I’m a Stay-At-Home Mom and My Life is FREAKING IDYLLIC
Or, Confessions of an Angry Housewife. Or, Gretchen’s Off Her Meds.
Editor’s Note: I’m sorry about all this. This was written by my belligerent, combative alter-ego (her name is Gretchen, but don’t mention it). She’s very bitter about the fact that no one realizes how personally fulfilled she is. She got out of her box again this morning. Please know that I mostly don’t condone some of the sentiments that follow.
Yeah, I’m a housewife. You wanna make something of it? Do you? DO YOU?
Editor’s Note: No seriously, she will fight you …
I bet you’re sitting there, judging. I bet you’re sitting there, thinking how repressed I am.
I’m not repressed — YOU’RE repressed!
Editor’s Note: OK, I don’t even know who she is talking about. She has these delusional episodes where she sees all these imaginary people who she swears are secretly thinking she’s repressed.
I bet you think you’re better than me because you spend your time pushing papers across some fat man’s desk.
I bet you think you’re the “savior” I need to “deliver me” from this “prison o’ patriarchy”. Bet you think you’re the white knight that’s going to carry me off into the cubicle-encrusted horizon. There’s always another do-gooder to do good that doesn’t want doing.
Editor’s Note: Again, I’m so sorry.
You only wish your life was like mine.
I spend my day with a kid that makes Shirley Temple look like Boris Karloff.
I married the man of my dreams. OF. MY. DREAMS. When he comes home at night we can actually have a life, because guess what? The laundry’s already done, the house is clean, and dinner’s on the table. CUZ I DID IT. Yeah, that’s right.
Editor’s note: She’s exaggerating. At this very moment, the laundry is most definitely not done.
And guess who’s doing exactly what they dreamed of doing when they were 7 years old? THIS GUY. Would I be writing this if I had to pay my dues to The Man 40 hours out of the week plus the responsibilities of parenthood and home ownership? Forget about it!
Editor’s note: OK, when I was 7 I dreamed of writing published novels, not spewing vitriolic essays on housekeeping to an audience of 5 for free, but I’ll let Gretchen have this one.
So y’all can snicker at me at the office Christmas parties —
Editor’s note: Seriously, nobody does that …
— when everybody’s introducing their spouses and they’re all like “Hey what do you do?” and they go “I’m a district attorney!” or “I’m a neurosurgeon!” or “I’m the President of NASA!” and then I go, “I’m a housewife!”, but who’s gonna get the last laugh, huh?
While all yuz are staring vacantly at the cheaply-framed diplomas on your cold, lifeless, manila-folder-colored walls, I’m going to be throwing sweet bridge parties and passing out hor doovries in my high heels and pearls. BAM!
Editor’s note: She’s lying, she doesn’t even know how to play bridge. Although we have been known to throw some pretty happening shindigs involving Settlers of Catan. I can’t speak to the high heels and pearls . . . could’ve happened while I wasn’t looking.
Suckas.
……………………………
But seriously I’m sure all yuz are doing awesome, useful, meaningful work too. Maybe. I dunno. Are you?
