It's eleven-thirty in the morning and I'm just waking up. A sigh slowly escapes from my lips, as my mind feels heavy. I went to bed with a headache yesterday, Harrison told me that an aspirin and a good night's sleep would help, yet it hasn't. He had to go into the hospital at four this morning, he'll get home late, we'll have dinner, and he'll go to bed. I won't mention my headache, because he works all day and I shouldn't complain when I'm stuck at home.
I slide out of bed, reluctantly, and straighten the duvet. If I don't clean up, it'll feel I lounged around all day, watching television or online window shopping. I should get dressed. There isn't much point to it, considering I'm not planning on going anywhere, but a bath and clean clothes might help me feel better.
Thirty-three years didn't look bad on me. No wrinkles on my face, no signs of aging... People killed to look youthful, why? It wasn't like it got you anything. Least, it didn't get me anything here. Two degrees, internships, a wonderful work history and I was still unemployed. Even if some sexist asshole hired me to be eye candy, at least I'd have a job.
I slip out of my robe, quickly going about my morning routnine. Not that I have any place to go.
I feel so repetitive, the same thoughts are constantly bouncing through my mind.
I'll find a job.
I will.
Eventually.
I need a job.
As I climb down the stairs, I contemplate what I could do around here. I wasn't technically unemployed, because I quit. Harrison received an amazing offer in some middle of nowhere Louisiana town, in Chicago, where we settled for his med school and my master's program, our combined salaries got us a mediocre at best apartment. In a tiny town, our savings got us a nice suburban house and let us be classified as upper middle class.
Unfortunately, in such a small town, there weren't many or any nonprofits that were hiring.
At Harrison's work party three months ago -- we'd lived here a total of seven months, it was now October and we moved here in March -- someone asked what I do and I shrugged. They interpreted that to mean housewife.
A motherfucking house wife, like I was in the racist 1950s.
Why did people idealize the 50s? We still have sexism, racism, and milkshakes, you don't need to go back in time to experience those things.
I went into the kitchen, glancing around.
I'd taken up gardening as a hobby, since I didn't have else to do. It allowed us to have fresh produce: apples, lettuce, bell peppers. In order to use said produce, I was working on refining my cooking and canning skills. Like a damn housewife.
"Cordelia!" I glanced around, looking for our Schnoodle. We'd adopted the schnauzer poodle mix shortly before we moved away from Chicago, we thought maybe it'd help prepare us for... Prepare us for... I pushed the thought from my mind, as I went into the living room, seeing my cute little baby girl curled up on a chair napping.
"C'mon girl, let's go on a walk!" She woke up, her tongue sticking out of her mouth. I fastened the leash onto her collar, trying to decide where to walk to.
The autumn leaves were gorgeous, admittedly. I couldn't garden in this weather, but I could walk, enjoying the slightly brisk weather. Not Chicago brisk, but still, I could use that word and have it sorta apply. After ten minutes or so, I glanced up, trying to figure out if I should go to the dog park or the pet store.
"Cordy!" I gasped, pointing to a sign. "Whadya think? Should we do that?" She looked up at me, happily yapping in agreement. Pet store it was.
__________________________
"Honey, I'm home!" It was nine-thirty and Harrison was just no arriving home.
"In the kitchen!" I replied.
"I think we- What's... What's this?" He glanced down at the Saint Bernard, who was staring up at him with the saddest, most adorable puppy dog eyes.
"Hm?"
"There's a dog. In our kitchen."
"Well, we do own a dog."
"A dog. Cordelia, not this..."
"Her name is Romy."
"Romy? Really?"
"I didn't name her, that what the pet store said her owner's named her." The pet store was hosting a fundraiser for the kill shelter, they were trying to get as many pets as possible adopted. I couldn't resist saving her, she was an owner surrender and who knows what would have happened to her if I hadn't impulsively brought her home...
"You can't make these kind of financial decisions without consulting me! Vet bills, food, Jesus Christ, what were you thinking? I mean, I'm the breadwinner-"
"I'm sorry, financial decisions? Breadwinner? What the hell, what do you think- Is this the, the... The 1950s? Fuck that decade."
"I'm just saying, you're unemployed-"
"Because I decided to uproot my life so my husband could have an amazing career advancement! Besides, your salary's plenty, plus our savings, it's not like we're pressed for cash."
"I'm sorry, I'm just under a lot of pressure." Pressure? I knew he was, he was allowed to talk about the stress of work, but I couldn't because my problems paled in comparison.
"Your job?"
"...BABY!"
"Baby?" I paused. We were thinking of starting a family before the relocation, then with the new job, new town, Harrison thought we should settle in first. Seven months had passed and still no baby, no talk about it. Every time I tried to bring it up, he avoided the subject like it was the plague. "Are you ready, to have a baby?"
"I, I... Uh... Yes. Yeah, yeah, I.. I'm ready." Oh my god. A baby! I, if I was, I... Motherhood. Perfection.
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