Yesterday 2016. Today 1958?
Guess it’s time for me to don hose, heels, a dress, and pearls, and go on a manhunt for a guy who will marry me and keep me in the style I’m accustomed to.
I better practice my smile, and holding my tongue, because I’m sure my new husband will have no desire to hear “drivel” and “clap-trap” escape my lips.
He’ll say things to me like, “A woman’s place is in the bedroom and not in the boardroom”.
He will expect me to perfect a bundt cake, and have his martini and slippers waiting for him when he walks through the door in the evening from a hard day at the office.
At night, he’ll kiss me chastely on the cheek before we retire to our separate twin beds, me still in full makeup and wearing lipstick, where I will proceed to cry myself to sleep because I know he’s screwing his secretary, and because I’m so unfulfilled.
FUCK. THAT. SHIT.
Outing “Father Knows Best”?