A simple kind of life...

I've lately become addicted to the the 1940's. Reading Secrets magazines and watching Classic Turner movies. God, I wish I such simplicity could be mine. They would never stress out because their ipod was stolen on a train or their computer just got hijacked by the latest Nigerian spyware. All they have to do is fall in love and have children, and life is alright. Lots of time to lounge around, making love and watching flowers grow. No climate change worries hanging over one's head, no AIDS. And yet, they had their problems. Case in point, the success of these highly informative ads for lysol:



But still. I used to think being a housewife was degrading, but I've since decided that it would actually be pretty comfortable, as long as I could maintain my own identity and keep my friends. I could make my own candles and soap, go out to afternoon tea with my friends, make my own pasta from scratch and grow all my own vegetables. Or if I don't become a housewife, wouldn't it be nice to have one? No one has slippers, a pipe and a hot dinner ready for me when I get home. A poem I wrote:

The Feminist’s Doll

My dolly loves to wear white lace,--
Her name is Miss Elaine.
With violet eyes, a porcelain face,
She’s quite a gentle dame.
I try to be a model mother,
And raise her proud and free.
I’d hoped she’d be just like her brother
Building houses in a tree.

I taught her first to read and write,
Then arithmetic and science.
Somehow this failed to excite
My sweet Elaine’s compliance.
As she gazed at birds on window sills,
I spoke of woman’s right
To hold her own, to master skills—
Poor Elaine was not so bright.

Such thinking made her head so sore,
She told me over tea one day.
This learning thing was such a bore!
She’d rather shop and play.
“I’ll find a boy to buy me things,
They all think I’m so pretty
I’ll tie him up with apron strings
Who wants a girl who’s witty?”

In vain I tell her man is not
A wallet or a client.
A real woman can’t be bought—
Of this she is defiant!
Like scripture she reads magazines,
Dates only men with money.
Her vanity would rival queens,
She paints her lips with honey.

I’m sure that someday I will be
A lady pioneer.
I’ll show the world that girls can be
Much more than they appear.
They’ll write me into history books—
Elaine will be bereft.
The years will fade her treasured looks,
And she’ll have nothing left!