
Wages for housework: If your job is working in the home, should you be paid a salary?
TikTok
post. Filming from the driver's seat of her car, she ticks off the jobs most mothers do without pay: 'Chauffeur, chef, nanny, project manager for the house...'
The replies roll in – some appreciative, most dismissive. 'Bills paid, food on the table, card in my wallet and time with my kids. I'm paid better than any full-time job,' writes Robi Cheaux. 'She's compensated with free meals,
housing
, clothes,
car
, trips,' says Michael Candeta.
Others object to the transactional logic of a wage. 'If you are
married
and have to 'pay your wife', you aren't actually married,' Sean Brady argues. 'Feminism is when my husband is my employer,' writes Roseann Adu.
The conversation turns to performance reviews, with one person writing: 'If she wants a night off from making dinner, submit a PTO request one week in advance.' What's surprising is not that the internet objects to a wage for housework, but that a decades-old debate still sparks outrage.
READ MORE
In the 1970s, the activist Silvia Federici published a manifesto as part of the Wages for Housework campaign. Demanding a wage made the work, which was almost exclusively done by women, visible in a new way. It also challenged the idea that certain tasks and burdens – childcare, homemaking, the mental load – were somehow 'natural' to women.
Federici called her manifesto Wages Against Housework, switching out 'for' with 'against'. She was suggesting that the money itself isn't really what's at stake. She believed that demanding a wage brings it into a market where it can be seen as work and, more urgently, refused.
If capitalism was an iceberg, the economist team JK Gibson Graham have argued, then waged labour is just the tip. Under the surface are countless acts that go unrecognised and unpaid, but which keep the system afloat. These include childcare, voluntary work and even the 'work' of the biosphere.
We don't usually cost these types of work. Economists call these jobs 'externalities', or benefits the capitalist system reaps without paying. In an attempt to bring more of the iceberg to the surface, economists have recently calculated that the work of a stay-at-home parent is equivalent to a salary of $175,000 (€154,778) a year.
Today, if you are sick, elderly or dying, the state hopes that you have a family member who can care for you
Externalities have only grown since the 1970s campaign for wages; invisible work fills the gap between what neoliberalism promises and what it actually delivers.
In her book Family Values, Melinda Cooper argues that state welfare systems increasingly rely on the family – not as a beneficiary, but as a backstop. Neoliberal reforms reimagined the family as the first and proper site of care, responsibility and moral reform. Take changes to child support, for example. In the 1960s, the American welfare system directed its resources not to poor mothers, but to identifying and pursuing biological fathers to compel financial contributions. The state didn't just demand care – it sketched the form it would take, defining who counts as a family.
In this way, Cooper argues, 'welfare reform sought to remind women that an individual man, not the state, was ultimately responsible for their economic security'. Today, if you are sick, elderly or dying, the state hopes that you have a family member who can care for you. When you go to work and your wage won't cover childcare, the state hopes that your family will step in, in the shape of a partner who isn't working outside the home or a grandparent, or an aunt who works from her home as a childminder.
Dunlap's insistence that a man should pay his wife a salary evokes the era of the 'family wage' – when a single income (normally paid to a man) could support an entire family. Today it's far more likely that both partners work outside the home, with (mostly) women taking on a second shift of unpaid care work after hours.
The vitriol and eyerolling comes, I think, from the impossible demand such a claim makes
As some replies to Dunlap's video suggest, a wage for housework isn't just about costing labour. If a partner pays their spouse a wage, the very nature of relationships change. If 'love' hides domestic work, then wages risk turning lovers into co-workers – or worse, employer and employee.
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What the rows over skorts and public toilets reveal about Irish attitudes to equality
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Marriage equality 10 years on: A boy sees us hold hands and says 'I f***ing hate gay people'
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We're not always comfortable costing externalities. Like a marriage with its own HR department, they risk putting a price on priceless things – like a mother's love for her child. In doing so, these things can be robbed of their real value. It's not about putting a price on love or family, though. It's about exposing the illusion that our care comes without a cost.
So, what would it look like to cost care? Environmental economists propose a Pigouvian tax. Named after the economist Arthur C Pigou, it is levied at corporations to offset the harms they cause but don't usually pay for. Carbon credits are one example. Reparations for centuries of colonial extraction, ecological devastation and slavery in the Global South could be another.
What if we flipped the model? What if we taxed the benefits that capitalism absorbs for free? I'm proposing an inverted Pigouvian tax: a levy on corporations and institutions that profit from the unpaid care work they don't provide. Revenue could be redistributed as a care wage, a universal basic income, or put into public services like childcare and elder care.
Why is a wage for housework
still
so controversial in 2025? It doesn't only come down to sexism. The vitriol and eyerolling comes, I think, from the impossible demand such a claim makes. The reality is that capitalism needs unpaid work.
If we brought all that work on to the ledger – if we counted every nurse suffering from burnout and every exhausted mother – the books wouldn't balance. The system would break.
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Irish Times
a day ago
- Irish Times
I've met a wonderful man – but he's starting to give me the ‘ick'
Dear Roe, I've met a wonderful man. After years of crap dates, false starts, commitmentphobes and ghosting, I've finally met a man who seems to really want to integrate me into his life early in dating (introducing me to friends and family, calling me his girlfriend) and is intelligent and sensitive. My issue is that, a few months in, I find a lot of aspects of his personality quite annoying – anything from talking too loud in restaurants to interrupting when I speak. The sex hasn't been great but is improving as we get to know each other. I'm aware that because of things in my past (emotionally manipulative partners and harassment, borderline stalking from an ex) I can be quite avoidant, and that 'getting the ick' is sometimes more about finding excuses not to be with someone. But how do I know where the line is between avoidance and genuine incompatibility? Just because someone is smart, respectful, and ready to commit doesn't mean they're right for me. At the same time, does doing things I find 'icky' (but are wholly innocuous) mean they're wrong for me? Should I accept that no one is perfect, or keep looking? Let's look to the philosophers for this one. In Witnessing Subjectivity , Kelly Oliver writes that 'love is an ethics of differences that thrives on the adventure of otherness'. In Alain Badiou's In Praise of Love , Badiou describes the basis of love's starting and flourishing as the 'encounter between two differences'. For Martha Nussbaum, real-life love requires an embracing stance, and saying yes 'with a mercy and tenderness that really do embrace the inconstancy and imperfection of… real-life love'. READ MORE Or as columnist Dan Savage puts it, the price of admission for having true love is embracing that other people are different from you. And along with all the ways that fact makes life more rich and beautiful and exciting and magic, it also fills life with people who talk too loud, who interrupt, who chew with their mouth open, who walk around after a shower only naked from the waist down (the least dignified form of naked) – or whatever their particular constellation of annoying little differences is. The price of admission that they pay is embracing that you also are different to them, and accepting all of your annoying little differences. .form-group {width:100% !important;} I will admit that I find the idea of 'the ick' quite emotionally immature. I promise that I'm not just picking on you – I have been ranting about this for the past couple of years as the term has been popularised on social media. Commonly understood as a point where your attraction to someone dies or turns to one of disgust, people claim that the ick is an unconscious, unavoidable reaction that there's often no coming back from. In my mind, however, people listing off all the tiny, irrelevant, human reasons they use to discount potential romantic partners feels lacking in empathy, self-awareness and perspective. Icks can often feel deeply embedded in gendered norms, as straight women list off men using umbrellas or lip balm or getting emotional as inspirers of 'the ick', while straight men list women eating a normal amount or enjoying a beer or sitting with a wide-legged stance being an irredeemable turn-off. There are also ungendered icks – an unusual laugh, the awkwardness of chasing runaway coins, an unflattering outfit, licking the yoghurt off the lid – but what they have in common is a projected shame around being seen as human, imperfect. When we judge other people for being awkward or graceless or dorky or flawed, we're also criticising ourselves by proxy. What are the trivial expressions of humanity that we believe make us unlovable and immediately disposable? Icks can also, as you are aware, be self-protective mechanisms – ways of pushing away people and justifying our fear of real connection. Instead of admitting that we fear being vulnerable and liking someone, we can create a tiny but inarguable reason to dismiss them. Self-protection and projected shame can go hand-in-hand: the moment we see someone we like having a flawed moment, we become acutely aware of our flaws. Rather than lose control and reveal ourselves as imperfect, we push them away and trade them in for someone new, with whom we can start the cycle of perfect, early-days performing, where we remain shiny and flawless until the ick cycle starts again. Or we could embrace that, as Tim Kreider once wrote, 'if we want the reward of being loved, we have to submit to the mortifying ordeal of being known'. We could dig deep and put forth our most flawed, awkward, clumsy, coin-chasing, yoghurt lid-licking selves – and believe that we are worthy of love as we are. We could believe that our partners will embrace our humanity, and our differences, and forgive us a million times over for our irritating habits – and we could commit to forgiving them a million times over in return. I am sure your partner talking loudly and interrupting you is annoying, and if his interruptions feel patronising and disrespectful rather than excitable and clumsy, then that's not an ick, that's an important value mismatch and you should leave. And if he is unkind or unethical or is treating you badly, or even just if the annoyances start to outweigh the good and you genuinely don't enjoy being around him that much and your attraction is waning, then yes – break up with him and find someone you like more. But if he treats you well and makes you laugh and is willing to work on your connection? Well, maybe just get more practised at saying: 'Actually, I wasn't finished' when he interrupts you. Maybe forgive a little more, knowing that he will forgive you for your annoying habits, too. Maybe stay focused on the big, important values instead of the tiny, trivial details. I know you've been seriously hurt before, and I'm sorry. I've been there. I know it's easy to believe that to keep yourself safe, you have to have your shoelaces tied, ready to run. But imperfection is not danger. Imperfection is vulnerability. I suspect that you're scared of the vulnerability of loving someone, and being seen by someone – and ironically, this fear is making you a little bit emotionally unavailable. But that vulnerability is where the potential for real love lies, so you need to decide if you want to show up for it. My partner has never hung up a towel to dry in his life. He is late to everything. He once inexplicably showed my philosopher-poet father a computer-animated redesign of a centaur, which was just a horse with a man's arse. I write about sex in a national newspaper. My nose runs whenever I eat anything above room temperature. Any time I open my handbag, there's a 50/50 chance a stray, matted hair extension will fall out of it. We have both been violently ill in front of the other. There are endless other embarrassing details about ourselves and our relationship that I would never dream of putting in print, and an endless list of reasons we could use to discount each other. We are both imperfect and strange and flawed and deeply annoying – and I have never been so happy in my goddamn life. The price of admission is worth it. This man may or may not be the person for you. But see if you can hold space for his imperfection, his flaws; see if you can turn the ick into a crossroads where you choose to lean into the mortifying ordeal of knowing another and being known. Either you'll find love or a lesson. Either will be invaluable. Good luck.


Irish Times
5 days ago
- Irish Times
Dating in your late-30s? Frozen eggs and more will be on the menu
'Just so you know, I've frozen my eggs .' She delicately perched herself on the chair opposite, just as the waiter handed us the menus. I took a quick scan to see if I was missing something. Were frozen eggs on the menu? At the time, I hadn't been on a date in more than eight years. I was just turning 30. Yes, dating apps and the internet existed back then, kids, but what had developed since was a whole new world of etiquette, games, language, and coded behaviours that I was about to be submerged in without a life jacket, trying not to drown. Dating in your late-30s? Frozen eggs and more will be on the menu. Let me be clear: I didn't want to be out there dating again. My five-year relationship had ended – we tried, but it was done – and I started dating out of pure panic. Who would date me? A single father, a stand-up comedian, still sharing a home with his ex? Take a number for that queue ladies. READ MORE My first date, I thought, went well. A quick drink before my gig, nice chats, cool vibes. I closed the date with what I believed was the obvious line: 'I'd like to do this again'. The scrunched-up look on her face still cuts me to the bone: 'You'll probably want to play the field first.' What did that mean? Surely if there's an attraction, we meet again, no? Later that night, the text arrived: 'I just don't want to be your first one back'. It seemed like if I tried, I was doing it wrong, and if I tried to be open and not try, I was still doing it wrong. One date took place in a park. Takeaway coffees, tight schedules – just a 30-minute hello. I left thinking: there's no way we can know anything about each other in 30 minutes. How wrong I was. In that half-hour, she had determined I wasn't ready for a long-term relationship or to have more children within two years. She was on a schedule and I didn't make the cut according to the WhatsApp essay I received the next morning. 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Photograph: Getty Images Of course, there are the truly embarrassing moments. Like driving home late from a gig in Galway when someone I'd never met in person messages: 'House is free, it's my birthday, I've chosen you'. So, at 2am, I'm dropped off on a road, 'could be fun, dude,' says my driver. Ten minutes later, I am pacing around an estate in the rain while her messages have stopped. How do I explain this to a Garda convinced I am not scoping out a house to rob? Taxi, home. The next morning: a flood of texts. Expletives, apologies. She'd fallen asleep. What woke her? The candles she'd lit had set the curtain on fire. She woke up in the smoke and had to put out the flames. Then: 'Are you free tonight?' Followed by her anger at my rejection: 'You can't be serious – that's it?' I get it. Women are scarred by men's behaviour. Many dating conversations were spent listening to stories of ghosting, or about the latest post on the Facebook page Are We Dating the Same Guy? where women post who they're seeing to see if there are any red flags. And the men don't help themselves. I've seen the profiles: Leitrim jersey; balaclava; holding a fish. If not, they can't seem to keep their tops on. No wonder 'the ick' exists. That said, women have their quirks too. Profiles that read like job descriptions: 'You better be able to make me laugh and be emotionally available'. Pick one. Also, loving dogs is not a personality. Neither is wellness. Or yoga. Or your gym pics. [ Online dating: 'Irish people are terrible on the apps' Opens in new window ] Don't worry, I know I'm the problem. Being a comedian doesn't exactly scream stable, grounded individual gliding calmly through life. That's why we do what we do. Does it sting when someone you liked ends up engaged to an accountant? Yes. But also, no. I can't change who I am. And who I am is complicated. 'Do you feel the need to be funny all the time?' is a common date question. The answer? No. I get paid to do that. And sorry if I'm not funny on the date. That guy you saw on stage? I created him. He comes out when I want. I also hear: 'I have to be careful what I say now or you'll use it in your act'. The ego behind that? That you'll say something so genius I'll scrap decades of work just to fit it into my set? Not to mention that I've yet to be on a date with anyone who is funnier than my seven year old. Let me be clear: nothing anyone has ever said to me has made it into my act. However, it may end up in a column.


Irish Times
20-07-2025
- Irish Times
‘My friend's affair with a married man is destroying our friendship'
Dear Roe, A close friend has been involved with a married man for two years. I was deeply uncomfortable with it from the start – my sister's marriage ended due to infidelity, so I know the damage it can cause. But I tried to support my friend, hoping this was a rare, genuine connection and that he would leave his wife respectfully. Two years on, nothing has changed. He always has reasons to delay. My friend no longer discusses it and avoids deeper conversations altogether. Our once-close friendship now feels distant and superficial. Some mutual friends know; others don't. The secrecy and tension are exhausting. I'm getting married this year, and as I addressed her invitation – including a plus-one I know won't be used – it really struck me how much this situation has isolated her. It made me feel both sad and frustrated: I want her there, but I also can't ignore the emotional distance that's opened up between us. I feel torn. I miss our friendship, but I'm also struggling with my own values. Am I enabling something I believe is wrong? Can I be a good friend while feeling increasingly judgmental? Saying anything might destroy the friendship, but staying silent feels dishonest. I don't know what's fair – to her, to myself, or even to the wife who has no idea. How do I navigate this? Navigating a situation like this, especially when it intertwines love, loyalty, personal values and long-held friendship, is one of the more painful and complex emotional crossroads we can encounter. Your heartache is understandable, not just because you're watching someone you care about shrink themselves for a relationship that brings them more secrecy than joy, but also because your own inner compass is being stretched between empathy and integrity. You are grieving a friendship that once thrived in openness and trust, and now exists behind a veil of avoidance, half-truths and unspoken things. You're allowed to want more, and to want to do more. Contrary to some current popular beliefs, being a good friend does not mean unconditional support for everything a person does, or silently watching someone self-destruct, or endorsing choices that go against your deepest values. Sometimes being a good friend is telling someone that you value them so much that you need to ask, 'With love, what the hell are you doing?' READ MORE [ 'My sister won't leave her bad relationship - and I'm pretty sure she's having an affair' Opens in new window ] I know you're scared to speak honestly to her, particularly because she has already pulled away. But remember that it's unlikely she has gone silent out of apathy for you, but due to shame. She probably fears what you'll say and the mirror you'll hold up to her. But friendship can't thrive in silence. You're right to name what this silence has started to cost you, and her, too. Ask for a conversation. A real one, not performative or polite, where you both show up with humility and courage, assuming each other's good intentions, and willing, as best you can, not to be defensive but to truly listen. You can't control how she'll receive honesty, but you can offer it with care. When you speak to her, begin with love. Tell her that you miss her. That you've noticed the distance, that you feel it, and that it hurts not because you're judging her from some high horse, but because she matters to you and you feel like you're losing her in slow motion. Tell her that talking honestly about this has felt dangerous, like you're risking your friendship – but that you believe your friendship deserves that risk. Tell her you're worried about her. About the life she's been living, hidden and small, about the way her relationship seems defined by loneliness and isolation, about the way it has slowly eroded her friendships, her openness, even the possibility of showing up in your life fully, like at your wedding, where she cannot even bring the person she's in love with. Tell her gently, but honestly, that it saddens you to see her world shrink this way. And if it feels right, you can tell her that you struggle with the fact that there's another woman, a wife, who has no idea her life is being altered behind her back, and that because you care about all women, that feels hard to carry. You could tell her that if the roles were reversed, if she were the one married and being lied to, you know you would be outraged on her behalf. Tell her that as you prepare to get married, you would hope she would be outraged and devastated for you if you were ever betrayed in your relationship. Tell her that part of what's painful here is realising that the same sense of care and outrage seems absent when it comes to another woman. Say this without blame, but with the quiet honesty of someone who still believes their friend can rise into something truer and stronger than this. You can express compassion for how difficult it must be to love someone who is already in a relationship; you can tell her you empathise with what she must have gone through the past two years being treated like a secret by the man she loves and that fearing judgment on top of that must feel hard. You can empathise with her and be generous – but you can also treat her like an adult who is capable of understanding that there are consequences to her actions, and that when she has an affair, that is going to create a big value divide between her and a lot of people. It's then her decision to stay with this man or to choose something different. She may need to walk through this entire chapter alone, for as long as it takes, before the lesson settles deep in her bones Invite her to ask herself some real questions – not rhetorical, not angry, but sincere. Is this enough? What does she want love to look like in her life? What kind of friendships does she want? Ask her if this man, not in his promises but in his actual actions, is helping her live the kind of life she wants. Ask her how long she's willing to keep sacrificing her joy, her openness, her community, for a love that keeps her hidden, and promises of a hypothetical future that never seems to arrive. You can, if it's true for you, end by telling her that while you don't understand her choices right now, you do still love her, and that if she ever chooses to walk away from this relationship, whether tomorrow or a year from now, you'll be right there, without judgment, with a bouquet of roses and arms wide open, ready to remind her of her strength and her worth. But also remind yourself: she is an adult. She may need to walk through this entire chapter alone, for as long as it takes, before the lesson settles deep in her bones. One day she will hopefully realise that she both deserves better and needs to do better, and she will walk away – and you want that moment to be completely hers, so that she feels more wise and empowered, so that she can believe that she saved herself, so that she can truly absorb the lesson and integrate it into her life. Sometimes the most loving thing we can do is not rescue, not condemn, but to speak our truth, set our boundaries, and let the other person choose their path, knowing we'll be there with grace, not shame, if and when they return to themselves. Speak to her. Speak with love, with honesty, with hope. Then, allow her the dignity of choosing what kind of life she wants to live, knowing that you chose to be honest in yours. Good luck. .form-group {width:100% !important;}