themadcomposer

Allow me to preface this by saying that my dad and I are super-close. He’s wonderfully supportive and surprisingly with the times. Although we don’t discuss my sexuality, he’s accepted it and our relationship hasn’t changed as a result.

I just moved into my new apartment a few days ago, a so-cool studio in Brooklyn that I paid most of my savings for. It’s the first time I’ve really had my own space, and I feel really good about it. Yesterday, my dad took me to get an air conditioner. As we were in the car on the way back to my apartment, the following conversation took place.

Dad: Do you have any Windex?

Me: No, not yet. Why?

Dad: So we can clean the windows before I put the AC in.

Me: I’ll clean the windows afterward.

Dad: What about the outside of the window?

Me: I don’t really care if the outside of one window’s a little dirty.

Dad: Domesticity is not your strong suit, I take it.

Me: Nope.

Dad: You have to become a little more domesticated, though. People are going to look at your apartment and say, “a girl lives here?”

Me: …..

On the butch-femme spectrum of things, I’m definitely more femme. I have long hair, dress in girl’s clothes, and date mostly butches or androgynes. I’m not a makeup and high heels girl but I’m definitely a girl, no question about it. That said, I was born an uber-feminist, insisting as soon as I could talk that women should be able to put their careers first if they wanted to, shouldn’t have to get married if they didn’t want to. I admired strong women, and still do.

I grew up in a household that believed a clean house equaled a happy family, that women should get jobs that would allow them time home with the kids. From my childhood, a big part of me knew that I’d never buy into that. I chose a career that meant long hours, networking like an animal and independence of mind and spirit. I moved out of my house the second I got my first real job, and now I’m in my own apartment where my furniture hasn’t been moved in yet and I couldn’t be happier. I don’t iron, but I’m not a slob and I do take care of myself and my space. And I’m not domesticated but I do make a mean marinara sauce.

Not that there’s anything wrong with the domestic life. If that’s what makes you happy, go for it. There’s nothing wrong with being a housewife (and yes, being a mother is a career). All I’m saying is, don’t think for a second that your intermittent houseguests will look at your less-than-perfectly-clean window and think, this is one unhappy person, or hmmm, a man must live here.

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