce the witch! Life is too short to put up with that s#1t show.