So, as you may have guessed, 1950s Housewife Day has come and gone. It was a learning experience, one I hope to repeat…a long time from now. No, I have no pictures or visual documentation of any kind. Strike 1, I know…
Before I get into it, let me just say, the day was a bit doomed from the get-go. I had been suffering with seasonal allergies that left me fatigued and cloudy-headed and…uh…let’s just say my “monthly visitor” arrived unexpectedly that very morning. Thus, I started the day as a zombie. But it actually started well…pretty well, anyway.
5:00 – Alarm. Nope.
5:15 – Alarm. Not quite.
5:30…ish – Up. Coffee #1 in hand, I am ready to start the day.
6:20 – My eldest awoke. Perfectly content with some crayons and puzzles. Mother.of.the.Year.
6:30 – Out of the shower, coiffed, and ready to go. Dress, Spanx (my girdle for the day), heels, and hair…up (I realized I don’t own a curling iron or curlers a bit late). A note about Spanx: I was convinced the pair I had was too small. Getting them on required a wrestling match with myself that involved me hurtling myself all over the bedroom. Once you get them on, however, they’re actually surprisingly comfortable. I had gotten a mani/pedi the day before. Cherry-red fingers and toes? Check!
I started on breakfast. I was going to do a full-on spread, as was most common – eggs, potatoes, pancakes, toast, juice, bacon, sausage, ham – BUT, our family doesn’t typically eat much pig, nor are we big breakfast people. So I settled on eggs and toast.
I woke my husband in an apron with a sing-song voice that would have made any Disney princess envious.
“Sweeeeeetheart, breakfast will be ready soon!”
At least I thought I woke him. Twenty minutes later, he was still out cold, and my voice was suddenly much deeper.
“What?! You better get out here and eat this before it gets cold or so help me!”
Needless to say, moments later, the entire family was gathered at the breakfast table. The perfection of the moment was shattered when my daughter announced, “Mama, I no like it.” She doesn’t like eggs. At least not in this pure, beautiful form. She prefers them as a solid gelatinous round mass topped with a slice of cheese and sandwiched between a bagel. She concentrated on her toast and milk, while my younger daughter just dropped eggs on the ground.
“Can you get me my paper?” my husband barked, amused, motioning to his tablet.
“Yes, dear!” I sang, as I kissed him on the cheek. He read about the day’s events, ignoring me. Jerkface. Oh, the lonely 50’s housewife. I channeled the iconic goddess for strength as I cleared plates and started washing the dishes for the first time that day. Somehow, I was already starting to feel exhausted…Coffee #2, where are you?