I am No 1950’s Housewife
We both breathed a sigh of relief that in fact, grandma did not hate grandpa and then we finished the little visit and headed home. On our way, back my husband started in asking me if I was going to use my nights to attend to my womanly needs. Teasing that he expected all my painting, plucking waxing and shaving to done on shift nights.
I told him yeah right bub; I am no 1950’s housewife. A lot has happened in the last half a century so that I no longer had to remain a mystery to my husband. In case he had forgotten men were now entirely involved in childbirth, and if he could see that he sure the heck could see me shaving, waxing, and painting.
The Tables Turn
I don’t have to contend with him walking in on the contortionist act that is shaving. There are no, what in the world are you doing stares while I bask in the cleansing glory of my drug store mud mask. And don’t even get me started on the level of whine that he can reach the minute he smells a bottle of nail polish open. You would think he was a bloodhound!
Instead, I throw on that mud mask, grab my Dr.Pepper, and chill in the bed all while binge watching the latest hormone driven Netflix drama. It is sweet bliss. And I am pretty sure it is what any 1950’s housewife would do If they had Netflix.