By now, I’m sure you’re thinking, “Well, that little baby dyke ‘Lesbian Housewyfe’ is just a Generation X slacker who’s trying to cover up her lack of a job by turning her life into a series of anecdotes.”
Not quite, Charlie.
I don’t just stay at home even though that is what a housewyfe does. You know I live to scrub toilets and gently handwash delicates but the life of a housewyfe of the 90’s is complicated.
The “June Cleaver” of the 90’s is more likely to be an ad executive than a full-time gardening earth momma.
It has become essential to be, I hate to say it, employed in some way.
I’m afraid that in these days where both partners in a marriage must work, it is pretty much impossible for one to stay at home full time – a sad subject for the lovely Lesbian Housewyfe.
I get choked up just thinking about it.
A forlorn howl in the night from a domesticated wolf (or a “housewyfe who runs with the wolves”) seems to say, “Why must this be?” Tears form in its tame eyes and it wails loudly through the night. The neighbors throw old balled up socks at it.
Therefore, to keep the noise down, I have a little business on the side.
Not that kind of business!
I’m a computer consultant.
I do enough of that in my own home.No need to cast my cleaning pearls before swine.
Actually, computer consultant might be a bit restrictive as the description of what I do.
I’m an all around kind of cybergal in terms of sitting in front of a glowing box all day.
Generally, I take odd jobs which I then group together under the general category of “computer consulting.”
The operative word here is odd.
A very special piece of advice from the Lesbian Housewyfe:
Never answer a want ad asking for an “open-minded” typist.
I ended up typing porn for a rich short man who had no concept of anatomy. The money was good but it was almost painful to type these bizarre female wrestling pseudolesbian sex scenes.
The laughter, I hate to say, abounded as I realized he had all the wrong names attached to the wrong parts and most of the positions were quite impossible (water up your nose, etc.).
The dream ended when he asked me if I had any friends who would like to stage a little match for him. I had to say, “I’m a typist, not a pimp.”
The relationship ended abruptly.
Even stranger, I sometimes, on the occasion, the very slim and far between occasion, am a temporary.
Just for myself though; I’m not a whore either.
Now, what, you may ask, is strange about this?
What is not strange about temping?
You go to someone else’s workplace that they hate so much they got totally sick just thinking about \ going in this morning and you fill in for them. Usually with only a half-hour notice.
Temporaries are the substitute teachers of the business world.
After a few spitballs in the back of the head, you start to wonder who thought this up. I mean, who would do this?
Actually, apparently I would and a huge industry is built around the profession, but it’s still weird. I can do it though. I do type very well.
To my parent’s financial dismay, I am college educated and heard that same speech we all heard from our guidance counselor in high school.
“You, [insert your name here], are planning to go to college?”
A brave “Yes.” from you.
“You need to know how to type for college.”
A blank look from you. “Really?”
“You get better grades if you type your papers and most professors make you do it anyway. Look, it fits into your schedule right here in place of sex education (or art or theatre or study hall).”
“But—” You begin to pull your class schedule slowly from his/her grasp.
Sharp look from the guidance counselor as she/he forcefully pens in the change on your class schedule.
End of discussion.
So I can type.
My typing skills expanded quickly once I got to college to include general wordprocessing. The boredom which emanates from working on a computer for several hours brought my other business skills to the fore.
In my household, I use the computer to do the books and to keep track of my household duties.
In your workplace, I work wonders with my little typing fingers.
Thank God for my high school counselor who kept me out of Coach’s sex-ed class.
That could have been ugly.
Plus, if things ever get too rough, I can always sell Amway.
“NO!!!!” The voices from beyond are screaming. “Not Amway! You are our hero, our Earth Mother, our Goddess!!! You can’t be an Amway distributor! Our dreams are destroyed. Our perfect vision of housewifehood desecrated!” On and on they despair through the night, for yes, I am on that fateful Amway list.
So much for quiet nights in my neighborhood.
Fortunately, being the really grotesquely horrible salesperson that I am, I will probably never obtain the status which my cousin, my sponsor, wishes.
Of course, the family roped me into this- Lesbian Law #15: Support your family in all they do, even if it’s Amway.
I have yet to sell a single product to anyone but myself. So, the larger world can rest easy, for the lovely Lesbian Housewyfe is also a horrible black hole in the land of multilevel marketing.
You can see that this is not really a viable option. I just keep it in mind in case I’m ever that desperate.
So you can see, I am perfectly willing to jump in when the times get a bit threatening financially.
Luckily, I am able to completely and freely choose my life as the Lovely Lesbian Housewyfe.
I am not a Generation X slacker.
And I hate the term–who the hell thought up Generation X anyway?
Some ad geek.
I know these things.
My parents sent me to college.
They understand Lesbian Law #1: Never underestimate the power of a Lesbian Housewyfe.
Anyone need any Amway?
This piece was written back in the 90’s – when I really was a baby dyke. Surprising how life cycles and I find myself creating a new career which is a dip back into my past, vibrantly colored with the deep tones of my experience. Oh, but I never was a success with any multi-level marketing scheme. I just never could get into it.
Want to Support the Housewyfe?