A group of executives gathered for a meeting in the offices of a West Coast software company. The participants included one female vice president for marketing, beautifully coiffed and dressed in a silk suit. As soon as the meeting began, she took out her note pad and began writing. She appeared thoroughly engaged. From over her shoulder, another participant glimpsed at the words on her page. They did not appear relevant:          Pick up Elsie’s invitations        Dry cleaners        Party favors        Chicken cutlets        Dentist, 4 p.m.      The vice president was writing a mother’s shopping and errand list. According to a friend who related this incident, this woman was present in body, not in spirit. She was similar in function to those buxom carved figureheads on the prow of sailing vessels, leading the way through turbulent seas with beauty and an unvarying smile.

Dear Reader, Thank you for visiting, and welcome to this website. Domesticity is an ongoing state of war. I know it doesn't sound dangerous, but it is. Home is a jungle. It’s a hurricane at sea. It’s a beast in chains. Think of the dust that blows in from distant deserts and galaxies, settling on tables, floors, walls and papers. There's something reminiscent about each particle. Think of the broken pipes and the leaking roof. They crack their whips. Think of the wolf at the door. He huffs and he puffs. Think of the ambulance at the curb and the sympathy card in the mailbox. Home is the best place to die. Think of future generations. They sing their favorite tunes even now. Think of the minds of children. They'll discover new continents within four walls. "History has tongues," said Stephen Spender. The same might be said of the smallest child, in communion with past and future even when incapable of speech. Cleaning and cooking, dusting and weeding – this may seem very ordinary and un-dangerous. To me, it's filled with philosophical depths. The kitchen broom and the garden hoe are ancient tools of enlightenment. The scientist in his lab may have the illusion of progress. The sweeper knows this: Nature only changes so much.  Out of the very ephemera of home, the idea of eternity arises. The universe doesn’t knock at the front door; it enters the very cracks in the walls. We are hungry and there is a world…

Mike Berman, one of the perceptive commenters from Lawrence Auster’s View From the Right, writes about The Finest Occupations :

You bring up a subject here which has consumed me since I can remember. Coming from a poor family, one of my early memories was the marshals coming to our door to put us on the street and my promise to myself that I would never let this humiliation happen to me.

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