A Response to the 1950s

Today was my second attempt at 1950’s housewife perfection, and though I donned my homemade calico apron and sported the latest winged coiffette hairstyle, nothing could have prepared me for the past two days. 

I woke up early the first day to ensure that the husband would have the proper balanced breakfast of peanut butter on toast and lunch that consisted of two turkey sandwiches, one Clementine, and a green apple. I considered including some home grown veggies from my victory garden, but then I remembered that WWI was over. I croaked “text me later” and stood by the door in the husband’s gym shorts and an enormous t-shirt with my hair resembling a pile of frizzy gerbil bedding upon my noggin. Not exactly looking “fresh with a ribbon in my hair,” but it gives me plenty of room for improvement when I take my 15 minute nap and primp before his return. 

I immediately started Home Economics “homework”.

Our cat, Peanut, pretty much lives on the porch now. She enjoys watching the birds, and quite frankly I enjoy not having her daily hair ball gifts looking like fuzzy, orange turds in the middle of my living room, so we’re both happy.  I completely cleaned her litter box… I mean, scrubbed it with soap and water and added fresh litter as the little nugget sat and watched… and before the box was even settled completely on the ground the little pooper hopped in and laid a big one smack dab in the center of it- looking at me the entire time with a devil cat smirk on her face.  I imagine this is what it is when a teenaged boy drops a deuce in your nice, clean bathroom… reason #921 of why I should not have kids.

I believe that hell is something like ironing shirts… the torturous aspect being that no matter how much I iron I either had A) remnants of the starch spray (that stuff is shit, by the way) or B) deathless wrinkles. It was like the concept of throwing a ball to get a dog to leave you alone. The dog is going to continuously come back with the ball… and each time the ball is going to be more disgusting and slobbery.  It didn’t matter how much I begged, the shirts were not going to unwrinkle, so I decided to bake a chocolate cake. Very domestic, I know.

My grandmother once won first place in a competition for the best pie in Montcalm County… you think it isn’t a big deal? Well, Montcalm County is crawling with reproducing Amish people who are bred specifically for the purpose of pie production…   So I tapped in to my blood line, pulled out my Amish Cookbook, and started dumping various ingredients in to a bowl. 

When it comes to cooking I would rather pick up Peanut’s fuzzy, orange cat puke with my bare hands, shape it in to a trumpet, and play Yankee Doodle before I’d get food on my hands, especially egg. Baking tends to bring out my inner OCD, resulting in chaffed hands from over washing.  Between hand washings I realized that I had no flour. Who just keeps that shit in their house? Why do the Amish always have to use such obscure ingredients? So I added another egg and a hand washing and called it good.  

The Result: let’s not talk about it.

I gave up and went to the pool. . . “Hi Honey. Welcome Home. I’m at the pool basking in my own domestic worthlessness. There is a pan of half-burnt, half-mush Amish bowel on the stove. Help yourself.”