Why I would make an excellent housewife and why I will never be one, by Ms. Wilde....
I woke up this morning from a dream that I killed a black man for stealing my oil pastels. My subconscious self cares a lot more about art supplies than my waking self, apparently. And is also very racist.
As I spent the morning mascara-ing, lipstick-ing, scrubbing my toilet, and writing out my grocery list, I realized (as I always do when I do grown-up things like making shopping lists) that if I were to ever get married and have a family, I would be extremely good at it. Not to toot my own domestic horn, but my maternal and matrimonial instincts are top notch.
Par example- I enjoy vacuuming daily, dressed in pearls and fishnets. I take excellent care of houseplants and goldfish. I keep up on laundry and dishes. I mop every surface of the kitchen and bathroom with Pinesole and a hint of lavender air freshener. I alphabetize CD’s, color code the closet, arrange the yogurts on the top shelf of the fridge by flavor. I can hang curtains without measuring, sew buttons and patch jeans, kill spiders in the bathtub, bake sugar cookies from scratch. I can iron a crisp dress shit, tie a silk tie and imprint a ballet-slipper colored kiss on the cheek of a hubby every morning as he leaves for work. Answer the door in a garter belt and heels as he arrives home; Chinese take-out and cold beers on the coffee table with a season of South Park in the DVD player. I would make sandwiches for the Saturday poker games and hang garland from the stairway banisters every holiday season (just like my dear old mum does). I’d be a regular June fucking Cleaver.
I would toss out cigarettes and sushi for nine months, arrive five minutes early to Lamaze class, donning the Forever 21 Maternity line. I would screen print classic rock and punk band logos on the baby onsies. Decorate the nursery in a vintage- cabaret chic with nouvelle wallpapers and circus animal toys. I’ve had the baby names picked out since I was fifteen. Elijah Daniel James Levon Wilde, my oldest boy, his twin brother Julian Adam Michael Chaim and my baby girl London Michelle Phoenix Clair. Jude, Eli and London- my little prodigies. My sweet angels. My trophies, my gems. They would be well-groomed. Stylish hair cuts with just a touch of pomade and hairspray. Well dressed, teeth brushed, vintage comic book lunch tins packed with a sandwich, chips, carrot sticks, cupcakes, fruit, a thermos of milk, a thermos of hot soup and a note with a drawing of an eye, a heart and the letter U (same as my mom did when I was in elementary school. And middle school. …and high school). My offspring would be witty and charming little rebels. They would quote Coen brother movies and insist on dressing up like the threesome of Harry Potter every Halloween. They’d be artistic and talented, writing me poems and drawing pictures that I would hang so lovingly on the fridge. Writing songs on their play drum sets and guitars. Starting a band as pre-teens and hitting it big time, sending mommy dearest a check every month “for being such a kick-ass mom. Xoxox”
What a wonderful life.
Now, gentleman, don’t go running off to Tiffany’s just yet. I said I would make an excellent housewife (and it’s true), but as you probably have noticed, WE DON’T LIVE IN NINTEEN-FUCKING-FIFTY-TWO. The idea that I would have to condone myself to a life of matrimony and motherhood is disturbing beyond belief. The truth is, kids, I am very much turned off at the idea of family. It is all television’s fault. The advertising, the Wal-Mart commercials, the Children’s Tylenol ads and the buy-one-get-one-half-off. Family is a product. Just like happiness is a product and health is a product and God is a product and love is a product. Everyone sells you on the idea on family; car companies, grocery stores, real estate. I’m constantly being pitched an idea that I never intend on buying. It’s an idea we are conditioned for years to want, but what is the real point in having it? To trade your identity for a wedding ring and a mini- van. Coach little league and host Girl Scout meetings. I cringe at the thought. I cower at the idea of pregnancy. Too many bodily fluids and hormones. Morning sickness and huge balloon feet. Your vagina gets ripped open by a wrinkly, cheese-covered baby. Everyone thinks childbirth is so magical. The miracle of life. I don’t see it as a miracle. I see the end result of an drunken back-seat grope-fest and a broken prophylactic.
My little angel would come home from school, his checkered vans dirty and worn, snot and tears streaked down his perfect little face. “Hey Jude, dollface, what’s wrong?” “Mommy, Bobby McDoucheBag told everyone in my class that I was a flamer and made fun of my George Harrison haircut and said that Mick Jagger called and he wants his pants back and kids threw rocks at me during recess. What should I do?” “I don’t know, baby cakes, go cry in your room and listen to Bright Eyes and write Fall Out Boy lyrics in your journal like mommy does. Now let me finish rolling this joint and we can make artichoke pizza and watch Shaun of the Dead.”
Now and again I think of “His” and “Hers,” for better or worse. But really, how could I get married? How could I ever commit myself to one person for the rest of my life? I get bored of my shampoo every other month and switch to another brand. And I don’t want to succumb to the expectations of society. The Wife, The Mother, The Happy Little Housewife. The only labels I want to have are the ones in my closet.
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