Today we’re going to play a little game called the 1950s, where women were slaves and men thought they were kings. Then we’re going to jump back into the present and play MY game, where I am the boss. This is going to be a fun game, I promise.
So today my friend NP jokingly sends me this piece of bullshit, better known as, “The Good Wife’s Guide”, (http://www.j-walk.com/other/goodwife/index.htm) because she knows I will
1. Lose my mind
2. Attack it
3. We need a break from work. It’s been kinda crazy lately.
So, I’d hate to make you wait to read this laughable garbage, but here it is and here’s what I’m going to do. This is going to be a two part series, today and tomorrow, because as I read this over and over, my head is near exploding and it’s going to take me two days to get this all out. So here we go… I am going to comment on each line item and then TOMORROW, I am going to create my very own follow-up entitled, “The Good Husband’s Guide.” Yay, yay, this is going to be a fun blogging week.
Now, before I start, I will admit this much:
I know for a fact that I am the type of girl that will forever be a better girlfriend than a wife. Better is an understatement. I feel badly about this, yes, I really do. I just don’t have a wife bone in my body. If I found a wife bone in my body, I’d have it removed or it would surely have broken right now, I am that awful as a wife. Review: I hate cooking. I hate cleaning. I’m not a great caretaker. It’s true, I get “headaches” and I want to slap myself in the mouth for even admitting that. I can barely walk dogs, forget wipe kids and yes, I’m more concerned with ruining my nipples than transfering nutrients to a small, birdlike being attached to my tit like it’s time on the farm. I just don’t like the word wife. I never aspired to be someone’s wife and to me it means loss of self and too much compromise, too much chance of failing. Let’s just be clear. I’m a selfish, vile, terrible person, at least if you judged me off this list. So here we go.
The Good Wife’s Guide, circa 1955
1. Have dinner ready. Plan ahead, even the night before, to have a delicious meal ready on time for his return. This is a way of letting him know that you have been thinking about him and are concerned about his needs. Most men are hungry when they get home and the prospect of a good meal is part of the warm welcome needed. (Plan WHAT the night before? How am I supposed to be building future menus if I’m busy napping/drinking/watching tv/yapping on the phone/emailing? If maybe I get around to defrosting something, it’d be in the morning and the person that makes dinner is either a. the person who gets home first and b. any person that is not me because I don’t cook. I’m sorry, who cares if he is hungry on the way home? Did he also lose his hands or his sense of direction? There are at least 4 stores between work and home and last time I checked it was called a SNACK.)
2. Prepare yourself. Take 15 minutes to rest so you’ll be refreshed when he arrives. Touch up your make-up, put a ribbon in your hair and be fresh-looking. He has just been with a lot of work-weary people. (I did prepare myself. I came home, took off my work outfit and pulled on my favorite hoodie and sweats. I also put my hair in a bun and poured myself a glass of vino. Fucking ribbon. Ribbons are for 5-year-old girls and birthday presents and the upgrade of my nighttime outfit would be nudity, which only occurs if I’m feeling all sexy-like after 11pm. Fresh looking my ass.)
3. Be a little gay and a little more interesting for him. His boring day may need a lift and one of your duties is to provide it. (First of all, this is a true statement. Being a little lesbo has always grabbed every man’s attention, though I think they mean happy here. Be happy and interesting. What am I? A fucking circus clown? Maybe my day was boring too. You don’t see me asking for some sort of juggling fire act and did they say DUTIES?? One of my duties is not to break my computer right now as I type this. It’s certainly not my DUTY to act “a little more gay” each day, though I’d keep that in mind next time things get less interesting around my house.)
4. Clear away the clutter. Make one last trip through the main part of the house just before your husband arrives. Run a dustcloth over the tables. (This is just stupid. The only thing I do that adds value to the kitchen or the household is make sure the ice-cube trays are full and frozen because in my world, having an endless supply of ice is the most important part of each night and without ice, I lose my shit. Clutter? It’s not clutter. I know what’s in those piles. I put it all there. If I folded things and put them in all the different rooms they belonged, I would NEVER find anything because it would take me so fucking long. And shut up about dusting. I did dust in April. It’s called SPRING cleaning for a reason.)
5. During the cooler months of the year you should prepare and light a fire for him to unwind by. Your husband will feel he has reached a haven of rest and order, and it will give you a lift too. After all, catering to his comfort will provide you with immense personal satisfaction. (Oh, I’m sorry, should I lay my fat ass down on the floor too so you can rest your feet on my tired back like a bear? Because no, don’t worry about me, that would give me immense personal satisfaction, about the same type of satisfaction I get after 3 beers, a session with my vibrator and a nap. Jesus FUCK.)
6. Minimize all noise. At the time of his arrival, eliminate all noise of the washer, dryer or vacuum. Encourage the children to be quiet. (This will be brief. I. AM. THE. NOISE.)
7. Be happy to see him. Greet him with a warm smile and show sincerity in your desire to please him. (I am thrilled. Really. Newsflash. If you have to SHOW sincerity, it’s probably not sincerity but trickery.)
8. Listen to him. You may have a dozen important things to tell him, but the moment of his arrival is not the time. Let him talk first – remember, his topics of conversation are more important than yours.
Don’t greet him with complaints and problems. (But the moment of arrival is not the time? His topics of conversation are more important than yours? OhmyfuckinglesbianshaveitbetterLord there is NOTHING more important than what I have to say and in fact, I do not like people talking to me after OR before work. Not in the car, not in the house. I need one hour each part of the day to unwind/amp up. So, no, you don’t talk to ME.)
9. Don’t complain if he’s late for dinner or even if he stays out all night. Count this as minor compared to what he might have gone through at work. (I count this as a hall pass to guy’s night out which yes, I am a huge fan of. No one is ever late for dinner because it’s never on the table or even started. But let’s not get all i’mwickedfuckingstupid with the out all night shit. Whitney Houston didn’t write that little gem, “It’s Not Right, But it’s OK” for no reason and that bitch Angela Bassett lit that car on fire for a reason. She makes burning cars look reasonable, in fact.)
10. Make him comfortable. Have him lean back in a comfortable chair or lie him down in the bedroom. Have a cool or warm drink ready for him.
Arrange his pillow and offer to take off his shoes. Speak in a low, soothing and pleasant voice. (I am not taking off anyone’s damned shoes. My voice is far from soothing and if he wants a nap or a drink, there’s the fridge and the cups and go take a nap but the pillows remain UNFLUFFED.)
11. Don’t ask him questions about his actions or question his judgment or integrity. Remember, he is the master of the house and as such will always exercise his will with fairness and truthfulness. You have no right to question him. (I have no right to what? Question him? I will lock him in a windowless room with rabid dogs and question him like I’m fighting terror. Master of the house, my ass.)
AND MY PERSONAL FAVORITE:
12. A good wife always knows her place. (And a smart husband knows that one well placed swipe with a kitchen knife will have you checking different boxes under the gender section next time your sorry ass goes to the DMV. KNOWS HER PLACE.)
Wheeeeeeeeew. I can’t tell if this post enabled me to unleash some pent-up aggression or create more. And truthfully, I’m not this bad, just don’t dare get all, You’re the boss of me. Because you aren’t.