'...An Inspiring Series of Domestic Sex Machines.'

That's the uncomfortably apt description for Lernert & Sander's music video creation for "Elektrotechnique," a single released by Dutch band De Jeugd Van Tegenwoordig.

There were a few moments while watching this where I got serious wince reflex, which is part of what makes it neaty. I don't want to be dealing with that hacksaw paddle thing though.

Lernert & Sander are Amsterdam-based artists whose aim is "to make simple and communicative works, which take little note of the existing borders between contemporary art and commercial projects.Their highly aesthetic, humorous and dedicated works often challenge the viewer, in a simple but very effective way."

It is not a bad philosophy, particularly if you're loyal to it.

(Remember that darling video of the chocolate bunny being decimated in various delightful ways? Also domestic-themed, also surreal? That was them! God, I love that video.)

On Cleaning

I'm basically just posting this to kill time because I've devoted today to putting "certain" elements of the apartment in order, including the bedroom.

I have a secret jealousy of people whose things all have a dedicated place, even the telephone and internet cords. Everything is neat and perfect, and there is never even any dust. I keep thinking that someday I'll morph into that person if only I can find a "dedicated space" for this pile of business cards I recently accumulated, for example.

But it's complicated. I'm staring at the business cards now, that great grand pile of "things that are potentially important," and there doesn't seem to be an immediate solution. The probability is high I will never look at that pile again. But what if one day I need a name in there? I'll hate that I cast it aside like so much junk mail.

I can extend the time frame of how long I can contemplate this quagmire by taking little pieces of paper to the trashcan, one scrap at a time, which is technically still productive.

(Also, I am Spotlighting things on my computer to stick in the bin. I love emptying the Mac bin.)

On days like this there's a vague memory that replays in my mind. It is so resonant that it's managed to survive in my recollectable archives, but so old that I realised today I can think about it without knowing I'm thinking about it. It has lived with me too long, like a dull ache you forget to be unhappy about.

Humor me ››

Dealbreaker.

Thanks, Real Simple, for reminding me yet again how complicated modern womanhood can be.

Who Says Suzy Homemaker's Dead?

Really old people like to say the '50s and '60s were all about liberating women from the bondage of Domestic Homemakerism.

But after perusing this month's Real Simple, I'm not convinced the homemaking goddess is dead. That isn't to say I think homemaking is bad; I just think the ad messages we find quaint, antiquated and even manipulative still have a home in today's magazines. 

What complements a happy marriage, great kids and a successful career? Miles of perfectly clean stemware, courtesy of my Electrolux dishwasher:

Pork and nail polish -- a match made in heaven. Or possibly Hell's Kitchen:

Don't just make a cheesecake; make a patriot:

But wait! The ad comes with a (sponsored!) recipe! I know I've seen that gimmick before.

Be the big kahuna just for preheating your oven:

But you really should serve a delicious square meal, not a frozen disc:

If the pressure's on, there's always wacky Uncle Ben -- who may like to party, but appreciates the importance of a wholesome meal. I can almost hear his twang:

Long day? Reward yourself with Jell-O's low-calorie rice pudding, which comes in très chic flavours like cinnamon and crème brûlée: the dessert of queens!

And remember: if you get an illicit itch that keeps you up long after Hardworking Hubby, a good fiber-rich cereal will put you right at ease.

One Reason Why Men Always Leave Me

So me and Benj are having "us" time in the living room, which means he's sitting in a red armchair doing guitar scales and I'm Adranting on the couch across the way.

Benj stops playing. He looks up and goes, "Listen to this scale. Does it sound like a legitimate guitar lesson?"

"Sure," I say.

"It's hard. These are so basic. I can hardly do them anymore."

"Always good to go back to basics." (I am scanning a press release for agency info. I am wondering why Dentsu is so twisted. I am debating if I should cross-reference goatse. You can never have enough goatse.)

"You know ... my technique was never quite right. I could never play like Paco."

"Practice makes..." I start to say, but then he interrupts by doing something unexpected.

I look up and he's WALKING TOWARD ME. With his guitar.

"I want to show you what I mean," he persists. "What are you doing?"

"Nothing. Well ... working. But I'm listening."

He kneels down and starts to strum. I can't help it -- I cast a fast split-second glance back at my screen and he catches me in action.

"You're not paying attention. What are you doing?" He leans in. "What IS that?"

Long pause. Nothing for it but to explain.

"I'm screenshotting rhino shit."

He doesn't even ask why. Instead he gives me an elongated I-hate-what-you-do-for-a-living stare and goes back to his big red chair.