Today is my first day as a housewife. Even though I’ve been married almost two months, it just occurred to me last night that I’m supposed to be taking care of things around here. All this time I thought housewives just sat around trying not to be bored. The only housewives I thought were busy were those with rug rats running around.
Since I thought a housewife was just a wife at a house, my brand new boot wearing Achilles tendon torn husband has been bringing home the bacon and frying it up in a pan. This is a catastrophe to non-househusbands everywhere. For two months I’ve been sitting around in my pajamas writing about food until picking a place to lunch. Instead of jib-jabbering around town, I should have been strictly following the definition of a housewife.
Definition of Housewife: “Housewife is a married woman whose main occupation is running or operating the family’s home— caring for and educating her children, cooking and storing food, buying goods the family needs in day to day life, cleaning or maintaining parts of the home, and making clothes for the family.”
Who makes clothes? Making clothes is a deal breaker. I can’t even put clothes in the dryer on time. If the clothes even make it into the dryer, they sit so long a debacle of wrinkles erupt. Nobody wants to iron. Ironing is a nightmare. I just re-wash the clothes. Sometimes I forget the clothes are there again, forcing the same attack of wrinkles to repeat. It’s just an ongoing re-wash cycle of wrinkle pain. One time I ironed my shirt collar while wearing it and burned my neck. True story.
Housewives use coupons when buying goods. Now I’m going to have to go out and buy one of those scary coupon pouches. No one will be able to check out because I will be searching through the coupon pouch desperate to save four cents. I’ll have to start buying newspapers and cutting coupons to fill the pouch. Making a grocery list to somehow coincide with coupons in my coupon pouch is inevitable.
Housewives apparently have some kind of pressure to please the non-househusband. There isn’t a househusband around here because he is off working. This can only mean one thing: I’m supposed to have dinner ready when he gets home. This is just weird. We should be eating at a restaurant with a real chef.
I’m going to have to start wearing soft curlers, a robe, and slippers to fit the morning look of a housewife. We will have to order the morning paper and train my chihuahua to fetch. Instead of watching crime shows on Discovery ID, I’ll have to start watching soaps. These soap operas will have to make me emotional in order to fill the requirements of a housewife. I need to be upset when soap opera people are in peril. I’ll have to start baking cookies and get Botox. We don’t even have flour. This is a disaster.
Housewives are desperate because being a housewife is a form of slavery. Trapped. Your boss is your husband and staying at home is the only option. It’s like prison. There’s too much to do to leave. Lock the door and throw away the key. The only place you’re going is the grocery store or the gym. Spending one full hour at the gym, in order to be an in shape trophy housewife, is mandatory. With all this housewife pressure I’m going to need a therapist. This is only my first day as a housewife and there isn’t enough ADD medication in Texas to force focus on the ten thousand tasks attached to this title.