“I prefer the word homemaker, because housewife always implies that there may be a wife someplace else.”
I have, alas, discovered the one tiny little downside to getting married: moving from a really nice condo where I split rent with three other people, have a washer and dryer in house, and a dishwasher, to an apartment that is easily older than I am with none of the aforementioned perks.
To be fair we have two backrooms in addition to the large front, the rent is fantastically low, and Venice and I will be neighbors, but I have discovered an inner interior designer that I previously was unaware of, and she does not approve of chipped, smudged, or dirty walls! She cried out in dismay when she saw them, actually.
Funnily enough I don’t care two straws about the walls when I hang out with Venice or when we were meeting with our prospective landlord. But suddenly walking into the place where I will be living as a renter, to say nothing of wife and therefore “homemaker” (see above quote, even though I’m still sort of protesting the title in my feminist soul. I console myself by saying that I can’t possibly be a true homemaker until I’m no longer working, so that gives me some buffer years), my internal designer tapped a stiletto and said, “Oh, this simply will not do.”
I’m sure they’re not really as bad as my ultra-managerial-these-days mind makes them out to be, and for all I know the paint job my Designer is clamoring for isn’t actually necessary. I am going to attack the walls with a magic eraser and see what sort of difference that makes. Hopefully this quiets her down. If all else fails I’ll just pain anyway, and then weasel the cost of the project off of our rent!