In my last post, I told you that our household is in most respects like yours, except for the two women at its helm. Upon review, I’m wondering whether I clearly addressed how typical our household really is.
There’s J. the breadwinner, now working just one job rather than two, while I sit around in my leisurewear watching Border Security and eating bonbons. (Occasionally I get off the couch to do volunteer work or go to yoga or make dinner, and the bonbons have become vegetables since my Great Sugar Revolution, but the leisurewear part is accurate.)
Now that J. is solely self-employed, and she does much of her work from home, she has officially made the basement into her office. All her Basset paraphernalia (pads and stapler and magnets and more) are occupying the desk. When she has inquiries to address or marriage ceremonies to write, she commutes downstairs, allowing us space from one another.
Even the most loving couples need space sometimes, don’t they? How much space depends on the couple. I’d say we’ve always been fairly independent.
Then J. decided to create a woman cave in the basement as well. That way, when I want to watch something boring like Food Network, she can go downstairs to watch her favourite hockey team, the Edmonton Oilers, lose. With the sound system on, J. feels like she’s in the stands with the fans.
J. tromps downstairs in the morning to work on her newly thriving business, poking her head up every so often when she’s hungry. She descends again in the afternoon to work some more. We eat dinner together, and then, if the Oilers are playing, J. heads back downstairs with a bowl of chips for the evening. Between her work and my own activities, we hardly see one another. Even Jelly, who is not allowed to shed on the basement rug, sulks and paces endlessly because she misses her favourite mother. Somehow, as J. has become firmly ensconced in the basement, I’ve become the nagging, neglected wife.
Imagine my surprise when J. resurfaced 20 minutes into last night’s hockey game, but only because her boys were already losing. (She’s fickle that way.) After watching one show together, I’d turned to the season finale of the Great American Baking Show, which unfortunately is not nearly as engaging as the Great British Baking Show. Nevertheless, we’ve been watching this competition since the start to ensure it remained a poor facsimile, so I expected J. might join me for the finale.
No such luck. Rather than watching with me, J. confessed she’d rather see her boys play, even if they’re losing. So downstairs she went again, and good thing she did because her boys came back from behind and won.
Are we really that different from any straight couple you know? Does it really matter? All I know is that I can look forward to J.’s company in the evenings when the Oilers aren’t playing. If I’m lucky, her hockey season will end early when her boys fail to make the playoffs. But please don’t tell her I said that. It wouldn’t go over well.