I'll get right to it as I have to get rolling on my day - much to do! Yesterday was a mini triumph in cleaning. I cruised through my daily chores pretty effortlessly. Even the oven, which made me its bitch last week in every manner possible, was barely a blip in my day. I stayed cool, I stayed collected, I stayed clothed.
In fact, I even did something I said I didn't need to do: I cleaned the inside of my off-limits microwave. It was my 50s housewife skeleton in the closet, er, rather, kitchen. I knew what lurked behind its door - an explosion of tomato sauce on all four walls and its 'ceiling' - something that I had somehow been able to ignore forever. Now the microwave is clean and will hopefully start displaying the time instead of scrolling "CLEAN ME ... OR KILL ME" on its LED screen.
Today for dinner, I opted to look in a section of my Bride's Reference Book called "Men Like This Food." I'm guessing the headline editor of the publication was through with coming up with cutesy titles like "Bediquette: From Nighties to Nighty-Night" and was just like, "Ugh, let's just call it what it is, already. This Tom Collins is wearing off."
The intro to "Men Like This Food" explains that we should hope to be married to normal men with "masculine" tastes (so they prefer blue food to pink food? Dog meat to cat meat?):
With this advice in mind, I made Patrick broiled steak, french fried potatoes, corn on the cob and a broiled tomato - served with his favourite beer. Dessert was a banana split with strawberries.
Well, that meal was boring. That wasn't kooky and 50s-sounding at all.
That's true, judgey voice in my head, but there's a reason for that. You want to know what men like?
They like it when you don't eff with their food.
They like it when they don't have to wade through a monstrosity of olives, gelatin, sauce and green-tinted coconut in a supposed chicken dish. They like it when they don't have to ask what's for dinner when it's sitting in front of them on a plate. They like it when they don't feel sexually confused while eating party food.
They just want to eat something hot and identifiable and for the first time since we started the 50s Housewife Experiment, I was pleased to serve it.
I don't think Patrick will be so lucky for the rest of the project, though. I'm pretty sure it will be a parade of freak show dishes from here on out - after all, there are just four more full days of 50s housewifery to go!
After dinner, I went up to Siobhan and Patrick's to babysit Charlotte while they ran errands. People probably think the Dells are our only friends as they're the only people I've mentioned this entire time. I assure you, we have other pals - but in a way - the Dells are the Ethel and Fred to our Lucy and Ricky. Or vice versa. Or, well, who knows - I'm pretty sure, though, that, based on the observations of the people in my neighbourhood, I'm the Ricky Ricardo.
Anyway, being child-free, I didn't have to spend any time researching what the 50s housewife would do with a papoose in tow. So what a perfect opportunity it was to start digging into that mid-century wisdom and
experiment with it on someone else's unsuspecting child share it with all of you:
It's compact. It's convenient. It's collapsible. It's My First Death Trap.
Would you like your child to grow up big and strong (or at least able to read books about being big and strong)? There's a product that will help:
Corn syrup! Get them started on it right after they're done with the bottle. It provides them with that pure energy a butchy child needs. Plus, it gives them that adorable crazy-eye / clenched jaw look of a rave-obsessed drug user. Seeing this baby peek over the crib bars would never creep anyone out.
They're not babies anymore, but sometimes they still wet the bed like one:
Want to reduce your child's shame right away? Stop referring to that thing you just put Ronald Reagan Jr. in as a panty.
And finally ...
You know, if the whole family has "constipation worries", you might want to review what you're stuffing them with. Maybe all that gelatin, marshmallow fluff and chicken livers are gunking up the track. And, mom? Stop creeping on train time. Maybe you and your giant head should truck back to the old grocery store and pick up some not-from-a-can fruit.
Alright - enough snark! I must dash. Big day ahead of me!
Image Source: Bride's Reference Book
26 May 2010