Sometimes I get lulled into forgetting just how punk rock my wife is. (Punk rock as a phrase, not a reference to the sad, slow death of the fringe culture and eventual decline of rock and roll altogether) After a couple years of living in the comfortable domestic haven she has carved out for us, it's easy to lose sight of the fact that she is still the badass I fell for. Here is further proof that the American Housewife (who, these days sews, bakes and works 50 hours a week from a home office) is not what she used to be. And thank God for that.
Me: "Hey Sweety, do you want a margarita? I'm gonna have one... or five."
Wifey: (Bent over kitchen table cluttered with thousands of tiny pieces of fabric) “…If you want me to get wasted I'm down. But… can I finish my quilting first?”
Now that's Betty Draper meets Joan Jett. Domestic crafting and animal house. Quilting is once again for badasses. Or maybe for the first time. Either way, my wife rules.
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