I’ll Never Be a Good Housewife

Photo by The Creative Exchange on Unsplash

I used to work in a second-hand bookstore, and the owner was like a beloved favourite uncle. He was a gruff man and could be intimidating if you didn’t know him but was one of the most kind-hearted people I have ever met. Books would come in for trade, receive a pencilled in price and category and would then sit on a heavy metal cart, just beside the front desk and within easy arm’s reach of the deceptively comfy swivel chair. When it was slow, Hutch would occasionally pick up one of the books that were awaiting shelving and begin to read aloud:

“Marry me,” said the handsome, shirtless Fabio from the front cover

“But I cannot cook! I cannot sew” replied the beguiling, yet vapid, damsel with perfect blonde curls.

The book was something about a cowboy or a lawman or maybe an outlaw. I’ve tried in vain to find it again. I’d do anything to be able to relive that silly afternoon.

Unlike our hapless heroine, I can cook and I can sew. Admittedly, I am a far better cook than a seamstress and I may have eaten popsicles for supper at least once in the preceding week. While my previous attempt suggests that I am not so great at the “wife” part, I should at least be able to cope with the “house” part of the descriptor. My resume of domestic skills would make me a tolerable catch for even the most rugged and handsome of…