Time Machine

On occasion my charming husband Aaron has accused me of giving him the ol' bait and switch.  He claims that I was a sexy, free-spirited, modern lady when he married me and I morphed before his eyes into a 1950s housewife. It's true, I no longer willingly pose for nude photographs and I have been known to get control-freaky about keeping track of one's wallet (his wallet) and keys (his keys), but I believe those things are a function of age and wisdom, rather than a fundamental change in my personality. I am more sensible now. The "erotic art" of my youth is really just an embarrassing situation waiting to happen and "misplaced" wallets  and keys lead to the haus frau stomping up the stairs and angrily pulling the "lost" articles out of the pocket of yesterday's pants.

Of course, I do covet mid-century modern style. If money was no object I would recreate "The House of the Future" or the home of  The Incredibles, and live in it.  I like ballet flats and cropped pants. I don't work outside the home. I sew. I bake. I take my daughter to dance class in our lone family car. I say, "Oh, My Goodness!" a dozen times a day.

It's all pretty damning evidence, but I digress. This post is not about my love for ranch homes and Eames' design aesthetic, it is about how I have the choice to live like I do. Unlike, ye olde housewives of yore, I am not being squeezed by outmoded social mores into the shape of a happy homemaker. I AM actually a happy homemaker. I am also a smart ass and a blog writer and an amateur photographer and all of those things are afforded me by the hard work of feminists  who wanted nothing more than the CHOICE to bake or not to bake. 

To bake or not to bake? That is the question. And this is the weird kind of writing that comes when I spend an entire day communing with my cherry red mixer, happily up to my elbows in sugar and flour, swatting away little fingers from cooling cookies on the table.