I watched Corrina, Corrina today. It's such a good movie. Also, because I haven't seen it in years, it never occurred to me, the little girl is Deb from Napoleon Dynamite. But anyway, point being I felt a little jealous. Not of having a black maid of course. I certainly don't want to go back to segregation and social injustice, but I definitely admire the style and simplicity of that era in a lot of other regards.

I am starting to think maybe I was born in the wrong time period. When I was in high school, the thought of ever being a housewife was completely abhorrent. Who could ever be content to stay home with the kids and cook and clean and have dinner and a martini ready on the table when their husband got home?! I never wanted to be a June Cleaver type. As I have gotten older though, I can understand the appeal. After moving out of the dorms, I realized just home much time and effort can go into keeping a place tidy. And as much as I love to cook, with school and work, there are absolutely times when I am just too exhausted for anything other than ramen or a bag or popcorn or mac n cheese. Add children to that and when would a person ever have time to breathe and relax? I have been amazingly lucky to have the opportunity to get an education, and the right as a woman to pursue whichever career I please, it's wonderful. And maybe it's just because I've reached the point of being completely burnt out, but all I want to do with my life right now is make a pot roast and decorate a layer cake, chase after small children, have a house where all the furniture matches and my mattress isn't on the floor. Have nice things. Practice the piano. Paint the house. Always be working on a new project. I would have enough time to thrift for funky stuff and refurbish it, and learn to make my own clothes. I would wear an apron nearly all day, nylons, low heels, a hat. Maybe gloves too. Always pearls. Invite ladies over for tea. Get milk in glass bottles. Garden. Serve fresh lemonade in a big belly pitcher. Always have fresh flowers. Sell Mary Kay or Tupperware. Read all the "classics". Listen to records.

Who knows, maybe then I would have felt oppressed and felt compelled to do anything to push the envelope, and I would have been one of the Vargas girls or something. Or longed to go further back in time. I'm fickle that way.