Thursday, October 30, 2008

Playing House

It is without doubt that I am stuck in the wrong era, and I’ve known this since I was very young. It’s apparent in my fondness for run-on sentences and heaps of commas, and the way I sit mesmerized in an 18th century school house at a local historical sight, fingering the smooth grooves of the long table-desks, alert to the spirit the room holds. The impression life leaves on places well-worn is palpable, and at times I think I have only to close my eyes to see through the eyes of the past. I am more and more certain that reincarnation is a possibility and my spirit has a shelf-life without expiration. That I know someone I’ve known, and loved, before. And with all this – comes being torn between some set of values I want to have, and those that make more sense for me in today’s world.

So I amuse myself by imagining (I play make-believe with myself often, for entertainment purposes only) that I am June Cleaver, in today’s world. It’s not my favorite decade, but it’s easily envisioned – thanks to TBS – and it was a time of rigid conservatives and perfect ladies.

My husband (those who know me know how funny that sounds) comes home from a long day at the office, where he sells life insurance, or some such dull and unglamorous thing. I greet him at the door with kiss on the cheek, and Mich Ultra – tugging on curl from my perfectly coiffed hair as he slips his hand around my aproned waist. It’s his favorite apron. The one with the ruffles.

“Where are the children, dear?”

“Why, Johnny is at the baseball field and I’ve given the little ones their supper early, and all are bathed and watching a Sponge Bob marathon in bed.” I flash a quick wink, and he knows I’ve once again forgotten my undergarments. “Would you like to have dessert before your dinner, darling?”

“I think that’s a splendid idea.”

“I’ve laid it out in your study.” It’s the one room in the house that is off limits to the offspring, and he saunters towards the sliding wooden doors, clicking on the iHome as he enters, filling the room with Julie London’s soft voice. I watch as he positions himself in the large, leather chair behind the desk, and begins fiddling with the crinoline under my skirt.

“So you received my text, then”, I say, watching for the smile I know is coming. He loves that about me – the way I refuse to go an entire day without rousing him before he even gets home.

“I did, and I’ll show you exactly my reaction, you naughty little kitten. And be glad my secretary is a man, or you might think better of making me think such things at the office.”


This is where my reverie is broken. The casserole is done.

I dole out a portion for the young kids and call the oldest to the table. And throughout dinner, its not the Ward at the head of the table I’m missing.

It’s dessert.


Wow, that was awkward said...

You have skills.

I'm trying hard to not quote my favorite line from that show: "Ward, why are you so hard on the Beaver?"

Oops, too late.

Periodically Consistent said...

You prolly should concentrate on why he's so hard on June.

Then again, it was obviously a really good text.

Char said...
This comment has been removed by the author.
Wow, that was awkward said...

You do have a way with words. Figures June is always wearing a pearl necklace.

Char said...

I had to go back and re-read because my previous comment made no sense. I'm blaming it on the meds.

I'm digging that he had a male secretary - what a liberated man! :) makes for a very happy June.

Periodically Consistent said...

@B - You ARE a dirty bird. Welcome home.

@Char - You need no excuse! I try my best never to make sense. Gives me that false sense of superiority that comes from thinking people "just dont get you".

In my imagination - everyone is happy. Or at least generally satisfied.

Karen ^..^ said...

I loved this. This was a great post, and I've always felt that I was born in the wrong era too.

You write exceptionally well. I was riveted.