I would have made a great 1950’s housewife–and not just because I can whip up a chrome-plated five-can casserole and smoke and drink like a fiend while pregnant.
Witness this exchange between The Groomeo and me, transcribed from the dictaphone in our secretary Miss Walcott’s shorthand during the year 1958:
Groom: My ear still hurts. It’s been feeling swollen or infected–totally weirdsville–off and on for days now. It’s fine for awhile, and then it hurts up the wazoo. I’m feeling like a real party pooper.
Me: Are you thinking it’s time to have the doctor spin by the pad for a housecall?
Groom: I don’t know. I’m not really sure if it’s bad enough to see that shuckster Dr. Kildare just yet. That square is bad news.
Me, channeling Jane Wyatt in “Father Knows Best”: Maybe it would help if I hoisted my well-starched crinolines and peed in your ear?
Groom: It’s not a jellyfish sting, you know. Good thing you’re toting around a classy chassis, or you’d be clutched, Nerd.
(off to Sardi’s to check my Ooh-La-La lipstick in the bathroom mirror and await the reviews)