Brigid Schulte writes about the often infuriating gendered division of labor on the Better Life Lab Channel on Slate.
A few years ago, I spent most of Thanksgiving dividing up the furniture in the house for when the divorce came. My husband had just walked out the door with a six-pack of beer to hang out with a friend, leaving me with a kitchen explosion of vegetable peels and uncooked dishes, a scatter of recipes and cookbooks, a table yet to be set for 18, and one gigantic, raw bird. He could have that fucking blue-leather couch.
To say I was livid would be a gross understatement. Before we got married, we’d both promised each other we’d be partners and share our home responsibilities equally. As I furiously chopped Brussels sprouts, flung cranberries and miniature pumpkins on the table in a failed attempt at a Martha Stewart centerpiece, and jammed homemade stuffing into the turkey, my mind kept spinning: How had we gone so far off the rails?