Broken Stuff and Housework

When I arrived here in Belgium, I was on my best behaviour of course, not that my unbest behaviour is bad ... it's merely a little less good.

Today, I broke my 9th drinking glass.
There were 13 when I arrived ... unlucky for some obviously.
I seem to have stopped dropping the glass peanut butter jars though, and this is a good thing ... four was a big enough test of 'how much am I loved'.

My theory is that I was a princess in my last life ... people did stuff for me and I never learned how to embrace daily house cleaning duties. My past life memories are of how to read books, write and to talk with people ... there seems to be nothing for housework, written with a suspiciously unapologetic smile on my face.

I can do it all, I was married for centuries, I can iron, cook, vacuum, wash and dry dishes (only advisable when I am on my best behaviour obviously), dust, make beds, wash clothes however I really really don't enjoy it all.

No ... that's not quite true, I don't enjoy it but I love a clean house.

I posted Erica Jong's poem about being a writer with household responsibilities ...

I can only admire a woman who describes the dilemma so well. I was thinking of it today and decided to share ... in honour of yet another broken glass.

I wish there were not a choice;
I wish I could be two women.
I wish the days could be longer.
But they are short.
So I write while
the dust piles up.

Moral of the story ... if a certain woman doesn't vacuum up the tiny pieces of glass that she missed with the little broom, then her bare feet have 4 or 5 tiny slivers of glass in them by the end of the day.