Friday, July 11, 2014

Suzie Homemaker and Me, the twain shall never meet.

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.

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