Appreciated Housewives?

OK, forgive the retro mindset for a moment. I am coming off a workday in which I have been ignored, insulted and dismissed, rendering me quite angry and feeling quite useless. I am a writer, and I write for an office professionally. Unfortunately, everyone thinks that because they can type that they can write. So I get work yanked out from under me all the time. All I want is a second chance to make it right if it doesn't look so good the first time. Grrr.

This episode had me fantasizing and no doubt romanticizing the role of housewife. I imagined myself making really excellent meals for my husband--shopping for healthy, tasty ingredients and having a real menu--with side dishes or even a nice little dessert thought out. I love to cook, so it's easy to think of this as the fun part. But even keeping the laundry clean and off the floors, the house and garden clean and even beautiful--these domestic responsibilities sometimes appeal to me on days like the one I had today--because I imagine that all that work would go toward something I cared about, something my husband cared about--good food, a comfortable home--and not toward bosses and an organization that doesn't think enough of me to come to me when something needs to be revised or reworked. Why give my energies to people who really don't care for me in the same way my husband cares for me?

I suppose my fantasy hinges on the ability of people not to become complacent, not to take energies spent and comforts provided for granted. Is that possible? Or is it inevitably that our human nature will begin to get used to such a way of life as to believe it has always been there and always should? My guess is that it probably is so. Which renders the above romantic ideas slightly tarnished.

Still, I'd love to sit down with housewives from every era and interview them, get their take on how they feel about the domestic arts. Did they feel appreciated? Did they get bored? For those that left their jobs, did they regret their decision? What advice would they give knowing what they know now? I know it's hopelessly old-fashioned, but doing work for someone you love sounds so much better to me than doing work for people you tolerate.

Of course, I also enjoy the idea of being left alone with my thoughts--I am, after all a writer, who loves reflection and spending time in her head, and while I enjoy socializing with my friends, I abhor participating in small talk with people I am thrown, arbitrarily, in an office with. (The exception, which I don't know how housewives deal with the absence of, are the people who I meet at work and truly enjoy talking to--the people who start as co-workers and become friends.) And I suppose the small talk is excellent research for characters, which is often what I'm thinking about when I nod my head in sympathy or agreement.

Being a romanticized, appreciated housewife appeals to me because I believe I'd have time to myself--time, when the laundry was getting done to read a bit, or write--without the worry of intrusion from the bundle of neuroses in the cube next door.

But the question remains--is there any truth in this daydream, or is desperation what you find upon waking up?

I suppose one other path remains--finding the job in which you are appreciated. A job where your contributions are noted, where your energies go toward something worthwhile, where you are rarely if ever taken for granted. I wonder...is this a fantasy too? Or do such jobs exist?

And these thoughts are all taking place in the absence of children. I'm not even considering the layers of nuance and complexity that a child adds to the internal struggle. Women are such amazing, thoughtful, energetic human beings--I'm so very glad to be a woman, but I do think these traits add to our burden. We are capable of so much, and so we try to do it all. But is doing it all healthy? And if we must cut back to retain our sanity, how do we choose?

And, perhaps more importantly, how can society better help us carry our valuable load?

Still Honeymoonin'

Beautiful Smile
Originally uploaded by tiffybex.

Look at this smile. Isn't he dreamy? Sigh.

We're nearly 4 months married, and I do still feel like we're on our honeymoon. Sometimes I think if we told other people how we felt about each other, we'd make them throw up. 'Cause we're in wuv.

It's pretty cool, how he's my favorite person, and I married him, and now we get to spend our lives together.

People ask me all the time: So, how's married life? How is it being married?

I don't know what to say to them, and my answers might seem unenthusiastic, since I usually just say, "Good," or "It's great." But how do you answer questions like that? "Well, we're wearing out the bed!" No, probably not. Maybe I'll just stick with "Good," and keep everyone guessing.

Or, they could just read my blog.

This Kind of World

Michelangelo's tomb
Originally uploaded by tiffybex.

So, September 11th, 5 years later. It's strange, how long ago it seems in a way, and yet how close I can get to it if I really pay attention. Some of the profiles on the New York Times webpage today had me so close to tears, and all the feelings of confusion and pain and utter, utter sadness came back.

And of course, this brought along with it the questions of where we are, what kind of world we live in, what lays in store for all of us. I don't really know anymore. Some days, it all seems so laughably absurd. In a way, I've stopped worrying about it. Life is what it is, and we must accept that all we have is the time we've been given. (In the words of the wise old Gandalf.) This doesn't mean that nothing is worth doing, that nothing is worth worrying for, but it does mean that if you're going to be upset about something, then you have a moral responsibility to do what you can, in your sphere of influence, using the skills and talents you possess, to make things a little better. To be a force for good in a world of darkness.

Part of what's so beautiful about being human is our ability to construct meaning and light out of the darkness. To erect a path to a better life, given all the obstacles. The planet we live on is a miracle in and of itself, a something where nothing could have been. I'm not against the notion of God, but I'm not even speaking about divinity here. I'm just talking about the light in the darkness, and how we are able to keep the flame burning, even if it's just our flame, even if the wind is howling, and we can't see anything beyond the light on our cupped palm.

All of this has come up with me not just because of September 11th, but also because of a conversation I overheard at a party this past weekend. A man who is dating one of my friend's friends was saying how there was no way he could ever have kids. How could you? he asked. How could you bring a child into a world like this? How could you justify bringing a life into this kind of world? He kept on, arguing how wrong it would be, how terrible, how unconscientious.

I can think of many reasons one might not want to have children, but this reason never seemed legitimate to me. The world has always been "this kind of world" to the people who live in it--there always has been hate and killing and disease and despair, just as there has always been redemption and hope and love and sacrifice. It is the duality of the world. It just is.

One of the beautiful things about bringing a child into a world like this is the idea that you'd have another reason to do something positive in the world; because you wanted to make the world better for your child. Not to say that people must have children to do right by the world, but that desire to leave the world better off for future generations--yours or someone else's--is how we keep the chaos at bay and keep hoping for peace. If everything ended with us, what would keep us from indulging in pure selfishness? If everything ended with us, why would we bother planning a road that will take 50 years to finish, or why would we hope to write a novel if it all died with us? If our knowledge, experience and our love couldn't reach beyond ourselves, we wouldn't strive so hard to make a contribution. That is human nature.

I don't have any children yet, but even in a post-9/11 world, I do plan on bringing new life into the world, and I do plan on making the time I and my future children have on earth the best I can, using every resource at my disposal. This kind of world is my world, and I choose to live in it fully, eyes open, not afraid of my responsibilities to it.

Incidentally, the picture here is of Michelangelo's tomb. He didn't have any children, but he believed in using his talents and abilities to create, and in so doing, left a legacy of beauty and enlightenment that lives on 500 or so years later. Whatever his feelings on the chaos of his day, he didn't give up and take life to be pointless. Giving up on the world is a profoundly cowardly act, the easy way out, and an entry point for the darkness. Michelangelo's bones are turned to dust inside this tomb, but his flame still burns as bright as the days he was flesh.

Nerd 4 Life

Let's establish something that may already be obvious: I have always been a nerd. In grade school, the "cool" kids smelled it right away and found in me their punching bag. I'm talking the works: Tripping me in the hallways, making fun of my non-Guess? jeans, inviting me to parties that didn't exist. The humiliations were daily and, gotta give credit, imaginative. Kindergarten till about 7th grade was the absolute worst, and my social life only got better when I ended up in a large high school, where one could find safety in anonymity and could also find fellow nerds. It didn't hurt that I also discovered and adopted a Goth, fuck-them-all mentality. I'm not Goth anymore, but if you see me wearing all black, I'm not in any mood. Luckily for my friends and coworkers, this is an infrequent event.

The reason this comes up now is because of a trip to a clothing boutique this past weekend. My clothes are becoming not only unfashionable but also kind of ratty, and I decided it was time to shop. So I went in to this cute little old house/boutique, and immediately, it was like 5th grade. I never knew what it was that so clearly marked me as one of the uncool, but whatever it is persists, and the saleslady honed in on it so fast that I never had a chance. A kind of tilt of her head, an appraising glance, and an insincere offer to help. "Can I help you with something," said she, of the hip spiky haircut and thick black glasses frames. (Glasses that are so nerdy they make you cool. A paradox, which my inability to comprehend undoubtedly contributes to my status as a true nerd, Nerdus veritas, rather than the hip nerd pretender, Nerdus mimeticus.) It may as well have been, "Can you come to my party?" (Girlish giggles heard offstage.)

It's funny, because I'm in the store so I don't look so helplessly plain and untrendy, but then I'm made to feel unwelcome. Like I'm not worthy to wear these clothes. Like I will ruin them with my nerd stink. Catch-fucking-22, huh?

I'll probably end up going to J. Crew this week to fulfill my sartorial needs. The people at J.Crew are also somewhat of the formerly popular set, but their clothes are basic, functional, and do not come with elaborate ties, buttons or instructions on how to wear them. This is one of the things I could never handle with high fashion--the ambiguity of the garment's purpose. Is it a skirt? A scarf? Both? I have several friends (yes, this includes you, Carol) I've shopped with who have this amazing knack for understanding exactly how to wear whatever shred of fabric they've pulled off the rack, and how to look amazing in it, and how to accessorize. I watch from the sidelines, hoping to take away some techniques or helpful hints on how to mimic this assuredness in the future, as I would a cooking show. (Whip the eggwhites until they are stiff and glossy, but not dry.) These are instructions that are clear, universal, that require no inborn talent. But even after watching my professional shopper friends, I have learned little if anything. More like watching a really good flirt, or improv comedian. It has less to do with the application of knowledge, and more to do with a trait of personality. So I continue to fumble with a shirt (or is it a jacket?) that costs more than some of the vacations I have taken. I suppose this means I will always incur the puzzled stare of the salesgirl, who always seems to be thinking: Poor thing, doesn't she know that goes on her head?

I'm probably too developmentally stunted at this point to really learn, so my fashion will most likely stay basic, with maybe some daring accessories. I guess I'm OK with this, though I feel like this betrays the very idea of fashion--that it's supposed to be some representation of the inner you, of WHO YOU REALLY ARE. And who I really am is not an equestrian bored at home in the Hamptons. I am a quirky, sensitive, laser-sharp observer of human behavior who is really quite non-traditional, opinionated and open-minded. Which shoots that whole "clothes make the man" theory to hell in my case.

Not that my having difficulty dressing myself closes the case for why I am unmistakably nerdy. This is something I have yet to figure out. What is it that makes me a nerd? I am decently attractive, do not like science fiction (overly), and exercise proper hygiene. I listen to contemporary indie rock-n-roll, read books and enjoy cooking. There are, of course, subspecies of nerdom, and in my case, I can only guess that it's not my lifestyle or appearance (besides the clothes thing) that make me a nerd.

No, in my case, it's something no makeover show can remedy. Unfortunately, I am the nerd--not my house or clothes or car. It's me. There is something of the outsider about me--something of the skeptical alien that unnerves people and makes them resist accepting me as one of their own. Maybe the kind of nerd I am is really this: Nerdus veritas inquisitus. My favorite word in all of English is Why?, which doesn't go over so well in some circles.

Actually, now that I'm thinking about it, being a nerd is pretty threatening, no matter whether you really like Star Wars or wear ugly shoes or like reading dictionaries of etymology, as I do. All of these things directly contravene the accepted, conventional choices that most people live their lives by. If I spend my time reading a dictionary and I tell this to someone who isn't sure that their choice to watch Monday Night Football on digital cable is the best use of their time, they might find that distressing. They might want me to go away, or at least they might want to try and reassure themselves by denigrating my lifestyle, the things I'm interested in.

Maybe my seeming lack of confidence in a fashionable boutique is simply evidence of a confidence elsewhere. Maybe my return to J.Crew for basic, functional clothing is an implicit statement that I'm pretty sure I know where I want to spend my time, and it's not obsessing over clothing.

All I know is that were I to ever inadvertently wear a skirt on my head, I would still know who I really am.