Article Surfing Archive

If I see one more Leave It to Beaver re-run, I might just use the Cleaver family name against them. The very civility of their lifestyle, as orchestrated by the family matriarch, makes this modern housewife look as pale as June's polished porcelain. And it's got me thinking that we girls ought to block her out via V-Chip before our husbands realize just how good Ward had it. If we're not careful, men will be scheming to send us back to the door to welcome them with the nightly pipe and slippers.

Like all of you, I delight in the fact that we're no longer expected to greet our husbands dressed like a 50's version of an Ann Taylor ad, complete with pearls and the combined scent of Chanel and a roast beef simmering in the oven. But let's be honest: When our modern-day men view this on TV, after just being greeted by someone with all the symptoms of post-traumatic homework disorder, they've got to be a little disappointed. Dressed in sweats and enveloped in the aura of Top Ramen, I'm afraid I've evolved so far from the standards depicted by June that I could easily be nicknamed 'December'.

While Mrs. Cleaver and I both bestow a tight-lipped kiss upon our husband as he leaves for work each morning, we surely purse our puckers for different reasons. June did so out of some sense of propriety, or to preserve her perfectly etched lipstick. I'm just trying to spare my man the noxious fumes of morning breath. The way I see it, protecting his olfactory sense is the least I can do after already having assaulted his eyes with baggy flannel pajamas and a three-inch radius of bed-head. (Not all domestic niceties are dead.)

Once he leaves for work, I am not expected to sit amongst hundreds of recipe cards to plan an elaborate evening supper. Instead, I often sit amongst friends at the local coffee house, sharing a latte and a laugh. I then swing by the store for some gourmet something, like refrigerated pasta a'la jarred sauce and a well-preserved salad in a bag. And you know what? When June isn't showing off on the small screen while I do my ten minutes of culinary prep work, I don't even feel guilty about it.

Lord knows I'd be the talk of Mayfield for opting to spit-shine my sense of inner peace over restoring the luster to my roasting pan. But June, we're not in Mayfield any more. The rest of the June-lites and I take the time to replenish our patience for the after-school shenanigans of our own little Beavs and Wallys. For the record, if our conversations with them ended with 'Gee whiz, mom,' instead of a six-syllable rendition of 'Whateveeeeeeeeeeer', we, too, might still have enough hair to coif.

I suppose my Ward could also argue that his emerging cranial shine has a lot to do with me responding to him with 'What!?' more often than 'Yes, dear.' There's even an unspoken understanding between us that he'd be as bald as Kojak if he protested my time off for average behavior. Yes, I know: June would have been lucky to step out to a Tupperware party while I am entitled to regular meetings of Bunco, book club, and the occasional girls' night on the town. This would have required poor Ward to rise from his recliner to serve up June's dutifully prepared ham and cheese casserole. But my man knows just where to find the frozen pizza.

Yes. By finding our voice in marriage, women have, indeed, forced men to find the stovetop, washing machine and toilet brush. We've even cleverly convinced them that they live longer (and b-b-better?) now that they cohabitate with us as a solid match of equals. Yet after they've caught an eyeful of June, I can't help but think they'd rather we just nod and smile, as if to say: 'Why, yes, dear. A big screen TV is a delightful addition to my favorite decorating nook.'

For any man who waxes too nostalgic for the days of his forefathers, though, I ask him to remember the one irrefutable perk he receives from a woman's improved lot in life. It's a little something that is far more likely to happen in a double bed than in a respectable set of twins. And the quality goes up tenfold when a girl feels fulfilled enough to trade her baker's apron for the French maid's variety.

Slow cook that, June!

© Shana McLean Moore