Tag Archives: #fuckhousework

Why 2017 Will Go Down As The Year I (Finally) Grew Up

I think I might be addicted to throwing stuff out.

It started out innocently enough. A mortifying realisation that most of my wardrobe had either A) holes in them B) paint splodges on them C) lost their mojo because I had owned them since the dawn or D) previously belonged to Alan forced me into a fit of chucking it all out two weeks ago.

I have since bought a few nice new staple items for myself and pinky-swore that I would spend some money on a new item of clothing every other month in 2017. More of that to come..

The decision to be a bit kinder to myself in the appearance department gave rise to a bit of internal empowerment. I mean, if I could find it within myself to chuck on some mascara and lipgloss when heading out on the school run, what other miraculous feats could I achieve?

Well, how about sorting out my paperwork from the last three years, says I? When we moved into our new house in 2014 I promised myself that I would stop using our work address for our personal post such as bank statements, car tax renewal notices and Prize Bonds for the kids (what if we won and I never knew?!).

Did I get to any of that over the last 3 years? Did I fuck.

I did what most busy mums do and piled them together in a corner labelled ‘Will get to when..’

When the baby is a bit bigger..

When we finish this extension..

When Eva starts pre-school..

After the wedding..

All of those ‘Afters’ have since come and gone and I’ve run out of excuses. I also need to get a grip and grow the hell up. What other 39 year old still uses her mother’s name on her PayPal account? (an unfortunate hangover from pre-visa laser card days and I needed a credit card to open an account. I haven’t been trusted with a credit card of my own since 2007. Long, and very funny story).

And so now, here I am, trying to behave like a grown up with a mortgage and some semblance of control over bills, routines and most of all, clutter.

This kind of thing could send a woman over the edge

In the last week I have;

  1. Boxed up 5 archive boxes full of old files that can be incinerated in the back garden (keep your records for 7 years if you can and after that, it’s bye-bye)
  2. Finally informed Electric Ireland that my name on the bill should not, in fact, be MR. Sharyn Hayden, thank you very much. I am all morto’d out.
  3. Rang Eircom and asked for a better deal for our TV and broadband (and got it down by €17 a month for the next two years, score!)
  4. Spoke to Bord Gais Energy about switching our electricity bills over to them as they have a better deal – AND a nice rewards program for tickets to the Bord Gais Energy Theatre and the likes, who isn’t into that?!
  5. Finally read up on WTF Tesco club points actually mean and might eventually start using the vouchers for good rather than for the green bin.
  6. GOT MARRIED. Yes, again, but this time we did the legal bit in the Dublin Registry Office. Not only was it super craic, I have also now applied for our marriage certificate AND informed our tax consultant BECAUSE I AM SUPER ORGANISED NOW.
  7. Washed my makeup brushes. I know, PEAK adulting.
  8. Nominated two ‘F*ck The Housework’ days per week. There is to be an embargo on the lifting of fingers on Thursdays and Fridays because.. ENOUGH ALREADY!! (and also, it makes us get on top of an actual system of doing it on the other days, boom)

Feel free to join my ‘F*ck The Housework!’ days  and send me some pics of what you’re doing INSTEAD of worrying about what’s going on inside your house. Just use the hashtag #fuckthehousework

**Next week.. I start to declutter my digital life – HONESTLY!**



Can We Talk About The Housework?

We have a busy, messy house and white tiled floors to go with it. BRILLIANT COMBO. We have our dog, Pearl, who drags who-knows-what through the house on her paws, we have four year old Jacob, who loves the combination of muck and water probably more than anything else in this world, we have one year old Eva, who likes to fire porridge, peas, biscuits, spaghetti – you name it – from the height of her high chair onto whatever she can hit below. Then we have Daddy Alan, Mr. Engineer who comes home from work covered head to toe in dust and dirt from a busy day at Dynamic Cater Care. Part of the work uniform is a pair of humongous work boots that he likes to keep on him until he gets up the stairs to get changed…..don’t mention the war.

Then there’s me, I am a hoarder of bits of paper; bills, receipts, newspaper clippings, recipes on the backs of envelopes, things that I’m working on or things that I’m hoping to get a read of ‘later, when I get a sec’. On a whim, I’ll decide to sort out the attic and drag half of it’s contents onto the landing below, only to be called away by a crying child, a dash to the school, or a call at the door, and I might not get back to it for weeks…..don’t mention Alan’s war with me ;o)

Laundry has taken over our lives. It’s everywhere, it’s unruly; you think you have it under control until the day you open the hot press door and it physically attacks you, the bastard.

‘Have I any work t-shirts?!’ Alan will call from upstairs, just as I’m eyeing the damp pile of washed clothes that he has taken from the washing machine the night before, and casually dumped on the floor by the back door.

‘Oh you have’, I’ll call back. ‘But the magic laundry fairy didn’t intercept their neglect and get them up onto the clothes horse to dry so it’s another topless day for you, darling. I shall inform the neighbour to get their camera phones out when you’re ready to leave the house.’

There has been great chats this week online about how much housework we all do, and how we keep on top of it. I know I could spend every single minute of the day on housework and laundry if I so chose to, and I still wouldn’t want anyone to drop in ‘just yet’. There would always be one more thing that would make it better, isn’t there? If I could just get to wash down those seat covers…if I could just quickly wipe down the kitchen windows…if I could just Fabreeze the smell of stale milk out of this room…..

And the thing is, it’s so BORING, isn’t it? I know it has to be done, and no one wants to look like they’re living in squalor, but we’ve got to sort of get a grip. I mean, who are we really doing it for? I know I’m not cleaning the house for Alan’s benefit, because he never notices (although he does like to tip the cleaning staff in hotels ‘for doing such a great job’ – *coughs*. He could easily owe me 74 thousand euros in back payments at this point).

I definitely keep the floors clean for Eva’s sake – she is walking and everything now, but she still lands on her bum quite a bit and still plays with her toys not he floor, so that gets done every day for her. But the rest? The dressing the beds first thing and the scrubbing stains off walls and door handles and rearranging shit that does not need to be rearranged and the power hosing of the fooking high chair??? Ok, the high chair is completely manky, not even the power hose is sorting that shit out…. but who is it for? For myself? To prove my worth as a woman and a mother and a home owner? But who really cares?

The answer is: nobody. Nobody cares. Sure, someone will notice if you’ve got a pile of dirty nappies sitting in the corner of the living room, or if the contents of your jacks should carry a health warning so let’s not go there. But let’s try this: why not cut your time spent sorting out your house every day IN HALF this month. Just do it. And spend the other half making Witches Hats with ice cream cones and melted chocolate instead.

Which you will then have to clean up after. Oh I see your point.