Dubai's Desperate Housewife

Trials and traumas of a full-time mum in Dubai

What I Hate Most About Being A Housewife

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It’s pretty galling when I’m at parties, barbecues, polo matches or DH’s glamorous BYS (bring your spouse) work functions and someone asks what I do, only to turn away, eyes glazed with boredom, the moment I mention anything to do with motherhood or housewifery.  (Can I flatter myself by imagining that, on taking in my polished appearance and gorgeous handbags they are surprised to find out I’m ‘only’ a housewife? That they are amazed that I’m not a high-flying international businesswoman?).

Sometimes I say ‘I used to be a journalist / writer /editor’ but even that irks me because the next question is always, ‘So what do you do now?’ as if there’s a remote possibility I may have switched to being a fighter pilot, international polo player or elephant-trainer, not a boring old [cough] stay-at-home mum.

So DH has coached me. ‘You didn’t “used to be” a journalist / writer / editor,’ he says. ‘You still are. Did you stop writing? No you didn’t. You stopped working in an office. You’re still a writer. You freelance. You’re working. Just not as much as some people.’  He’s right of course.

So, although that bothers me a bit, it’s not what I hate most about being a housewife. What I hate most is this: tradesmen, workmen, delivery men, whoever, assuming that, because I don’t work, I’m at home all day and can be around to answer the door, supervise the work or pay the bill whenever they can fit in time to see me.

Take this morning, for example. I was getting a child-proof fence fitted around the pool. The guy (Scottish) who was selling it to me banged on for a bit about how busy he was, then asked if he could come at 7.30am today. ‘No problem,’ I said. ‘Are you sure?’ he said. ‘Yes,’ I said. By then, I will have been up for two and a half hours.

I could harp on about the time I spent waiting for him to come, but let’s just say I gave him the benefit of the doubt; I called him at 8am. ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘I’m in the car. I’m on the way.’ No apology, no explanation, no SMS to say he’d be late. Can you believe he was about to hit me for a very large amount of money?

Would you treat someone like that if it was a business meeting?

When he finally rocked up, an hour late, he found out that he wasn’t the only one who was busy; I was out dropping DS at nursery. When he finished, and wanted paying, I was also out.

I wasn’t being difficult – if he’d started on time and hence finished on time, I’d have still been there. Honest.


Written by mrsdubai

November 9, 2009 at 9:23 pm

Posted in Uncategorized

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