The Poetry of Chores

I have the odd desire to watch Beyond the Valley of the Dolls. I’m itching for something campy.

My ersatz kid sister is going through one of her funks again.

Little things have been piling up. I’ve been doing the brunt of the housework, cleaning up everything, caring after the Guinea pigs, while she convalesces.

I’ve reached a boiling point, one that is foaming because she hasn’t been taking out the garbage and recycling or cleaning the floors (her two chores around the house); meanwhile, I deep cleaned the entire apartment on Sunday, have given her multiple vapes (despite her saying she was quitting) and have been tirelessly picking up after our pets.

As if sensing my frustration, she’s now moping, rather than addressing the problem like a grown woman (and probably triangulating it to her cohorts, painting me as the bad guy); all this because she can’t seem to pick up on the social cues that I need a little help around the house and am feeling increasingly frustrated by her inability to take a simple hint.

I suppose tomorrow I’ll be able to take out all my frustrations by doing rudimentary labor at the thrift shop, something I don’t mind doing, as the shop is full of extraordinary treasures and there’s always something to do.

If it rains again tonight, I may very well have to heat up my lobster bisque or else turn to the comforts of butter chicken.

Sometimes I think of my past lives. I get haunted by the memories of things as simple as the morel and leek cheese I used to enjoy or my Saturday mornings slumming around the arts community, entire Saturdays spent trying on dresses or visiting apothecaries and scenting myself with essential oils until I was incandescent with wellness extracted from a eucalyptus leaf or pressed lavender buds. How I’d come home in the evening to my large, empty apartment and a bottle of Pinot Noir and drink until sleep finally came.

I don’t know that woman anymore.