Sirens of the Suburbs
It took the great Roseanne to shatter the myth of the so-called ‘domestic goddess’ in the late 80s and throughout the 90s. And it took Desperate Housewives to unshatter it, to a degree—relieving the suburban goddess of all responsibility, and reducing her to a mimosa-sipping agent of eros.
The truth of the matter is that we’d really like the reality to fall somewhere in between. Like Roseanne, we want respect. And like Teri Hatcher, we want to get it on—early and often—but ideally with our partners rather than the pool boy.
Because being a minivan-driving, capris-wearing, adult contemporary listening mom/housewife/domestic goddess does NOT equate to a state of shrewlike isolationism or virginal naïveté. And our current preoccupation with MILFhood nonwithstanding; if you need further proof that we like the sex, please see Exhibit A: our children.
And while I’m on the subject: really, I don’t mind being called ‘soccer mom’, I should probably make a confession of sorts—I don’t know the slightest thing about soccer. Well, except that David Beckham is hot.
The truth of the matter is that we’d really like the reality to fall somewhere in between. Like Roseanne, we want respect. And like Teri Hatcher, we want to get it on—early and often—but ideally with our partners rather than the pool boy.
Because being a minivan-driving, capris-wearing, adult contemporary listening mom/housewife/domestic goddess does NOT equate to a state of shrewlike isolationism or virginal naïveté. And our current preoccupation with MILFhood nonwithstanding; if you need further proof that we like the sex, please see Exhibit A: our children.
And while I’m on the subject: really, I don’t mind being called ‘soccer mom’, I should probably make a confession of sorts—I don’t know the slightest thing about soccer. Well, except that David Beckham is hot.
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