Homemaker Chores Leave Housewife 'Almost' Desperate
by BARBARA DICKINSON

March already! Three months into the new year in the blink of an eye. Or so it seems. The calendar reminds me that it is time to check on my resolutely-made resolutions, devoutly written down ‘way back in December, ‘04.

I cannot say that the quality of PATIENCE has dropped into my lap with a thud, but I am seriously trying and my spouse reports that I am not as “short” with him as previously noted. The family is eating well-marked meals, drawn from the depths of the freezer at least twenty-four hours in advance. No more guess work about chicken chili or dabs of frozen spinach lasagna. Cell phones are awesome: no problem keeping in touch with my far-flung brood night or day.

There are two babies on the way so each phone call eventually ends in talk about sonograms or day-care programs. I am up to date on my New Yorkers and so far, so good regarding the observation of literary deadlines. The fudgy fat I won’t discuss, and the dog isn’t talking about the walks she received daily.

So now that I have confessed all, irrevocably in print, let me bare my soul as to what I absolutely despise doing, new year, old year, anytime-year. These are petty dislikes, too prosaic and mundane to qualify me for a role as “desperate housewife.” They are phobias, I recognize that, but at times they do tend to round my corner into desperation.

Sifting flour. This is something that has bugged me ever since I baked my first from-scratch cake at age nine. (A real beauty: yellow cake with chocolate icing with half-moon slices of cantaloupe pin wheeled across the top surface. Sadly, the fruit kept sliding off the slippery top until it made “ruffles” on the cake plate itself.)

More than the finished product, however, I remember hating to use the dreaded sifter. I don’t mind beating eggs, by hand or mixer, or spooning in the shortening, vanilla, nuts, whatever is needed. It is the measuring and sifting and re-sifting that makes me want to scream. It calls for patience, that elusive quality I seem to be short of. Can I remedy this? Heavens, no. And it doesn’t make me desperate enough to stop the baking I enjoy.

Another desperate act is sweeping. I like a clean house and spotless floor as well as anyone, but sweeping simply bores me. Thank goodness there are geniuses somewhere who invent gadgets such as the Swiffer. That one item has brought more smiles to my face than I ever thought possible. I have happily thrown away the dust mop. Can the broom be far behind?

I think the third item on my Desperate List has to be sewing on buttons. I long ago learned that the best way to darn socks was to throw them out. But the occasional button must be sewed, not glued, on jeans, slacks, shirts or jackets. My late, sainted mother was a superb seamstress. I was in college before I learned that other girls wore store-bought outfits almost all the time, not just on special occasions.

My mother continued to spoil me with beautiful outfits into my married life. My sewing skills? Each time I picked up a needle and thread or looked at a zipper that I thought I might put in a skirt, mother would say, “Oh, here, let me do it; I’m a lot quicker.” Consequently, I never really learned to sew. All of those enabling times come back to haunt me when I do have to sew on a button or small hook. There is no one around now to say, “Oh, here, let me do it; I’m a lot quicker.”

I’ve conquered some of my other desperate dislikes: cleaning the basement, straightening my desk, shredding old files. The present TV “Desperate Housewives” would laugh at my phobias. Now if they get a reality show of such situations...maybe I should apply.

Barbara Dickinson is a Roanoke novelist and freelance writer.