In which we join FHA for the free food

27 Mar

In high school I was our (one and only) homecoming queen. See, our basketball team finally qualified for varsity and we got invited to this invitational where they crowned a queen. So our vice principal (“pal” because he is your friend) came up to me and was all, “yeah, so I know this totally goes against your values and all, but you have to be our homecoming queen and go buy a real dress instead of some Guatemalan shift and wear it to this event and sit in a wicker chair on a platform.” So anyway, when they introduced all of us Laura Ashley-clad girls (to the strains of “One Moment in Time”) the announcer kept saying these chicks belonged to something called FHA. My activities went something like this, “Elizabeth Zitron, Shakespeare monologue competition, Rainforest Alliance, protesting fur stores, wearing vegan combat boots, visiting the lesbian bookstore every Saturday.” My mom and I totally could not figure out what the hell this FHA thing was. Finally someone less Jewish than us explained, “Future HOMEMAKERS of America.” For real? For real, yo.

In my teens I was self-righteously disdainful of FHA, now I realize it would have been a great way to learn actual skills like cooking, sewing and financial management that would serve me well in my DIY thirties. Plus, you would get to eat the stuff you made! But at the time, I did not realize that “Sister of the Bride” was actually quite the feminist manifesto.  Oh, and I went to JEWISH DAY SCHOOL. So let’s finish our foray into the world of Jane who at five has decided she wants to be a homemaker. Dream big.

"Jesus, Jane, that Tom is such a tool. I doubt he's financially soluable either."

Seriously, Jane, if you are going to be a homemaker you need to find a better catch than Tom.  Brutha looks like he still gets dropped on the head regularly. Have Mommy take you to the country club and see what’s being offered there before you settle for someone who’s greatest accomplishment is shoving food into his mouth on the first try. Like my mother always said, “get a big diamond, you never know when you might need to hawk it someday.” (She totally hates that I continue to requote it, well, maybe she should have thought of that when she said it to me in college.)

I just like that they use the word "gay" to describe her place because I doubt it's that fabulous.

I love how Mother tries to convince Jane she’s doing far more with her life. Although I secretly agree with her on this point! Honestly, I don’t care what the children think about it (and not just because here they are scary plastic baby dolls), my house is MY castle. They had so better keep their grubby paws off of the Versace couch and my Hermes throw blanket. If they think I’m Mean Mommy now just wait until they run into me and make me spill my pre-“Bold and the Beautiful” martini on the Lagerfeld-designed rug.

"Oh, Jane, here comes the mailman. Mommy'll be back in a half hour, darling."

Notice the youngest of Jane’s scary plastic baby dolls is MISSING and the dog is begging not to be sent the way of the backyard cats.  It’s all so Brangalina. Or maybe it’s more Jennifer Aniston as Jane is a single woman living all alone with nothing but pretend babies and the semblance of a life.

You just keep telling yourself that, Jane. Remember this moment for rehab group therapy.

Oh, so you are going to be a myriad of underpaid, underappreciated jobs? Sweet, Jane!

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One Response to “In which we join FHA for the free food”

  1. Katie March 27, 2010 at 10:43 am #

    Look at Tom, already “hung over”. I also love that Mother is teaching her to shut the drapes, so the neighbors cannot see what goes on in the house.

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