Showing posts with label housewife. Show all posts
Showing posts with label housewife. Show all posts
Sunday, July 18, 2021
Saturday, June 20, 2020
Happy Father’s Day
A modern family out celebrating Father’s Day. Left to right, that’s the wife (Daddy), all-girl son, daughter and husband. (Portrait by Ignoringy)
Monday, February 4, 2019
Wednesday, August 15, 2018
How to Dust Everything
As newly subservient males took over the household chores, How-To's like this one from Swiffer attempted to train males to become better housewives.
Thursday, January 4, 2018
Monday, November 13, 2017
Friday, May 26, 2017
Boys' Day Out
A 21st Century Moment:
Middle-aged housewives getting their hair done in a beauty salon (from a BBC television documentary about the "new masculinity" in the Post-Patriarchal Era).
Friday, March 31, 2017
Wednesday, March 1, 2017
Friday, February 3, 2017
A Matriarchal Male Moment
Mrs. Bobbi Morton waits patiently in the Mod Male Boutique while his son, Melinda, tries on another prom gown.
Friday, October 7, 2016
Wednesday, September 14, 2016
Friday, August 5, 2016
Tuesday, May 31, 2016
Thursday, March 10, 2016
Tuesday, February 16, 2016
My Son, the Fashionisto
I looked up from the sink full of dishes to see how my spouse had outfitted our son.
A sleeveless white skater dress with elasticized waist adorned his body and white skimmers adorned his feet. White pantyhose encased his legs and his short haircut was brushed forward to give him bangs that were held in place with a white barrette. A white purse, slung over his shoulder completed the outfit.
His eyes were lightly made up ― just a touch of liner and mascara and a smudge of eyeshadow. Pink lip gloss highlighted his lips and he might have had a light touch of blush, too, but I was not sure. Either way, his makeup, as well as his whole presentation was befitting a teenager his age.
"What's the matter, Cammi? You look very pretty," I replied.
"Thank you, Daddy, but I can't go to school dressed like this," he whined.
"Why not?" I asked.
"The other boys will make fun of me," he replied.
"I don't understand why they would," was my perplexed retort.
"White ― after Labor Day!" was his anxious reply.
Monday, February 15, 2016
Husbands, Wives and Breasts
In this day and age, it seems absurd that husbands still want wives with big breasts, but they do.
With that in mind, my parents started me on a regimen of hormone supplements as I approached puberty. The purpose of the hormones was to help me achieve a state of pulchritude that would make me more attractive to the opposite sex and eventually snag me a husband.
When I began taking the supplements, I had big expectations. My budding breasts seemed to outgrow my training bra overnight and I was soon sporting a new A-cup bra. However, as all my friends moved up the bra cup alphabet, my breasts refused to grow any larger. I was stuck at an A-cup even after the doctor increased the dosage of my hormones.
As I neared my sweet sixteen birthday with nary a date in sight, Mom offered me breast implants as a birthday gift. But I was adamant that no surgeon was going to take a scalpel to my surgically virgin body, so I refused.
Although I lacked bountiful breasts, I had other attractive features including a pair of long shapely to-die-for legs. To show them off, I always wore the shortest skirts and highest heels. On a few occasions, I was sent home from school because my skirts were so short that they revealed other assets.
Nevertheless, I built my wardrobe around mini-skirts and mini-dresses hoping to attract someone who preferred well-turned ankles over well-rounded breasts.
After graduating from high school, I became a receptionist at a high-tech engineering firm where I attracted a design engineer who was an unabashed leg aficionado. We dated for six months, then she asked for my hand in marriage.
We just celebrated our fifth wedding anniversary and she still likes me to show off my legs. (She tells everyone, "He has the best legs in town.")
As her obedient and dutiful wife, I willingly comply and wear short skirts or dresses and high heels throughout my day.
With that in mind, my parents started me on a regimen of hormone supplements as I approached puberty. The purpose of the hormones was to help me achieve a state of pulchritude that would make me more attractive to the opposite sex and eventually snag me a husband.
When I began taking the supplements, I had big expectations. My budding breasts seemed to outgrow my training bra overnight and I was soon sporting a new A-cup bra. However, as all my friends moved up the bra cup alphabet, my breasts refused to grow any larger. I was stuck at an A-cup even after the doctor increased the dosage of my hormones.
As I neared my sweet sixteen birthday with nary a date in sight, Mom offered me breast implants as a birthday gift. But I was adamant that no surgeon was going to take a scalpel to my surgically virgin body, so I refused.
Although I lacked bountiful breasts, I had other attractive features including a pair of long shapely to-die-for legs. To show them off, I always wore the shortest skirts and highest heels. On a few occasions, I was sent home from school because my skirts were so short that they revealed other assets.
Nevertheless, I built my wardrobe around mini-skirts and mini-dresses hoping to attract someone who preferred well-turned ankles over well-rounded breasts.
After graduating from high school, I became a receptionist at a high-tech engineering firm where I attracted a design engineer who was an unabashed leg aficionado. We dated for six months, then she asked for my hand in marriage.
We just celebrated our fifth wedding anniversary and she still likes me to show off my legs. (She tells everyone, "He has the best legs in town.")
As her obedient and dutiful wife, I willingly comply and wear short skirts or dresses and high heels throughout my day.
Wednesday, July 22, 2015
Wednesday, July 15, 2015
Thursday, July 9, 2015
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