Housewife Blues

I don’t remember how to sit down and do nothing.

I fill my vacation days with 1950’s suburban housewife (bullshit) projects. Painting projects. Sewing projects. Cooking projects. Cleaning projects. Planting projects.

The goal was to learn patience by using my hands, to join the “handmade movement,” to consume less, to create more, to become more artsy, blah, blah, blah.

Thus far, I’m doing a lousy job. My sewing machine is kicking my ass. I have a love hate relationship with “The Beast.” All I wanted was to put two pieces of fabric together and The Beast didn’t let me. Fuck you, sewing machine! From now on, my cushion covers will be made in China!

Yesterday I was able to do nothing. Well, by nothing, I mean, I actually went back to bed after breakfast to read a John Cheever short story. If you’ve read The Country Husband, you know that’s probably not a good reading choice for the suburban housewife blues. If you haven’t read it, please, do take a walk on the dark side of Shady Hill. Mr. Cheever will have no mercy on your bourgeoisie ass.

To my horror, I’m turning into one of the characters in the story, Mrs. Wrightson, or worse, Mrs. Julia Weed.

Mr. Cheever writes:
Then old Mrs. Wrightson joined him on the platform and began to talk. “Well, I guess you must be surprised to see me here the third morning in a row,” she said, “but because of my window curtains I’m becoming a regular commuter. The curtains I bought on Monday I returned on Tuesday and the curtains I bought Tuesday I’m returning today……………Now I’m praying to high Heaven that the decorator will have them in the right length, because you know my house, you know my living room windows, and you know what a problem they present/ I don’t know what to do with them.”
“I know what to do with them.” Francis said.
“What?”
“Paint them black on the inside, and shut up.”

I don’t remember how to sit down and do nothing.