At some point in my bloggy career, I may actually take the time and energy to compose a full master’s thesis-length piece about how I feel, but for now, let’s just assume that whatever you guess my desires toward getting married, birthing offspring, being a housewife, and living “that” life are, you are probably right. (Unless, of course, you thought I went to business school expressly to earn my M.R.S., in which case...you must be a new reader! Welcome! Now don’t ever think something so shameful again.)
However, there are some certain, very short-lived, times that I find myself thinking that maybe, just maybe, I want to be – I hate admitting this – I want to be a housewife.
These are times when I am running in work-y circles like a chicken with her head, not completely cut off to the misery-ending death, but in the more punishing condition of my neck being sliced through only the radius on one side to the vertebrae, to the pain, suffering psychological torture because my now-flapping head that is covered with residual feathered hair on fire is slapping against my knot-ridden neck muscles over and over and over. And over.
“I can’t take this!” I’ll scream with my hands yanking at whatever is left of my greasy, unwashed hair. “This isn’t what I want! This isn’t me!” I’ll wail as I crumble into a messy weeping cyber-heap in front of my laptop.
“I just want to be a housewife!”
I pause. “Oh em gee,” I’ll gasp in slow, steady epiphany. Holy hell, I want to be a housewife.
Is that so wrong?!
Yes. Yes, it’s wrong. So very, very wrong.
I don’t want to be a housewife. It’s confusion. In my desperation, I cloud the difference between being a housewife and living a housewife’s lifestyle. Being a housewife means I have to get married, and stressperation or not, I never confuse myself about getting married.
In my sane mind and body, though, I always want to wake up with the sunrise, make light, fluffy pancakes dripping with golden syrup for breakast, pack a bento box with Sanrio disguising a perfectly balanced pyramid, do yoga, lunch with the lovely ladies at the Polo Lounge, shop at Barney’s, the real store, not the warehouse sale, get a facial, play a round of golf, crochet a bikini for an annual trip to the house on the French Riviera, all before putting a three-course meal on the table for an 8:00 dinner party with friends.
I don’t have to be married to do that. I just have to make a bazillion dollars by blogging. Simple!
Induction into the Bazillionaire Blogger’s Club is a ways off for me. Until then, my moments of housewifery are limited to brunch on the “Dining Terrace” followed by respectable shopping at the Century City mall.
Based on the name, I am guessing that Harper’s Express is the foodcourt offshoot of Harper’s, a full-scale Italian restaurant near the entrance of the mall on the Santa Monica Blvd side. It is safe for me to say that I would never go to the larger Harper’s for a real meal unless forced by highly unusual circumstances like I had planned on eating at Pink Taco and didn’t want to wait (the unusual part being a desire to eat at Pink Taco). For one thing, I have a shameless prejudice against mall restaurants unless they involve steam tables, plastic trays, and solictiations for tips taped to a platic jar. More importantly, if I really want to eat Italian food, why on earth would I drive all the way to Century City for mall quality when I can walk a block-and-a-half to the unofficial Little Italy?
The Express location of Harper’s, however, deserves a gentler beating. It is set up toward the center with bar-style seating on three sides, unlike the pure QSRs on the periphery of the inside food court. The “host” greeted us as we sat down, handed us two menus with the hallmark of mall restaurants, lamination, and asked us about drinks. It might have been too early in the day to respectfully gorge on gross meatness at Red Rock Chili, but perfectly alright to indulge in a glass of grocery store wine!
We kept things simple, since that is what the menu of omelets, salads, and a few panini encouraged. I don't know why I ask for my omelets to be made with egg whites only when I know that the calorie offset from no-yolks is diminished to zero with 1) overcompensatory amounts of cooking oil and 2) cheese. Nonetheless, I like to live the fantasy of a healthy lifestyle. The vegetable and cheese omelet was not bad, but neither was it outstanding. Only the price ranked high enough to deserve a raised eyebrow. Mall food courts are notorious for price gouging, and it's especially rampant in Century City, where calling it a "Dining Terrace" and providing wedding reception musical entertainment means vendors can charge 50% more for their street cart food. I didn't touch the two pieces of Italian bread, but had a bite of the accompanying potatoes. They weren't good enough to finish.
Overflowing with vegetables that were cooked too long and smashed together so that they were wholly unidentifiable from a vegetable stew, the panini didn't look very appetizing, but the conclusion was that it was edible enough to eat half. We didn't take the other half to go.
But who needs to take home leftovers when you're a bazillionaire blogging unmarried housewife?!?!