Codified Likeness Unit

Someone said that Mitt Romney doesn't understand or appeal to women; Mitt Romney said, well, shit, I've got a wife, who's a woman, to tell me what women want, which is The Economy; some Democrat or other said, Ann Romney has never worked a day in her life; and everyone rushed into the gap to explain how this was a terrible gaffe, error, mistake, embarrassment, because 1.) There Is Nothing Wrong with Being a Housewife, and 2.) Being a Housewife Is a Job.

It is the latter point, which went so far, or so deep, as to dredge up a study (apparently annual!) that says Stay-at-Home Moms R Worth A Buck Twelve, to which we turn our attention.  So, here is the first posthuman moment, if you ask me, when the biological species whose awkward form we inherited evolves into something else, après les protéines, moi, composed entirely of billable hours.

I've been told that, although an atheist, I am a religious man.  I accept that.  It seems to me that the majesty of existence is somewhat . . . um, reduced by the evident conviction that there is no activity which cannot be accounted for, literally accounted for, in monetary terms.  Like, euh, you may think I am heartless, but in fact, my first relationship was worth $1.37, so obviously, like not. You do not have to imbue motherhood with any particular mystical earthgoddess hokum to see that its particular value is precisely in its valuelessness; it is an essentially human activity; it is immune to price.  It isn't a fucking job.  It isn't work, although it's labor.  That's not a fucking demerit.

As a merely practical matter, I have a goddamn job; I even sort of like my job, sometimes; it ain't all that bad.  But I'll be doubledamned if I have to start thinking of the feel of the garden soil between my fingers, the sunshine on my face, every kiss and blowjob, the dog curling into the bend of my knee when I take a nap, laughing with my uncles, visiting my parents, hanging out with my cousins, joking with my friends, getting sick and healing and getting well again, feeling sadness and feeling joy, sleeping and waking, breathing and living as quarter-hours on a daily calendar with a wage-rate attached.  "Salary.com says that standing next to your boyfriend at the sink and doing dishes together after the guests have gone home is worth upwards of $25.45/hour, or nearly $30.00/hour if the dishwasher is already full."  No, you fucks, no.  That isn't it at all.