I was raised by a women’s libber. That meant that I was not taught how to clean a house, nor how to cook a meal. Whenever a commercial came on the family TV showing a woman pampering the house or posing in the kitchen with a smile on her face, my mom would let out an exasperated noise and quickly turn sour. This happened about every fifteen minutes because most commercials at the time showed happy women keeping house. Heaven forbid the lady had an apron on; my mom would abruptly launch from the couch and say she couldn’t take it anymore.
When a new typing class was offered at school, my mom said that I should not take it under any circumstances. If a future employer knew I could type, I might not get any further than a secretarial position. When I told Mom I wanted to be an artist, she would respond, “You mean an architect? That would be great!”
What did I become? At first a successful art director, then a successful business owner. Now that that’s done, I’m becoming more of an artist. But that’s another story. Here I want to express what happens when a girl grows up with the clear communication from her dear mom that cooking and cleaning is a waste of time and should never be expected from a competent woman.
First there was the problem of what to do with the toilet. I avoided cleaning one all through my years at college, but as a single young lady living in Manhattan, I looked at it and wondered what to do. So I called Mom. Don’t ask me why. I could have called anyone else and would have been given something more helpful, but, you see, as much as Mom knew she was better than all that, she was, in truth, the one who did all the cleaning in our home.
“Mom, how do you clean a toilet?” I asked. Her reply, “It’s not rocket science, you know.” And that was that.
