WWHOHD?
What would Hestia or Hera do?
Oh, these H-gals are on ON MY MIND. It turns out that Hestia, not Hera, is the goddess of hearth and home. Hera is the goddess of marriage, motherhood, children. But I am grooving hard on both of these goddesses, at the moment.
I realize I have not cleaned the cat litter box for some time. Some kitty litter is scattered beside it, and the trail extends into the hallway outside the bathroom. I swallow the unpleasant conclusion: Eli has been, er, helping me keep it clean. Ugh. Clearly, I am no goddess of the hearth and home—not yet—although I love home with a passion, and I pine for a hearth with the fervor of Hestia. I yearn for a lasting marriage like Hera, even with a husband that tosses a lightning bolt now and then.
After a scary start to the beginning of 2010, my health is under control now. Now I want to change that ‘l’ to an ‘r’. I want me some hearthy goodness, stat.
My mom dispatched a friend of hers to help me with the air conditioners yesterday, after I nearly careened down the front porch roof on my stomach, chasing a runaway AC unit I tried to install myself. I managed to drag the unit and myself back through the bedroom window, but not without scraping up my decolletage and yelling bloody murder for the entire neighborhood to hear.
As mom’s pal put in a new electrical outlet (whaaaa? really? it’s that easy? would you like me to do you now? bed or floor?) so Sophie’s air conditioner could be plugged in correctly (too hard to explain coherently), I again had that intense urge to bake or knit some gratitude for the guy. Bring him a dirty martini on a silver tray. Sew him a monogrammed hankie with a Jesus fish on it. (He is a God-fearin’ man, with a God-fearin’ wife at home to do these things for him, but still.)
You know things are changing for me if I am having intense urges to bake or knit or sew, or use a cocktail shaker. Well, maybe the cocktail shaker reverie is nothing new. I just don’t have one.
If Women’s Studies 101 was all about women’s choices, then my liberal education was perhaps not lost on me. I am simply entering a new phase of life that happens, on the surface, to resemble the 1950s. But my innards are totally 2010, full of dark smarts and bloody wisdom.
As I was on my belly on the roof two days ago, clutching the tail of the air conditioner—swearing like a beached sailor whose ship is disappearing into the distance—I realized I was idiotically willing to go down with the air conditioner, skull first, before I let go of it. I was not going to be That Woman: the woman who, without the assistance of a husband’s biceps, loses the air conditioner and dents the roof of her car with it, spectacularly.
I needed help, I really did. And I pretty much suck at asking for help. See: Exhibit A, Friends Who Can Attest to My Hermetic Existence When the Going Gets Rough.
I want a partner in this life, for the rest of my days, because that is how I roll. Like the German shepherds I’m so crazy about, I’m a one-person creature, at heart. My inner circle of friends is small, tight, loyal. Most of them are one-person creatures too, and they don’t judge. I have never been a socialite. I can stretch myself, sometimes, but it will never be my way.
I am tired of worrying about creative success, financial success. I am tired of worrying about books that never seem to get written, or—once written—never get published. I am tired of query letters. I am tired of trying to drum up freelance writing and editing work. I am tired of my successful-enough (except for air conditioner installments) independentish single life.
I want to make crazy swinging-from-the-ceiling love to a sweaty, grinning husband who’s just mowed the lawn, just weed-whacked our property into tiptop shape, and re-entered our home through the new back door he installed. I want to bake brownies for him and the kids, from scratch. I want to buy one of those little torchie things and caramelize the top of a creme brulee for him, for his birthday. I want to knit him warm Icelandic wool hats that I line lovingly with fleece. I want to clean toilets, I want to keep track of our social calendar, I want to mend tears before they turn into rips. I want to research the difference between lemon oil and Murphy’s oil soap. I want to help with the family business, whatever that might be. I want to send Christmas cards and birthday cards, on time. I want to plan wonderful trips that end with us sighing and happy to be back home, framing and hanging photos of our adventures on freshly painted walls. I want to do laundry for days, listening to love songs, humming dreamily, writing poems in my head, while all my former dreams of grandeur and fame fly away like dark birds and disappear into trees. I want to immerse myself in a warm, milky bath of gorgeously outdated gender roles. I allow myself these fantasies, now.
At 40, I will dream what I want, without fear of chastisement or scorn. Nobody went around dissing Hera or Hestia. Uh-uh. Hellz, no.
I want to wake up with someone again. More days than not. When the dog barks at something in the backyard at 3 a.m., I want someone with me when I go to investigate. The people who have truly seen me, really seen me in this lifetime, are for the most part the ones I’ve woken up with, gone to bed with, snuggled for hours. Sex is fun and fine, sure, but real intimacy lies in listening to someone’s slow, sweet breathing as he falls asleep beside me.
I am Hestia. The pumpkin bread is on the counter. All yours, honey.
I am Hera, hear me roar. Put away your lightning bolts, and let’s play.
But first, excuse me while I polish the banister.
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There’s something to be said for clean floors and fresh bread. And cuddling. Lots and lots.
As for the writing, you know we think you are so gifted and your time will come if there’s any justice in the universe! And hopefully a wonderful new relationship too
hugs.
I have never commented before, but have been reading your blog for a long time. This post really struck me. I hope you get all that. You are such a caring person, you deserve a partner who cares that much about you!
i can help with the creme brulee thingie, bread baking, and the knitting.
loves you!
xoxoxoxol
More amazing writing, Jenn. I wish you all of the above. I hear you, oh do I hear you!
I so hope you get this someday.
Also, in a pinch, the creme brulee torch can be used to burn up weeds in the cracks of your sidewalk.
I’m probably the exact opposite of a domestic goddess, so a partner like you sounds luuuuuurvely. I can only offer geeky/cheeky humor and kimchi in the fridge.
I so wish the best for you. I am very incompetent at any social interaction but none the less I think you would be an awesome entity to know and consider friend. All the best to you and your girls.
Always the best pours from you and may only the best be recieved by you J.
yes i hear you. i did the single parent route for years and felt the same quite often. and…i also got to know myself in a way i’d not trade now.
there is something in me that gets emotionally a bit lazy with a partner. being alone was good for being a hard worker, emotionally- which marriage often needs..hard work.
well said Maggie May…hope you find your partner someday Jenn, those outdated roles aren’t so outdated, or overrated!!!!! And there is much to be said for both independence and partnership…you can have both, really
And why would any guy be enticed? Think long and hard before you answer. It sounds like you want someone to carry the load, while you dance in a suitable ornamental fashion around the kitchen. Most grownup men want partners, and in this economic climate, brownies from scratch don’t pay the electric bill.
Oh, “Robin,” always such a pleasure to entertain you! Give my best to Bart.
Hi Jenn — it’s been a while since I’ve commented, and just wanted to say how much this post resonated with me. Particular reasons why would include a finished — and unpublished — manuscript, with a character named Hestia, after the goddess of the hearth.
How weird is that? Blessings to you, sweet, sweet Jenn, all the way across the country from me. I wish I could have seen you when you were here on the West Coast, alas.
If only all your musings were unpublished.
Why would anyone make the choice to read and comment on content that they clearly dislike? Constructive criticism is one thing, but cruelty is another. Robin, I don’t begrudge you the right to dislike Jenn’s writing (although I disagree with you), but I pity you for your meanness.