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Yearning for California
My
husband asked me the other day when I was going to finish my book. The
reason behind the question was that I had been doing my monthly beg:
"why can't we move to California?" I ask this question,
periodically, when we return to the in-your-face, ovenesque humidity and
heat that makes the Alabama days and nights seem akin to being stewed in
a lobster pot over a particularly brutal fire. As I imagine it, in
California I would exercise every day outside to the beautiful seventy
degree days that I have grown to adore when visiting; my body will
become sleek and fit under the endless blue skies..... but I digress. He
was asking me about my book because as he sees it, the only way we can
afford the super deluxe lifestyle that is southern California is
if I make a hefty chunk of change and put it down on one of those cozy
little multi million dollar homes.
"Well, I haven't had much time
to finish my book," I shot back, "because I am too busy being
your Stepford wife."
Tee hee. Now that's a funny one. He
seemed subdued by my answer, like he really bought it! Can you imagine a
more ludicrous line than the one I delivered? And yet..... he seemed to
be going for it, hook line and sinker.
"Oh." He mumbled. "I guess that is
probably true."
Listen, folks. I haven't seen the new
movie- the one starring Nicole Kidman as the newcomer to Stepford, nor
have I actually seen the 1975 movie either..... but I get the premise.
The deal is that real women are replaced by buxom, submissive robots who
are "perfect" in every way- romantically, as a housekeeper,
cook, and parent. Their looks, according to my take, never waivers from
poster-fresh, and their moods are always smooth and easy.
Nothing could be further from me. I don't
need to count this one down, but I will. I am neither buxom, submissive
nor "perfect"- in any way. I can be in such a nasty mood that
just a look in my direction will cause me to outburst, and well, as
housekeeper- forget about it. I'd rather do nearly anything, ANYTHING
than to clean a house that will be dirty approximately four seconds
after I finish. Living with four males means that muddy shoes and wet
dripping bathing suits are status quo and frankly, I don't have energy
enough to pick up after those boys. So I let it lay where it does......
and it stays there. Cooking is hit or miss with me. I CAN cook, and I DO
cook..... sometimes. When I feel like it. Which, frankly, isn't often. I
can go whole weeks in a row without turning on the oven without so much
as a twinge of guilt, and so help me, I see nothing wrong with ordering
a pizza once a week. (I've even been known to consider pizza day as
"cooking" since we eat it in the house and I have to throw
away the paper plates afterwards).
So how funny is it that my excuse for not finishing my book is
that I have been too busy being my hubby's "Stepford" wife?
And how extra humorous is it that somehow..... due to some strange
reasoning on his part, he actually thinks it is true?
Good luck for me, I guess, and it is not
exactly as if I am out squandering all his dough (just some of it) or
that I am busy doing exactly SQUAT (just some of the time)- I do spend a
lot of time at the gym trying to burn off all the bagels and candy I
like to consume, and I log more hours at my youngest son's school
than some of the administration.
The upside for my believing
hubby is that one day I WILL finish that book and if I do make a scrap
of cash, it is all his, baby. Because anyone who can think for one
moment that living with a cranky, flat-chested, usually grubby chick
like myself is in anyway "Stepford-esque" deserves a big ole
monetary reward for the keeping the faith. As for me, when that day
comes, maybe I'll delve into the dough pile myself and hire me an
efficient housekeeper and a delightful chef to prepare for us the
nutritious meals to which we have never become accustomed.
We'll probably miss the pizza and the rubble.
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