He Didn't Marry a Slave

I've never been a fan of Leave it to Beaver or The Donna Reed Show. I'm a child of the '80s and believe in a 50/50 split when it comes to housework. I can't imagine a scenario where I would ever feel the need to wear high heels while whipping up a casserole so laden in fat that my arteries would shrink back in horror. I can't picture my husband coming home from work, propping up his feet, and expecting me to attend to his every need. I can't fathom living a life of white slavery just because I don't have a big penis in my pants.

Unfortunately, one elderly member of my family thinks it is her duty to impose the Donna Reed Rules of Living on every female in the family. Even more unfortunate, this elderly relative isn't a distant great-aunt or shirt-tail cousin. She's my own grandmother, a woman I speak with on a regular basis. She feels compelled to make sure I am living a life of grim duty while my husband laps up the fruits of my efforts from the comfort of his most manly lounging chair.

Every time she calls, she wants an accounting of household chores.

"When did you mop last?" she'll ask.

"Oh," I'll answer, "last month maybe."

"I hope you cooked Mike dinner," she'll chide.

"Nope. I only buy take-out," I'll respond with an evil glee.

"You made Mike change a diaper?" she'll ask in disbelieving horror.

"Of course," I take delight in taunting. "You don't think I change diapers do you? They're stinky."

I love riling her up even though it would be much easier on her heart if I'd let her know the floors are usually my duty, I'm a fabulous cook and I'm the primary diaper-changer in the family. But then I wouldn't get to hear my very favorite pronouncement of all: "He's going to move back to Sweden. Why does he stay married to you?"

It's taken me years to accept and move beyond this dire prediction. At first I was offended and deeply hurt. My own grandmother wishes my husband would leave me because she thinks I'm a terrible wife. She believes whole-heartedly that the man is the head of the household and must be served and obeyed every moment of every hour of every day for the rest of the wife's natural life. As much as I love my husband, I think my life would be extremely short if I bought into that philosophy. Still, the last thing a woman wants to hear, is that she doesn't deserve her husband because she's a no-good, lazy slob.

For years, I grew angry and frustrated when she told me that I was a rotten wife. Usually I could just end our phone conversation with a curt good-bye, but that doesn't work in person. One night we were having a nice dinner at my favorite Mexican restaurant. As we were munching on chips and salsa, she started in on all my failings as a woman. "You never cook! You never clean! Mike's going to leave you!" How she would know any of this is not exactly clear, considering we live 4,000 miles away from her and she's never visited our home.

In that moment something snapped.

We were in public, but my ire was up and I didn't care. I couldn't take her hysterical criticism any longer. I started yelling. In a restaurant. In front of other people. Yikes!

I didn't even do the whisper-yell that most people use when they argue in public. I did the full-blown, anger-from-the-gut yell. The words flew from my mouth and my family sat in stunned silence. Could this really be Carrie, the meek and mild one of the family? Screaming in the middle of a restaurant is my sister's style. I'm quiet and just endure things and let them eat at me. I guess that's why they say you better watch out for the quiet ones. A person can only handle so much before exploding. I'm just happy my family is composed of a bunch of oldsters who consider 5:30 an extremely late dinner. There were only a few customers in the restaurant, but the employees sure did get a show. Thirty years of pent-up hostility and anger spewed forth and I was certain my grandmother would never again dare threaten me with the ridiculous notion that my husband would leave me if I didn't iron his shirts.

"Hmph," she said at the end of my tirade, "I don't know why you're so upset. I was only joking."

I'm lucky I didn't pop a blood vessel right then and there.

That was the last time I allowed myself to become angry over her barbs. As hurtful as it is to know she believes I'm totally incompetent, I've made a conscious decision to be the bigger person. That sounds so cliché, but it has taken a lot of mental manipulation to teach myself that her words are completely unworthy of my time or energy.

I've turned my anger into pity. Instead of railing against her and her outdated expectations, I place myself in her shoes and try to imagine what it would be like to be married to an alcoholic philanderer who treats me as his slave instead of his wife. Worse yet, what if that were socially acceptable and divorce would leave me a penniless social pariah?

What would it be like to live a life of inequality and injustice? What if I had been programmed from childhood to believe that love was nothing more than doing chores for someone who had every right to order me around? What if I had to stay at home and take care of the house because I had no education and no marketable skills? What if I were trapped in a loveless marriage and had no recourse because I had no support from any of my friends and family? What if almost all of the women I knew were in the same situation, more or less?

Delving deep into my grandmother's past allows me to laugh off her accusations of "abusing my man." Maybe she really believes that I will lose my husband and all my financial security if I don't mop the floor every Saturday afternoon. Maybe she's just bitter and contrary. If I go with the former I'm able to keep my anger in check. If I go with the latter I explode. I think I'll go with the former and thank my lucky stars that I was born in an era where men and women are treated as equals.