Respect for “Suburban Housewives”
Living the Dream
The “suburban housewife” will be voting for me. They want safety & are thrilled that I ended the long running program where low income housing would invade their neighborhood. — President Donald J. Trump, August 12, 2020
The liberal elites and militant feminists are attacking Our President for promising to protect suburban housewives like me from low-income housing.
The liberals look down on me. Some even say housewives like me don’t exist anymore.
I’m here to tell you the liberals are dead wrong.
First of all, out here in real America, traditional marriage between a man and a woman as God intended is alive and well, as my story proves.
My husband was my high school sweetheart. We got married when I was 17 and found out I was pregnant.
Three years and three more kids later, also by accident, there we were — two kooky kids ourselves blessed with four little ones.
Eventually, after my husband was sick of my complaining about all of us living with my parents, he bought us a nice split-level in a suburban development with the money, it emerged later, he embezzled from his employer, my father. (My husband blamed a Black colleague, who’s still in jail.)
Our suburban life was bliss. I stayed home raising the kids — I didn’t want a so-called “career” or “work-life balance” or “personal fulfillment” — while my husband went off to work each day making a good living for our family and also, I was surprised to learn, the other family he had in Costa Rica. (No wonder he never took me to Costa Rica!)
But like a great husband, he came home from work every night after hitting the dog track and afterwards the bars with the guys.
Even if it was 2 a.m., sometimes he wanted to “get some action.” He was so romantic!
He was also generous. Every week he gave me an allowance for groceries — he loved how I could stretch a dollar with store brands and day-old bread — and also household cleaning products. If the house wasn’t spotless, he would yell at me, “What the hell do you do around here all day?”
He could be sweet. For my birthday one year, he bought me a brand-new Maytag washer and dryer. Then for my next birthday he went out and bought me another new Maytag set after the year-old ones were repossessed for nonpayment of credit due to his gambling debts. I also got to meet his bookie, who seemed nice at first.
My loving husband was also appreciative. When I slaved over a hot stove, but he didn’t like the dinner, he didn’t complain. He just got up, threw it into the trash, grabbed a six-pack of Schlitz, and went into the TV room to yell at the liberal newscasters.
Our life took a wonderful turn when we decided I would put him through college and then law school by selling Amway, Mary Kay and other products in my spare time while raising our four kids and keeping the house together.
So I literally was bringing home the bacon and frying it up in the pan, while never letting my husband forget he was a man, if you know what I mean. And I never complained like those feminists about how it was killing me down to my very soul. Those tranquilizers really work!
As any loving help meet would, I wrote his papers, took his tests, and eventually passed the bar exams for him with flying colors. I was doing it for us and our future! Then my dad used his connections to get him a job at one of those law firms you see on Florida billboards.
Long story short, we got a bigger house in a better suburb and joined the country club. The suburban dream kept getting better. Until my husband suddenly left me for the paralegal he was “working late” and “just friends” with.
He got one of his hotshot divorce lawyer partners to screw me out of a nickel of alimony or child support. He got our home, our retirement accounts, and my parents’ estate. I even had to pay the lease on his Maserati plus maintenance!
Fortunately, when the dust settled, I landed a job at a big box store and was able to work double shifts.
Until my boss fired me because he was afraid I would complain about his constant sexual harassment.
So now I’m broke with four teens who all hate me because we’re living in an apartment complex next to the freeway. It’s terrible but cheap because with my low income I qualify for something called Section 8.
But I’m not one of those low-income people that Our President is promising to protect me from. You know who I mean.
Jeffrey Denny is a Washington writer.