Housewife Life: Helpless Male Syndrome

Hello, my name is Susie, and I am a housewife. For those of you who may not have realized it: I am literally Susie Homemaker. I fulfilled my lifelong goal of retiring from the workforce and staying home full time in 2008, and we have never looked back. Sure, there are days when I miss pretending to like my boss, longing for the three gray walls of my tiny cubicle, and reminiscing of doing mundane tasks for menial pay, but for for the most part, I think we made the right decision.

Nonetheless, most people are still astounded when they find out that I'm a housewife.  Once they pick their jaw up off the ground, the question inevitably follows, "What do you do all day?" Oh, bless. What don't I do all day? What if you were literally always at your job? "Housewife" is really an umbrella, under which the duties of maid, chef, accountant, personal assistant, maintenance supervisor, and activities director all fall. I'm (usually) quite happy to take on all these roles, except that lately I have taken notice that it has had an effect on the other members of my household as well.

I don't have children, other than the semi-grown man child I married and a fifteen year-old blind fur baby. Believe me when I tell you they are a full-time job. At any given moment, I can feel one of them standing behind me, waiting for assistance. There seems to be a widespread epidemic of Helpless Male Syndrome here at Mayhem Manor. And yes, the initials of Helpless Male Syndrome are the same as "Help Me, Susie," and that irony is not lost on me.

Let me give you some examples of how my husband has been spoiled by this housewife life: last week, he 110% thought that an Old El Paso taco kit came with all the ingredients to make tacos. As in, the poor man hasn't cooked for himself in so long he thought that little box had meat, cheese, salsa, and lettuce inside! He seemed taken aback when I told him all Old El Paso really supplies is a pouch of seasoning, a stack of tortillas, and some inspiration. In addition to his taco naivety, he also hasn't touched a thermostat or a landline telephone in about eight years.

I remember being at my parents' house years ago and hearing my dad ask my mom to make him a sandwich. I suppose that's a generational thing, but Clint and I exchanged baffled glances over the fact that someone might depend on someone else to slap two pieces of bread together around some sandwich meat and create lunch. I laughed too soon: granted, my darling husband can make his own sandwich creation, but I noticed last week that he asked me no less than six questions while building his bread, ham, and cheese meal. He says he's still learning his way around our kitchen after our renovation. We renovated two years ago, so I'm sure he'll figure it out any day now.

It must be hard to fit all of this in that tiny taco kit box. Miraculous.

The taco kit debacle let to--in addition to a mountain of ridicule--a discussion of all the things that take place in our home of which he is blissfully unaware. Clint freely admitted that, the majority of the time, he doesn't even try reading the directions on things, and explained, "I just figured you know how to do it, so you can just tell me and I don't need to read the directions." While this is a charming display of trust, you can imagine that this little habit has nearly driven me crazy on more than one occasion.

Meet Cotton, one of my bosses (and let's be honest, the toughest one by far).

Now that I think I've picked on my spouse enough, let me briefly tell you about that little dog that I have managed to spoil completely rotten. He requires coaxing and praise for tremendous tasks like drinking water or eating his food, and his internal body clock now demands that he receive a "chewy" dog treat every afternoon around 4:00 p.m. or there is doggy hell to pay (take it from me and do everything possible in your power to never find yourself in a staring contest with a blind dog). He has an assortment of blankets, each that he has deemed appropriate for various occasions: "Oh, that's his quilt for the car, then the red fleece one is his favorite for napping on the couch, and the fur throw goes with him to bed every night so he doesn't get cold...." The list we left for our pet sitter when we were in Tahiti needed to be indexed, color coded, and spiral bound. It takes a village...or a housewife.

Walking this little dog hasn't exactly been a fast endeavor since he lost his eyesight eight years ago. We dutifully make our neighborhood stroll each morning, completing the same two mile route pretty much every day. As he's gotten older, however, what used to take 45 minutes now takes over an hour. Much to his delight, we have our regulars that we encounter who remark about what a trooper this senior dog is, how miraculous to still be active, and generally just folks who contribute to his pampered, spoiled life. My neighbor Kim tried walking with us not too long ago, but gave up less than halfway in because the pace is so maddeningly slow. "When people ask you what you do all day, I hope you punch them straight in the face," she told me as she made her getaway to more productive activities. Now there's someone who gets it.

This week is a relatively quiet week, since I've only had one round of groceries, five or six errands, one doctor's appointment, two loads of laundry, and a full day of cleaning, dusting, and mopping. Wait, it's only Wednesday? Well, at least I haven't been bored. There's more of this housewife life to discuss, but I'll save that for another post (working title: All Work and No Pay Makes You a Housewife).

Don't get me wrong: I love the two helpless males that I enable take care of, and I still eagerly choose the housewife life over any other alternative. It's just that some days being a human instruction manual and taking over an hour to walk two miles can exhaust even Susie Homemaker (this may explain why I recently threatened to run away from home). Whenever one (or both) of them is being especially needy, I try to remind myself it's good job security. It's a tough life, but someone's gotta live it. Now, if you'll excuse me: I've got a job to do.

It's not that being a housewife is easy; I just manage to make it look that way.