Saturday, July 10, 2010

50's fantasy

Sometimes I get sorta a kick out of envisioning myself as a fifties housewife.   (What?!  I'm so sure there were queer, feminist 50's housewives!)  L. comes home after a long day at work, and I run to the door to meet her, bring her slippers, scotch on the rocks and a smoking jacket, (whilst looking oh-so-fetching in my be-apronned, stylin', dress-for-dinner dress and Mary Janes (naturally).   The kids are playing quietly in the corner and the house is spotless and the smell of meatloaf and potatoes (What?  Isn't that what they ate in the 50's?) wafts from the kitchen, ready just on time.  Just like clockwork.

In reality of course, I'm nowhere near that good!  I don't greet L. at the door (that's Boy-o's job), and there's no scotch, no slippers, no smoking jacket (or smoking of any kind), and very, very sadly, there is no fancy dress and Mary Jane heels and I generally look far more frazzled than fetching.  One kid is hanging from the rafters (guess who?) and the other is eating leftover Cheerios from breakfast off the kitchen floor that I either haven't managed (or bothered) to sweep yet.  If dinner's ready then there's probably a pile of unfolded laundry on the floor somewhere, and if there's no pile of laundry, then dinner's not ready.   Did I mention that there's no smoking of any kind?  (I really, really miss that sometimes).

I am a crap, crap housekeeper.   Super crap.  Everyone is always kind about it.  You know, saying "but you are running around after the kids all day," etc. etc.  Yes, it's true.  Having exuberant smalls does put a damper on that whole cleanliness business.  And add a certain amount of extra frustration as well, because even when I do attempt to herd in the chaos, they follow me around messing my clean rooms faster than I can clean 'em.  But here's the thing.  I was a crap, crap housekeeper before I had the smalls.  They've just provided me with a really good excuse.  I have friends who have far less trouble than I keeping their abode less erm, bio-hazardous than mine.   I have friends with kids who manage to spring clean their closets.  Who have a cleaning day and actually stick to it.  This is not fiction folks - some people can do these things.  They will forever hold my awe (and  the vague suspician that they are not regular people but rather a remarkable species of superwoman.  Straight-up.  No sarcasm intended.)

My technique goes like this.  Wait until the house is so messy that it is absolutely oppressing me (and/or it's possible to lose the children amongst their toys).  Then clean in a frustrated, self-denigrating flurry filled with choice cursewords, and firmly believing that I will do better next time.   Or alternatively, wait until the rare occassion that we are having company, and then rinse and repeat above cycle.   

For the brief time the house is clean, I feel better.  Saner.  Happier, even!  But then, as quickly as the clean came, it's gone again.  Seconds flat.  All that hard work goes BAM.  Or maybe it goes POOF!  I don't know.  It just freaking goes.    

So - though I fantasize about my marvellous 50's housewifeyness... I think it's safe to say my housewifey-ness is, um, not anything to be marvelled at.   But it's a nice fantasy, isn't it??   The order, the clock-workiness, the children playing quietly in the corner (the sassy dress with strappy Mary Janes, the ciggys, the scotch)!

Where can I get me some of that?

9 comments:

  1. I feel as though you should watch "United States Of Tara" if you don't already for your 50s housewife fix :) It is a brilliantly written and highly entertaining show about a woman with multiple personalities - one of them being a 50's housewife (the others are a wild teenager, a redneck guy named Buck and an animalistic/child-like creature of some sort).

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  2. Ugh, I am a total crap housekeeper, too. I do usually manage to make dinner... but the laundry, never. And I have no excuse! Yeesh...

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  3. My cue to clean: reaching over to pet a cat, only to realize it's a dust bunny (or dust possum rather).

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  4. I am also a crap, crap housekeeper. I have no excuse either. I can't imagine how bad it will be if I ever have smalls running around. Although I fantasize about the meeting my partner at the door at night with supper cooking, a) I am never home before he is and b) if he didn't cook I would starve to death. Sometimes I just think I wasn't cut out to be like that, but still feel like crap when I fall short of the 50s housewife standard... sigh...

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  5. Oh YES! This is me (minus a kid!) and part of why we are such great friends.

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  6. i was not a crap housekeeper. in fact i was the total opposite. was, is the key word here. after i had my first little one...i fell by the wayside, a little bit. after my second little one. pshaw. clean? what IS that!? i am not as anal as i used to be. i have the littles to thank for that. you can see the layers of dust and fingerprints where there used to be dust. see, who needs finger paints!? food on the floor, like said cheerios. just today i pulled some hardened spaghetti out of little man's mouth. i know. gross. everything is in disarray. and i am comfortable with this................for now anyway. deep down it is really getting to me that everything is not clean or in its rightful place. but i will leave it all until i can muster up the energy to do it.

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  7. Wow. We are actually almost the same person. No, really. No wonder I am so super duper happy to have you as a friend! And man, do I EVER miss smoking sometimes!

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  8. YES!!!!! Someone else who does the "crap, we've got company coming" cleaning mania!! One particular friend of mine, who is cleanliness obsessed, must cringe when she comes over. OMG, just remembered her reaction when my then 5-month old daughter spat up on her, classic!!! I knew there was a reason I like you lol!

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  9. I'm no domestic diva and I have only myself and the dog to care for. Empty fridge, piles of laundry, dishes, cleaning (oh the dog hair). I continually beat myself up for not managing. Finally, I was told - if you were a man, you would not be beating yourself up for thinking about getting help. True. We set these impossible standards. If you and L. can swing it, get help with the cleaning.

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