That Housewifey Touch

Sometimes I think it would be really cool to live in the fifties and wear swirly polka-dot dresses and sweep all day. Like, being a housewife has got to be a pretty easy job. You dust some stuff, make a meal or two, and get to sit around alllll day. (Note: I’m totes not talking about stay-at-home moms here. Hardest. Job. Ever. I mean a childless, rollin’-s0lo-besides-her-tall-dark-and-handsome-but-never-home-hubby kind of housewife.)

I mean, hello, you could just have great hair and cozy sweaters and drink imported breakfast tea all day:

But then I remember that a.) nobody is really in the market for a housewife these days, b.) I would get sooo bored after two minutes and said hubby would come home to me naked except for his favorite shirt, painting a dark mural all over the living room walls, and c.) I suck at housewifey things. I just don’t have that housewifey touch.

I do make a mean batch of chocolate-chip cookies, however. So that’s something.


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