I just love vintage things. I adore porcelain signs, antique furniture and almost anything with rust. Several years ago, in my quest for learning about all things old, I ran across a magazine article from the 1950s regarding how to be a good wife.
I’ll admit I might not be the best wife. I don’t keep the best house, have been known to complain, and as my handsome husband will tell you, I tend to be bossy.
Yet, I hold my own. I make sure Pat has a healthy diet, that he dresses right for certain occasions, and I have even been known to fluff his pillow. I felt I knew enough about marriage to write my own dissertation, but I still decided to give the article a once over. I was only halfway through the first paragraph before I called out to the messy room, “Oh, no stinking way!”
The article, and I’m being truthful, suggested that the 1950s woman do her best by her husband. That I could go for. But then it went on to say she should commence preparations for his return from a hard day’s work well in advance.
“Walk through the house and tidy so the rooms won’t have a disheveled appearance. Prepare to present his children to him by making sure their faces are clean and their clothes aren’t tattered.”
After all, we wouldn’t want the poor man bothered with grubby hands!
“Then,” and this is what really got my goat, “take the time to fix your hair and freshen your makeup. Put on a clean dress and apron and perhaps a fresh coat of lipstick so that you look rested upon his return and he won’t be bothered by feeling bad if you’ve had a hectic day.”
I swear it was enough to make a gal choke on her coffee. Although the author’s first name was Penny, I would have laid down a good chunk of cash that it was actually written by someone named Peter.
Still, I looked around the abode. The dishes weren’t done, the children were fresh in from a day of tunneling to the neighbor’s backyard, and it was certainly going to take more than a coat of lipstick to make me presentable.
“Did I care?” one might ask. In short, that was going to be an emphatic no. I mean I cared, but did I really care? It wasn’t as if I was leading a life of leisure.
Wrestling four boys all day wasn’t for the faint at heart. Still, I thought perhaps it might be nice if, just once, Pat walked into a house that didn’t have dirty socks, fighting boys and a woman demanding he do something about it.
I told the boys to hit the showers, shoved the dishes into the stove, and with love and adoration — I fired up the grill. I then put on a fresh T-shirt and finger-combed my hair.
“Well, hello,” I said to Pat when he walked in moments later. I fought the urge to tell him about how the boys were driving golf balls at the neighbor’s camper. I didn’t tell him how they buckled themselves into the front seat and attempted to back the car down the drive, and I kept it to myself that they answered nature’s call on my rose bushes.
“How was your day?” I asked as I showed him the lovely table complete with fresh burgers and our very best paper plates.
“OK,” he responded as he eyed me suspiciously. I kept my composure as the boys came to the kitchen, running like puppies as they celebrated their father’s return. I didn’t even snap when Huey bounce-passed a basketball across the kitchen.
But when Lawrence went out long for Huey’s pass and it got picked off by a gallon of milk that then dispensed into my freshly grilled burgers, I could no longer hold off my slow burn.
“That does it!” I said as my temper gauge went from zero to 60 in a millisecond. I began barking orders, making demands, and with a well-executed verbal assault got the sports paraphernalia out of the area and the boys in the kitchen chairs where they belonged.
Although he didn’t verbalize his concerns that I suffered from some sort of mental disorder, I’m sure the thought crossed Pat’s mind.
Perhaps it would have gone better if I had donned a dress and a vintage apron.
Lori Clinch is the mother of four sons and the author of the book “Are We There Yet?” You can reach her by sending an email to [email protected].