How to Live With A Revolutionary Without Losing Your Head (Or Scrubbing His)

Chapter 7: On Housework

As most progressive people, the revolutionary is a firm believer in gender equality: abolition of all kinds of inequalities and all that, how could he not? 

Therefore, the revolutionary will be committed to do his share of the Housework. After all, if you’re living together, it’s only fair right? Right. 

To your utter dismay, you’ll soon realise the revolutionary has quite a different take on housework than yours (you personnally blame your mother, a woman for whom cleaning vegetables involved bleach:What? I don’t see the problem! What, it’s not good for your health? It’s really good! Kills all bacteria! All those doctors are just a bunch of liars! One drop I tell you, only one drop!). 

You see, let us not forget the ULTIMATE aim of the revolutionary, which is, well, the Revolution. Everything is seen as the good old superstructure, some unnecessary decorative materials with no influence whatsoever on their surroundings. 

Sadly for you, that includes housework. The revolutionary will therefore happily throw his clothes on the floor without further ado. Fold them? But why? Why would I fold things when I could use this precious time to re-read the Russian Revolution by Comrade Trotsky, my Beloved? (Trotsky, not you). 

Making beds in every way possible except the most widely admitted way is a national sport for the revolutionary, who will tell you the bundle of sheets in the middle of the room is “contemporary art”. Until this day, you curse the hour you took him to that museum: he may have detested it (Such bourgeois concept! such uselessness”Art for art’s sake! what utter decadent bullshit!) but he sure remembered a thing or two. Thanks for nothing, Marcel Duchamp.

Same goes for cooking: do not, at any point, trust the Revolutionary when he tells you he cooks. To him, cooking is just plonking a chicken in a Teflon pan and putting it in the oven. Yes. The Teflon pan. With the plastic handles. Yes. Those which melt in the oven. Don’t even bother to start asking questions: I don’t get you! What’s wrong? Isn’t the chicken cooked? It is, isn’t it? Isn’t that the whole point? 

Such desarming logic, you’ll be at a loss to find a proper answer to that. 

The issue will become even greater as your home will grow into the HQ of the Global Revolution, filled with bearded, bespectacled Comrades eager to get food for the spirit discussing the United Front vs the Popular Front tactics, and food for their stomachs, which would not even go anywhere near Teflon Chicken. 

You might not have read the whole Permanent Revolution, but Miss Beauvoir’s your pal and it will have to be stated quite clearly that male chauvinistic pig is not a good label for a revolutionary. People, pay attention, for this is important: when hitting a sticky patch with the revolutionary, resort to ideology, The power it’llgive you will be infinite, bless those oblivious righteous GodFathers Marx, Engels and Trotsky.

Armed with his good will (I am a Feminist! He’ll say proudly), he will go out of his way to make a point in doing his share, acknowledging you do more, pledging to increase the amount of tasks. Unfortunately, you’ve learnt the hard way good will, Teflon pans and Comrade Trotsky were not a good match. You will outline a to do list of manageable things that’ll prevent the house for burning down and, your mind rested, will settle yourself behind your own books and computer, blissfully oblivious of any weird noise, curses and swears emanating from the disaster area.  

You sometimes wonder where would communism be if Karl had changed the diapers of the six children and Jenny had sat down and wrote Das Kapital. 

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