Task:
Clean house and, if time permits, indulge in some private afternoon delight between loads of laundry.
Ensemble:
Apron and a smile.
Outcome:
I don't know - maybe it's wacked out middle-age hormones, or maybe it was David Hasselhoff and the Baywatch rerun I'd watched while eating my lunch but whatever the reason, Wednesday afternoon found this housewife in the mood, if you know what I mean.
On the down side, I had hours to go until the husband was due home from work. On the upside, both kids were away at camp and I had the house to myself. There was only one thing to do. I rifled through my closet and from its special spot between my winter boots and the "skinny" clothes which I hope to wear again one day, I brought out "Mr. Happy".
Mr. Happy is reserved for those times when a girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do, if you know what I mean.
Now typically Mr. Happy and I would retire to the bedroom but today the dog was sleeping there and I didn't have the heart to kick her out. (Despite my husband's assertions that that's what dogs do, lay around, I think she's been showing signs of depression since the kids left for camp and I didn't think it wise to move her.)
Mr. Happy and I made our way down the hall. Obviously the children's rooms were out of the question - that was just sick.
I briefly considered the living room but seeing how I had recently cleaned the windows, I was concerned about giving the neighbours too much of a view.
That left the basement. Yes, that would be good. It not only afforded me privacy, it's also where the spare batteries are stored - the electronic equivalent of Viagra. Off I went.
I settled myself in the spare room and spent an enjoyable few minutes thinking about neither the Queen nor the ironing. Then, feeling like Mrs. Happy herself, I emerged. I was making my way upstairs when I noticed how dirty the laundry room floor was.
Deciding to deal with it right then and there, I grabbed the vacuum and plugged it in. But what to do with Mr. Happy? I was afraid to put him down. What if I forgot and one of the children eventually found him? Then I'd be forced to think fast and lie like my good friend K. who told her daughter that her Mr. Happy was a tool for cleaning the radiators. I couldn't do that. We have a forced air furnace.
I opted to tuck Mr. Happy into my pocket. Looking a little like a cross between June Cleaver and Elvira, Mistress of the Dark, I set about my quest of annihilating the dust bunny nation. On a roll, I also cleaned the downstairs bathroom and threw in a load of laundry.
Then the doorbell rang.
By this time, I'd forgotten all about Mr. Happy who was poking his head (pardon the pun) out like a contented joey from its mother's pouch.
I answered the door and there was the Fed Ex delivery guy. He gave me my parcel then handed me a receipt to sign. Instinctively my hand went to my pocket in search of a pen. And there was Mr. Happy.
"If I make a sudden move and jerk my hand away", I thought, "I'll certainly call attention to Mr. Happy or worse, dislodge him from his hiding place and send him hurtling like a projectile at the delivery man."I decided to leave my hand where it was.
"Do you have a pen?" I asked the Fed Ex guy.
He handed me a Bic and I scrawled my name with my left hand.
I watched through my clean windows as the Fed Ex guy got in his truck and drove off. Noting the uncanny resemblance he bore to David Hasselhoff, Mr. Happy and I set off in search of more dust bunnies.
Monday, February 2, 2009
Friday, January 16, 2009
The Reluctant Housewife Walks The Dog
Task:
Set out on a -17° C morning to walk neurotic standard poodle, Iris, around the block without being spotted by other housewives in the neighbourhood who are likely to mistake me for a homeless man.
Ensemble:
Once a woman who prided herself on her keen fashion sense and collection of eyeshadow to match every outfit, this morning finds me in sweat pants and t-shirt, bra less and make-up less, scrambling into salt-stained puffy winter coat and pair of husband's boots bought in a moment of machismo when he fancied he'd take up snowmobiling. Ski gloves and and dollar store toque complete the look.
Outcome:
Halfway into walk Iris decides that it's "her time". Being of a refined and genteel nature (Husbands take: "The damn dog is just stupid"), Iris requires privacy in order to do her business. She sidles up the driveway and positions herself just under the window at the home of the PTA president.
As I hurriedly pick up after her and turn to leave, I see el Presidenté staring at me quizzically through her clean bay window. Momentarily stunned ("Did she get new drapes?"), I stare back.
Then embarrassment sets in and I formulate a plan. Do I smile and wave or just pretend I didn't see her? Opt for the latter and hurry on.
Half a block from home spot sexy, rich, stay-at-home mom L. on her way to the gym. A quick calculation of distance to home vs. distance to L. gives me hope I can make it inside without having to chat.
Experience "Aha" moment as I finally comprehend the value of Grade Four math ("If John got on a westbound train to Toledo going 60 mph and Toledo is 65 miles away, what time would John arrive?") and make a dash for the door.
Iris however has chosen this moment to showcase her bulimic tendencies and is throwing up in the snow. Like the Britney Spears of the dog world, Iris is not content to puke and quickly move on. Instead, she opts for an over-the-top performance, heavy on guttural sounds and full-body dry heaves.
Just as Iris finishes and appears to be contemplating whether or not to eat her vomit, L. passes me.
We exchange weak "Hellos" and continue on, both pretending not to notice the stain in the snow. It's the polite thing to do which is, after all, the Canadian way.
Set out on a -17° C morning to walk neurotic standard poodle, Iris, around the block without being spotted by other housewives in the neighbourhood who are likely to mistake me for a homeless man.
Ensemble:
Once a woman who prided herself on her keen fashion sense and collection of eyeshadow to match every outfit, this morning finds me in sweat pants and t-shirt, bra less and make-up less, scrambling into salt-stained puffy winter coat and pair of husband's boots bought in a moment of machismo when he fancied he'd take up snowmobiling. Ski gloves and and dollar store toque complete the look.
Outcome:
Halfway into walk Iris decides that it's "her time". Being of a refined and genteel nature (Husbands take: "The damn dog is just stupid"), Iris requires privacy in order to do her business. She sidles up the driveway and positions herself just under the window at the home of the PTA president.
As I hurriedly pick up after her and turn to leave, I see el Presidenté staring at me quizzically through her clean bay window. Momentarily stunned ("Did she get new drapes?"), I stare back.
Then embarrassment sets in and I formulate a plan. Do I smile and wave or just pretend I didn't see her? Opt for the latter and hurry on.
Half a block from home spot sexy, rich, stay-at-home mom L. on her way to the gym. A quick calculation of distance to home vs. distance to L. gives me hope I can make it inside without having to chat.
Experience "Aha" moment as I finally comprehend the value of Grade Four math ("If John got on a westbound train to Toledo going 60 mph and Toledo is 65 miles away, what time would John arrive?") and make a dash for the door.
Iris however has chosen this moment to showcase her bulimic tendencies and is throwing up in the snow. Like the Britney Spears of the dog world, Iris is not content to puke and quickly move on. Instead, she opts for an over-the-top performance, heavy on guttural sounds and full-body dry heaves.
Just as Iris finishes and appears to be contemplating whether or not to eat her vomit, L. passes me.
We exchange weak "Hellos" and continue on, both pretending not to notice the stain in the snow. It's the polite thing to do which is, after all, the Canadian way.
Thursday, January 8, 2009
Summer 2008 - The Reluctant Housewife
Age: 46
Occupation: Housewife/ Homemaker/ Merlot drinking stay-at-home middle aged mother with nasty shopping habit/ Homemaker
I should be enjoying my holidays at the cottage but a recent run-in with a popcorn kernel has sent me to the emergency dental clinic in a nearby town. As I sit in the waiting room, hopped up on Advil and finding myself vaguely entertained by my tongue as it gets intimate with the hole that used to house my tooth, I work on completing the New Patient Information form the receptionist has handed me.
Address: and Phone Number: are straightforward enough but I can’t help but stumble when I get to Age: and Occupation:.
“Well, yes, technically I am a 46 year-old homemaker,” I want to explain to the chipper, young receptionist, “but I’m so much smarter, funnier and more fashionable than that.” I glance at my cottage attire – brown rubber flip-flops the dog cut her puppy teeth on, baggy black bathing suit with elastic fraying around the left leg opening and faded terry-cloth shorts and t-shirt that I generously describe as my “cover-up”.
Well, I’m smarter and funnier.
I toy with the idea of putting down “Home wrecker” as my occupation. It carries way more cachet and if I’m ever called on it, I can always claim it was a Freudian slip.
Neither the age nor the occupation question would bother me all that much if the form demanded I answer just one or the other.
I can happily imagine myself as a pert, young housewife a la Mary Tyler Moore in her Laura Petrie days. And I’d have no problem introducing myself as Dr. Karen Hamilton, 46 year-old brain surgeon or 46 year-old Nobel Prize recipient, Karen Hamilton.
But put them together - 46 year-old (read, middle-aged) homemaker - and the image that comes to mind ranks up there with dirty dishwasher or gravy congealing on a plate after unwisely responding in the affirmative to the question, “Do you want gravy with those fries?” We know these entities are among us but we’d rather not spend too much time dwelling on them.
Ironically, in our not so distant history, it was a fine and noble thing to describe oneself as a homemaker. My 1960’s youth was spent watching many a game show with contestants who proudly declared themselves to be homemakers. (“Well Monty, I’m a homemaker from California and I’ll take Door Number Three!!!”)
Of course, considering that most of those women either became addicted to tranquilizers or flew the coop in favour of burning their bras or campaigning for local office the minute they had their consciousness raised, casts doubt on just how fine and noble a calling theirs really was.
But today’s middle-aged homemakers are different than that. For one thing, many of us don’t actually do housework. There is a segment of the homemaker population that is not only fortunate enough to have the money to stay home, but can also afford to have, well, homemakers.
This elite group busy themselves instead with such engaging pursuits as Xtreme wine decanting, attending fund raising events and brightening the day of less fortunate women by regaling the minimum-wage workers at the mani/pedi salons with stories from the aforementioned fund raisers.
Of course there are the hardline “traditionals" who bake their own bread, scrapbook/knit/make jewelry (select all that apply) and shepards the kids to their lessons in the mini-van. They only buy themselves new clothes if they actually need something and force their children to wear generic jeans and running shoes ("Why spend money on the "in" thing?"). They rarely are invited to Ladies Night Out because of their adamant stance to have only one glass of wine then switch to tea while the rest of us order another round and begin getting into the good stuff like which mom in the neighbourhood is having an affair.
Then there are the rest of us who live by the motto, "Good enough!".
Our cooking skills may not be on par with the likes of Martha Stewart but at least we haven’t served time in a federal prison. And is it such a bad thing when Friday afternoon finds us chatting in the backyard hot tub with our fellow homemakers, deftly tossing rubber ducks at the kitchen window to summon our children to bring us another bottle of wine? At least we’re home with the kids.
I complete the New Patient Information form with a flourish, just as the dentist calls me in. As I get settled in the chair, he peruses the form. “So Mrs. Hamilton, I see here that you’re 46 and a . . . stripper?”
Occupation: Housewife/ Homemaker/ Merlot drinking stay-at-home middle aged mother with nasty shopping habit/ Homemaker
I should be enjoying my holidays at the cottage but a recent run-in with a popcorn kernel has sent me to the emergency dental clinic in a nearby town. As I sit in the waiting room, hopped up on Advil and finding myself vaguely entertained by my tongue as it gets intimate with the hole that used to house my tooth, I work on completing the New Patient Information form the receptionist has handed me.
Address: and Phone Number: are straightforward enough but I can’t help but stumble when I get to Age: and Occupation:.
“Well, yes, technically I am a 46 year-old homemaker,” I want to explain to the chipper, young receptionist, “but I’m so much smarter, funnier and more fashionable than that.” I glance at my cottage attire – brown rubber flip-flops the dog cut her puppy teeth on, baggy black bathing suit with elastic fraying around the left leg opening and faded terry-cloth shorts and t-shirt that I generously describe as my “cover-up”.
Well, I’m smarter and funnier.
I toy with the idea of putting down “Home wrecker” as my occupation. It carries way more cachet and if I’m ever called on it, I can always claim it was a Freudian slip.
Neither the age nor the occupation question would bother me all that much if the form demanded I answer just one or the other.
I can happily imagine myself as a pert, young housewife a la Mary Tyler Moore in her Laura Petrie days. And I’d have no problem introducing myself as Dr. Karen Hamilton, 46 year-old brain surgeon or 46 year-old Nobel Prize recipient, Karen Hamilton.
But put them together - 46 year-old (read, middle-aged) homemaker - and the image that comes to mind ranks up there with dirty dishwasher or gravy congealing on a plate after unwisely responding in the affirmative to the question, “Do you want gravy with those fries?” We know these entities are among us but we’d rather not spend too much time dwelling on them.
Ironically, in our not so distant history, it was a fine and noble thing to describe oneself as a homemaker. My 1960’s youth was spent watching many a game show with contestants who proudly declared themselves to be homemakers. (“Well Monty, I’m a homemaker from California and I’ll take Door Number Three!!!”)
Of course, considering that most of those women either became addicted to tranquilizers or flew the coop in favour of burning their bras or campaigning for local office the minute they had their consciousness raised, casts doubt on just how fine and noble a calling theirs really was.
But today’s middle-aged homemakers are different than that. For one thing, many of us don’t actually do housework. There is a segment of the homemaker population that is not only fortunate enough to have the money to stay home, but can also afford to have, well, homemakers.
This elite group busy themselves instead with such engaging pursuits as Xtreme wine decanting, attending fund raising events and brightening the day of less fortunate women by regaling the minimum-wage workers at the mani/pedi salons with stories from the aforementioned fund raisers.
Of course there are the hardline “traditionals" who bake their own bread, scrapbook/knit/make jewelry (select all that apply) and shepards the kids to their lessons in the mini-van. They only buy themselves new clothes if they actually need something and force their children to wear generic jeans and running shoes ("Why spend money on the "in" thing?"). They rarely are invited to Ladies Night Out because of their adamant stance to have only one glass of wine then switch to tea while the rest of us order another round and begin getting into the good stuff like which mom in the neighbourhood is having an affair.
Then there are the rest of us who live by the motto, "Good enough!".
Our cooking skills may not be on par with the likes of Martha Stewart but at least we haven’t served time in a federal prison. And is it such a bad thing when Friday afternoon finds us chatting in the backyard hot tub with our fellow homemakers, deftly tossing rubber ducks at the kitchen window to summon our children to bring us another bottle of wine? At least we’re home with the kids.
I complete the New Patient Information form with a flourish, just as the dentist calls me in. As I get settled in the chair, he peruses the form. “So Mrs. Hamilton, I see here that you’re 46 and a . . . stripper?”
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