Dumpster-Dancer

A man's boot smashed the feminine neck to the floor, crushing the woman's soul amidst a swirl of brilliantly colored kitchen implements and food. #Domestic_oppression.

I could never understand why she displayed that painting so prominently in the home where she loved to cook and entertain. I could never understand why her husband was not offended by the piece.

They had built a progressive, modern, feminist household in the days before that was even a thing. While June Cleaver was still setting out cookies and milk, her kids were greeted with a list of housekeeping chores. By the husband's decree, there was no “women's work” in that household. They were a modern family and a modern woman not to be burdened with those “Leave it to Beaver” expectations.

And still she displayed the “boot on neck” painting of her domestic oppression.

He never asked or demanded that she cook or do house work. He was always appreciative of whatever food she made, no matter how foul. Fairly often he would prepare a meal, or bring home take-out. He hired her housekeepers or enslaved the children to cleaning. Meanwhile he encouraged her to explore career, artistic expression, travel and educational interests outside the home. When she didn't feel like cooking (most of the time) the family just fended for itself without a fuss.

So the “boot on the neck” #Domestic_oppression painting puzzled me enough to inquire. How could she feel oppressed by a husband who was objectively far more progressive than most back in those idyllic pre-feminist days?

She could not articulate it, so I pressed with questions.

Does he make you cook? No.

Does he get mad if you don't cook? No.

Does he insult your cooking? No.

Then what does he do? Why do you feel crushed in the kitchen? And the only concrete answer she could ever give was: “He asks me what's for dinner first thing in the morning as soon as he sees me.”

What if you just said “nothing, make your own dinner.” “I do that all the time, he's fine with that.”

Then why does it bug you so much? (She could not answer)

Next I asked him why he asks his wife first thing in the morning what's for dinner: “I'm just curious. If she's making something I can look forward to it. If not I can make my own plans.”

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My home is different. We have gender roles. J cooks. I never forced or expected J to cook. In truth, I don't really care much about food. I'd be happy to order a truck load of Purina Monkey Chow and grab a handful of kibble whenever hungry (well, so long as we had plenty of beer and ice cream). J likes more refined meals, so she makes them when she wants them (or sometimes I'll make something nice as a treat for her).

In all my many decades with J, she never expressed any sense of domestic oppression . . . until the old guy described above came to live with us.

He was the gentlest, kindest, and most appreciative of house guests. He prepared most of his own meals. When J did happen to cook, he thanked her profusely and complemented every item, often inquiring about how it had been prepared. He washed dishes and did as many chores as he could. He took us out to eat often and paid every time . . . and still J quickly felt oppressed in the kitchen.

How could a woman go from cooking happily for decades to feeling oppressed just by having a polite, appreciative, non-demanding and generous house guest?

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J tends to cook from raw staples like potatoes, dried beans, whole wheat flour and yeast, fresh fruits and veggies. That kind of cooking is a lot of work, so the old guy's compliments seemed well earned.

For a fresh, home-cooked meal with all natural, garden grown ingredients carefully prepared for hours:
At exactly 6PM “Wow that looks wonderful!” “These beans are delicious. Did you invent this recipe?” “This salad is amazing. Did you make the dressing?” “This cake is fantastic. Did you make it from scratch?” “These potatoes are perfect. Did you mash them yourself? “Wow the portion sizes were perfect. You always serve just the right amount?” “Should I rinse the plates?” “Should I put the plates in the dishwasher?” “It looks like these plates in the dishwasher might rub, should I move one?”

As J began to feel oppressed, we tried to lighten the load by buying prepackaged crap from Walmart.

For a Walmart pre-packaged mashed potatoes, canned beans, bagged salad, boxed cake dinner: At exactly 6PM “Wow that looks wonderful!” “These beans are delicious. Did you invent this recipe?” “This salad is amazing. Did you make the dressing?” “These potatoes are perfect. Did you mash them yourself? “This cake is fantastic. Did you make it from scratch?” “Wow the portion sizes were perfect. You always serve just the right amount?” “Should I rinse the plates?” “Should I put the plates in the dishwasher?” “It looks like these plates in the dishwasher might rub, should I move one?”

Still trying to lighten the feeling of oppression I brought home cold, greasy Kentucky Fried Chicken:

Eating directly out of the bright red KFC fold up boxes using plastic utensils: At 6PM At exactly 6PM “Wow that looks wonderful!” “These beans are delicious. Did you invent this recipe?” “This salad is amazing. Did you make the dressing?” “These potatoes are perfect. Did you mash them yourself? “This cookie is fantastic. Did you make it from scratch?” “Wow the portion sizes were perfect. You always serve just the right amount?” “Should I rinse the plates?” “Should I put the plates in the dishwasher?” “It looks like these plates in the dishwasher might rub, should I move one?”

Then I cooked a meal and had him help. J was nowhere to be seen during the meal prep:

Eating the meal that he had himself actually helped to prepare, he looked J in the eye as he said each of the following: At exactly 6PM “Wow that looks wonderful!” “These beans are delicious. Did you invent this recipe?” “This salad is amazing. Did you make the dressing?” “These potatoes are perfect. Did you mash them yourself? “This cookie is fantastic. Did you make it from scratch?” “Wow the portion sizes were perfect. You always serve just the right amount?” “Should I rinse the plates?” “Should I put the plates in the dishwasher?” “It looks like these plates in the dishwasher might rub, should I move one?”

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And then J's sense of new sense of domestic oppression made sense. The “boot on neck” painting made sense.

He had always said that there was no “woman's work.” But his profuse compliments and respectful questions about kitchen routine still carried the oppressive assumptions:

At exactly 6PM “Wow that looks wonderful!” — While looking at J, implies that the woman is responsible for providing an attractive dinner at 6PM. “These beans are delicious. Did you invent this recipe?” — Implies that feminine time is well used inventing bean recipes. “This salad is amazing. Did you make the dressing?” — Implies that J's time would be well used making dressing. “These potatoes are perfect. Did you mash them yourself? — Implies that the woman has nothing better to do than mash tubers. “This cookie is fantastic. Did you make it from scratch?” — Implies that because J has a twat she made the KFC cookies. “Wow the portion sizes were perfect. You always serve just the right amount?” — Implies that having a twat makes J responsible for knowing the correct serving size. “Should I rinse the plates?” — Demands that J make a mundane sanitation decision just because she has a twat. “Should I put the plates in the dishwasher?” — As if people without twats can't figure out what to do with dirty dishes in a modern kitchen? “It looks like these plates in the dishwasher might rub, should I move one?” — Apparently only twats can make decisions about friction.

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Unlike the old guy, I am not a feminist. I am the head of my household. And if I am head of the household, that also means that I, not J, am ultimately responsible for everything that takes place or does not take place in the kitchen.

So, as a macho, dominant, male head of household, would I ever tell my sweet woman these sorts of things?: “I expect that because you have a twat you will present an attractive dinner at 6PM every day” “I expect that because you have a twat you will invent creative new recipes” “I expect that because you have a twat you will make at home things easily purchased, like salad dressing” “I expect that because you have a twat you will cook from basic staples, like raw potatoes” “I expect that because you have a twat you will make desert from scratch” “I expect that because you have a twat you will direct all kitchen sanitation activities, like dish washing.” “I expect that because you have a twat you will be in charge of the operation of domestic appliances like the dish-washing machine.”

Yeah, right! If I or any guy today said that, we would be quickly find ourselves the proud head . . . of a household of one.

The old guy's obsequious “compliments” were just a subtle, underhanded, sneaky way of saying; “Hey bitch, you've got a twat, so you are the kitchen gnome.”

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After watching our old house guest try to turn my sweet, obedient, wonderful, submissive woman into the kitchen gnome, I understood why his wife had kicked him out. I also understood why he never objected to the “foot on neck” painting. He never realized that the boot was his.

When he asked, first thing in the morning, what was for dinner, he was saying: “Hey bitch you've got the twat, so you are responsible for planning dinner.”