If there are two things in life that are certain – death and taxes – then I’d like to add to that list. Two things that certainly NEVER get finished – housework and emails. When life gets busy, these two everyday, necessary chores are the bugbear of my life. Increasingly so…. And they both have a lot in common.
They can be ignored, but they pile up, weighing on your conscience. And the longer you leave tackling them, the bigger and more daunting they appear.
Email overloadI used to be much more responsible on both fronts. When I worked at Ten, I had a set period of time where I would deal with emails and because I had a routine, I managed to deal with them all. But then I was juggling only one job. Now, wearing several hats, the email input is busier than ever and life has less structure in terms of dealing with it.
I became weary of being the one person I knew who emailed everyone back ‘straight away’. It became a reflex. Even at home. Hear the email ‘ping’ on your phone, and there I was, tapping away a reply instantly. I became frustrated if others didn’t do the same. So now, I’ve decided to be like everyone else and take my time. Not do emails on the weekend, because hey, everyone needs a break, don’t they?
I’m not sure it’s such a good idea. Right now I can see 109 emails in my inbox… Perhaps I should go back to being ‘Responsible Jen’?
The housework bluesEmails are also like housework in that they both invoke a feeling of Groundhog Day Syndrome. As soon you THINK you’ve finished, sit back smiling with a wine in hand, the computer pings or you spy a cobweb in the corner and it’s time to begin all over again.
It’s just like Joan Rivers says. ‘I hate housework! You make the beds, you do the dishes and six months later you have to start all over again.’ Okay, so I don’t leave it six months between the washing up cycles, but it feels like every day the list of chores in my head grows longer and more tedious.
Like housework, emails don’t care if you’re going through a busy patch. They don’t stop and say, ‘Hang on, Jen’s under the pump. Let’s lay off a bit.’ Oh no, they just keep growing and growing, turning into a bigger, dirtier pile than ever that you have to deal with once that other busy stuff is done.
We used to have cleaners, but more than a year ago decided to ditch that idea. With me not ‘officially’ working, it seemed indulgent, especially when they took such long ciggie breaks outside, turned up late and there was the constant pressure of having to ‘tidy up for the cleaners’. It just wasn’t worth the trouble.
To his credit, Fletch does more than his fair share of the household chores. Ever since I started this Blogging caper, I’ve been scampering upstairs to my office, pronouncing I have a ‘very important’ blog to write and letting the housework slide. He’s picked up the slack without complaint. But as I tap away and hear him washing the dishes downstairs, I do start to feel guilty. He doesn’t lay a guilt trip on me either, which makes it worse. He really needs to develop a few flaws.
One housework solutionTo combat the guilt factor, I actually pulled out the vacuum this morning and decided a full spring clean of the bedroom was required. I’m talking vacuuming BEHIND the bed-head and getting on a ladder to dust the light fitting!! Impressed? I was.
And the funny thing was that as I cleaned away, slightly resentful of the boring tasks at hand, I was hit with some fab blogging ideas.
So perhaps there is an upside to this housework burden after all? Perhaps cleaning can be a source of creative inspiration? I might even tackle the rumpus room tomorrow. If this keeps up, I’ll be Australia’s answer to Martha Gardner before the week’s out. Watch this space.
Generally speaking, I reckon men are more competitive than women. And sometimes, you even find that within relationships, couples can be competitive with each other. I’d never thought that about Fletch and myself – UNTIL TODAY.
There we were, happily enjoying some ‘time out’ – kiddie free – down along Victoria’s surf coast with my brother and sister-in-law. Early this morning, Fletch rose at dawn to take some photographs along the beach. Sunrise shots are his specialty. You may remember a few of his picturesque snaps from a blog I posted at Lorne last week. I stayed in bed and was probably snoring when he twisted his ankle among the rock pools.
We waited for him to return so we could ‘go out’ for breakfast. By the time he got back, I was starving. We decided to take a stroll through the scrubby bush lining the cliffs, down to the Anglesea Life Saving Club, where they’re renowned for dishing up a killer brekky. Fletch said his ankle would be fine, that it wasn’t ‘too bad’. Watching him power ahead of Penny and myself, I believed him. He likes to be the fastest and lead the pack. I’m used to that and didn’t think much of it.
After we arrived at the Life Saving Club, we sat on the decking, over-looking a sweeping view of the Anglesea beach. The tide was out, leaving a glassy expanse across the foreshore. While sipping on a latte and waiting for my eggs and bacon, I took a photo of my own and posted it on Instagram. It looked like this:
My photo of the Anglesea beachNow, it’s a little over-cooked. I know, I know… My excuse is that we were sitting in the sun, and as you’re all probably aware, trying to peer into the dark glass of an I-phone to see ANYTHING on a sunny day is practically impossible. Fletch looked at it and nodded silently. Knowingly.
Next thing I know, he’s grinning as he also takes a shot and posts it on Instagram. His photo is, OF COURSE, infinitely better and looked like this:
Fletch’s photo of Anglesea beachRemember too, that he IS photographer and has dozens of special ‘Apps’ on his I-phone that I am blithely unaware of, so his creative powers are naturally, going to be far superior to mine. My eggs arrived. I felt I may as well wear them on my face after he’d shown me up on Instagram to be a failure. But it didn’t quell my appetite. I stuffed myself and the eggs were delicious. As were the mushrooms.
After finishing up, we walked back home along the beach and I spotted a row of fence posts that screamed artistic potential. ‘Great,’ I thought. ‘Now I can show the world what a brilliant photographer I am!’ And I took this:
My photo of beach fence postsI took more time with the effects and was quite chuffed with the results. That is, until Fletch saw my photo and then ran back to the fence posts. I watched in disbelief as he snapped away, knowing what he was doing. For the second time he wanted to prove to the world that he is a better photographer than me by shooting the SAME subject matter. Here’s his picture:
Fletch’s beach fence postsHumph! Quite frankly, I think it’s a bit over-the-top. A bit melodramatic – don’t you think? But damn him, yes, it’s STILL stacks better than mine. Then I remembered him striding along the bush track to breakfast, trying to keep ahead of the girls, despite his twisted ankle. It suddenly dawned on me that he is one helluva competitive bloke.
I called him on it.
Jen: ‘Why are you doing this? Why are you so competitive?’
Fletch: ‘I’m not competitive.’
Jen: ‘Well, why do you take the same shot as me?’
Fletch: ‘If I see something and you see something at the same time, we both take the shot, that’s all.’
Jen: ‘But you see me take the shot, then copy me and do a better shot and it makes me look bad.’
Fletch: ‘No I don’t. Don’t be silly. You’re over-playing it.’
I’ll say it again. HUMPH! You’ve seen the photos. You be the judge.
But come on – we all KNOW he’s a better photographer than me. I mean, just take a look at these shots he took at sunrise:
Dawn breaking at Anglesea – by Alan Fletcher Sunrise at Anglesea – by Alan FletcherThat last shot is my favourite. It’s pretty impressive.
So there you go, Fletch – you win. As you lie on the couch with ice on your swollen ankle, moaning, I tell you – you ARE a better photographer than me. Can you just stop copying my Instagram shots to show me up??? Thanks.
And by the way – here’s one shot I snuck in at the Life Saving Club that you DIDN’T get to copy:
My photo of classic teaspoonsYep, all the teaspoons at the cafe are vintage classics – all different and probably sourced from Op Shops all over. I love them – their detail and craftsmanship – that each one has it’s own story and a past life.
So there, Fletch – bettcha jealous now.
