Just call me Harriet
I'm a child of the 60's, but really...of the 50's. Because of television. When I got home from school, the shows that were on in the afternoon were straight out of 1955. "Leave it to Beaver", "The Donna Reed Show" and "Ozzie and Harriet". Of course, the "hip" moms were on prime-time with the Partridges and Bradys, but since I didn't always get to watch those shows (my parents probably were thick in the middle of "Gunsmoke"), I was part of the TV families of the 50's.
Sigh.
Yeah, that's what I want to be. My OWN mother combined hippie with earth mother. She had long blonde hair way past her 30's, and wore hip-huggers with macrame belts, much to my dismay. I still remember suggesting that she cut and perm her hair and possibly dye it that strange shade of blue that I admired on more sedate matrons. One Mother's Day, I bought her (with my own money) a polyester shorts set from ECKERDS DRUGS and begged her to wear it. I'm sure it cost $5.99 and came with a free can of Nair or something. She fed us organic lettuce with wheat germ sprinkled on it. She sprinkled wheat germ on everything. She gave us cod liver oil (who ever came up with that as a health supplement? For whales maybe.) She was fun, hip, cool and beautiful. She was a lousy housekeeper.
You know how people always say, "After you die, you don't want people remembering you for your clean house, do you?"--well, um, yes, I do. I want them to say, "It's all so sad about mrs. herewegoagain dropping dead after that binge on fudge brownies with ice cream, but have you heard that her drawers were spotless and you could eat off her floor--- which some say she did?". I want people to rave about my homemade meals. Not, as my children do, ask me to please make "food out of a box". (They have eaten my homemade mashed potatoes, lumps and all, for their entire lives. ONE serving of Potato Buds, and that's it. That's all they want. "The creamy, good stuff").
I also want robotic, clean, well-spoken and tremendously helpful children. When perfect daughter was little and used to act up a bit (in a perfectly good way, I'm sure), my mother would console me with, "Well, what do you want? A little automaton sitting in front of a good book all day?". I enthusiastically answered, "YES!". Creativity is messy. Automatons clean up well.
I feel that what I want is normal. It's a product of deep-seated cultural norms implanted by the Peacock network and others. However, when I look at my world...I see that obviously I'm so far from normal that maybe, maybe, maybe it's OK when I'm not ever caught up on laundry. Or dinner isn't ever Chilean sea bass, perfectly grilled with a side of fresh asparagus. Or the fact that my three dogs create 20 dog's worth of hair in summer--which kills any dreams I have of winning first place in the Donna Reed vacuuming in pearls and high heels category.
But, it's still really important to me that when I die-- a) my drawers are in good order and b) if they are not, mr. herewegoagain gets on that right away-- after cleaning up the evidence of chocolate-induced death and just before calling 911.
Sigh.
Yeah, that's what I want to be. My OWN mother combined hippie with earth mother. She had long blonde hair way past her 30's, and wore hip-huggers with macrame belts, much to my dismay. I still remember suggesting that she cut and perm her hair and possibly dye it that strange shade of blue that I admired on more sedate matrons. One Mother's Day, I bought her (with my own money) a polyester shorts set from ECKERDS DRUGS and begged her to wear it. I'm sure it cost $5.99 and came with a free can of Nair or something. She fed us organic lettuce with wheat germ sprinkled on it. She sprinkled wheat germ on everything. She gave us cod liver oil (who ever came up with that as a health supplement? For whales maybe.) She was fun, hip, cool and beautiful. She was a lousy housekeeper.
You know how people always say, "After you die, you don't want people remembering you for your clean house, do you?"--well, um, yes, I do. I want them to say, "It's all so sad about mrs. herewegoagain dropping dead after that binge on fudge brownies with ice cream, but have you heard that her drawers were spotless and you could eat off her floor--- which some say she did?". I want people to rave about my homemade meals. Not, as my children do, ask me to please make "food out of a box". (They have eaten my homemade mashed potatoes, lumps and all, for their entire lives. ONE serving of Potato Buds, and that's it. That's all they want. "The creamy, good stuff").
I also want robotic, clean, well-spoken and tremendously helpful children. When perfect daughter was little and used to act up a bit (in a perfectly good way, I'm sure), my mother would console me with, "Well, what do you want? A little automaton sitting in front of a good book all day?". I enthusiastically answered, "YES!". Creativity is messy. Automatons clean up well.
I feel that what I want is normal. It's a product of deep-seated cultural norms implanted by the Peacock network and others. However, when I look at my world...I see that obviously I'm so far from normal that maybe, maybe, maybe it's OK when I'm not ever caught up on laundry. Or dinner isn't ever Chilean sea bass, perfectly grilled with a side of fresh asparagus. Or the fact that my three dogs create 20 dog's worth of hair in summer--which kills any dreams I have of winning first place in the Donna Reed vacuuming in pearls and high heels category.
But, it's still really important to me that when I die-- a) my drawers are in good order and b) if they are not, mr. herewegoagain gets on that right away-- after cleaning up the evidence of chocolate-induced death and just before calling 911.
posted by herewegoagain at
4:10 PM
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