I could be a 50s Housewife...
A good friend of mine recently moved to Montana; since then, she and I have started a rather intense but lovely email relationship consisting largely of emails that are, in complete honesty, novel-length and full of snappy remarks. Yesterday, I was feeling a bit blue, so my Montana friend recommended I keep myself occupied and distracted with a bit of work. Housework. I agreed, as my apartment was disgustingly overdue for a cleaning. And this is when I discovered my true calling in life: 50s Housewife.
During my venture into the world of home economics yesterday--they call it family science now--I scoured my apartment whilst listening to Broadway showtunes at an obnoxiously loud volume to annoy my neighbors, who I dislike anyway. I polished furniture, put away dishes, organized drawers, washed windows, and mopped my floors. I dusted baseboards and scrubbed sockets and switchplate covers. I vacuumed in an apron. I washed towels and linens, did my laundry, and even hand-washed a garment or two.
Then I decided to sew.
You see, I had a button that was falling off a sweater that I happen to like. The time had come to sew the button back on my sweater. I had a needle and thread in the appropriate color, and sewing a button is fairly idiot-proof. After all, I can see the four little holes and, as a college graduate, I understand the concept pretty well. My needle and thread needs to go through the holes enough times that the button no longer dangles from the shirt. Easy enough. So I began.
Roughly 45 minutes later, said button and I came to an understanding. It agreed to stay firmly affixed to my shirt provided I never allowed anyone to look at the horrendous sewing job on the inside, where my frustration resulted in a pounding headache behind my left eye and a "eff it" attitude. By this time I was thoroughly aggravated and I believe that were my button able to express feelings, it would tell you that it feels a bit like a stripper with a botched boob job.
I decided to cook dinner. At this time, my poor, unsuspecting husband arrived home. Dinner began smoothly enough. The pork chops were in the pan, sweet potatoes in the oven, and the table set. Then I tried to make the balsamic glaze to put on the pork chops and discovered that we did not have the required 2/3 cup of balsamic vinegar. From here, the situation turned pretty ugly. The final result was my apron lying in a crumpled heap on the floor, me sitting on the couch with tears in my eyes bemoaning my "ruined dinner," and my wonderful husband trying desperately to make our sauce thicken at the stove. It never did.
Yes, I could be a 50s housewife.
But the kind with a maid and lots of liquor.
During my venture into the world of home economics yesterday--they call it family science now--I scoured my apartment whilst listening to Broadway showtunes at an obnoxiously loud volume to annoy my neighbors, who I dislike anyway. I polished furniture, put away dishes, organized drawers, washed windows, and mopped my floors. I dusted baseboards and scrubbed sockets and switchplate covers. I vacuumed in an apron. I washed towels and linens, did my laundry, and even hand-washed a garment or two.
Then I decided to sew.
You see, I had a button that was falling off a sweater that I happen to like. The time had come to sew the button back on my sweater. I had a needle and thread in the appropriate color, and sewing a button is fairly idiot-proof. After all, I can see the four little holes and, as a college graduate, I understand the concept pretty well. My needle and thread needs to go through the holes enough times that the button no longer dangles from the shirt. Easy enough. So I began.
Roughly 45 minutes later, said button and I came to an understanding. It agreed to stay firmly affixed to my shirt provided I never allowed anyone to look at the horrendous sewing job on the inside, where my frustration resulted in a pounding headache behind my left eye and a "eff it" attitude. By this time I was thoroughly aggravated and I believe that were my button able to express feelings, it would tell you that it feels a bit like a stripper with a botched boob job.
I decided to cook dinner. At this time, my poor, unsuspecting husband arrived home. Dinner began smoothly enough. The pork chops were in the pan, sweet potatoes in the oven, and the table set. Then I tried to make the balsamic glaze to put on the pork chops and discovered that we did not have the required 2/3 cup of balsamic vinegar. From here, the situation turned pretty ugly. The final result was my apron lying in a crumpled heap on the floor, me sitting on the couch with tears in my eyes bemoaning my "ruined dinner," and my wonderful husband trying desperately to make our sauce thicken at the stove. It never did.
Yes, I could be a 50s housewife.
But the kind with a maid and lots of liquor.
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