the one in which i move to massachusetts so this shit’s legal (stupid california)

In a statement blatantly contrary to my aforementioned views on the state of unholy matrimony, I have come to the conclusion as of late that, dude, I totally need a wife.

Though my talents do in fact lend themselves to the lady-like and are said to include such illustrious attributes as looking good in thigh highs and possessing bouncy, shiny (slaved over) hair, I’m the first to admit that my list of traditionally feminine wiles ends there.

I don’t cook. I won’t clean. I fucking hate thank you notes and remembering birthdays. I want to be a kid, not take care of them, and putting away laundry (yours or mine), makes me feel stabby. I quite literally cannot stand more than ten minutes in the grocery store, firmly believe leftovers are only good for food fights, and really suck at wording brilliantly appropriate sentiments on cards of condolence, congratulations, or culminations (probably because it’s frowned upon to include the word fuck…multiple times.). I’m selfish. And vain. And entirely too interested in less noble pursuits to give much thought to a life of housewife and husbandry (but, again, I look good in thigh highs, so the boy puts up with me).

But because I have 1.) a vagina and 2.) a pair of double x chromosomes, the aforementioned list of domestic and social responsibilities, as well eleventy-hundred unmentioned others are nothing less than absolutely. fucking. expected. of. me.

So while my XY’d partner in crime is ne’er the recipient of snide looks over Sunday dinner for STILL NOT SENDING A THANK YOU CARD, never asked what he cooked for dinner after his double-digit-houred work day, nor inquired as to why he hasn’t sent a gift to his second-uncle-once-removed’s- neigbor’s-guinea pig’s- brisk:

I AM. (ohmygod stop giving me the side eye, people!)

And rather than getting all stabby about the iniquitous disparity between the expectations of the sexes, I’m choosing to embrace society’s dictated gender roles, you know, just not for me.

Hence the conclusion that, yes, I really do need a fucking wife.

I find myself seriously slipping into a (no doubt sugar induced) coma where visions of spotless apartments, folded laundry, stocked cabinets, and home cooked meals dance around my pixie-stick-addled brain where only imaginings of heels and wine before held court.

My yearn for an apron wearing, thank you note writing, calendar managing, back rub bequeathing wife reveals nothing more than the fact that I? am a feminist when it suits me. And the rest of the time?

Apparently I’m Don Draper.

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~ by rubylocks on March 4, 2010.

One Response to “the one in which i move to massachusetts so this shit’s legal (stupid california)”

  1. i would like to nominate myself…

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