A while back, quite a ways back really, a friend called me Suzie Home-maker.
I reacted somewhat violently to that moniker. I do not like that title. I don't fit that title.
Even though I probably do damn near all of the things under that title.
Let me explain:
In my mind Suzie Home-maker evoke images of June Cleaver and Martha Stewart. And honey, I am so fucking removed from those two that I'm on a different planet. Perfection doesn't mean much to me. I don't wear make-up on a daily basis, my hair is the bastard offspring of an English Sheepdog and an Elder God that I sacrifice copious amounts of conditioner and hair ties to, dresses are something I wear to fancy shingdigs not to wash the damned dishes.
I knit. I have two sewing machines that are older than me. One of which you will pry out of my cold, dead hands. I need to get them looked at to make sure they still work and figure out what in the hell to do with machine number two. Because I don't need two. Not with the one I'm calling Bertha around.
Part of me wants a small(ish) garden. Why? Have you seen food prices lately? It's gods-be-damned economical to grow somethings myself. It's a project for later.
I am not, nor will I ever be a Suzie Home-maker. You're more likely to find me in men's cargo shorts and some sort of t-shirt blasting Flogging Molly at close to concert levels--it's nice living with a man with DJ equipment, over cooking a four-course meal in pearls.
Do I hold anything against Suzie's? Nope. It's just not me.