I am the only girl from my year to have graduated from my all-girls Catholic high school without taking Home Economics. I literally refused.
My principal at the time – a woman I still adore: Sister Joan tried to talk me down off the ledge.
Why didn’t I want to learn to maybe cook something? Clearly a useful skill for life, right? No, not right. I wanted to take our old-timey version of AP classes. I wanted to save money on college tuition – by taking an extra section of history (dork).
I can clearly remember seeing the Home Ec girls coming to school in a pair of pants they had sewn themselves. The rest of us were wearing Catholic school uniforms (which we hated) but even green and yellow plaid was better than the crooked crotches on some of that jacked up AmishWare. Blue cotton pants did not go with the big hair, fake nails, and huge leather patchwork purses of late 1980s Queens fashion, particularly when one leg was sewn longer than the other.
Bullying be damned, I laughed my ass off. Right there, loud and proud – smug in my US Government for college credit class; tsk-tsking the sea of cock-eyed blue cotton – producing camel toes in equal measure to MC Hammer pant ass-slides. It was hee-larious.
Many, many years later I regretted my decision. If I had been properly instructed in “the economics of the home” I might not have been so woefully unprepared for being a wife and mother.
I don’t get the whole pubic-hair thing
Well, I “get” pubic hair. What I don’t understand is how it multiplies with no apparent encouragement. Bathrooms are an intolerable haven for nether region fur. Where the hell does it all come from?
We are not naturally hairy people. My husband is not like some of those men who, even when naked look like they’re wearing a curly woolen sweater. So given our general barrenness of hair, I am beyond comprehending where it all comes from.
I clean the bathroom, thoroughly, like OCD cleaning. I leave the bathroom, and when I come back 5 minutes later there is MORE HAIR. How the hell does that happen? It’s not like my husband is dancing a bare bottomed furry fandango on top of the closed lid of the toilet.
Clearly, if I had taken Home Ec all of those years ago I surely would have been given some guidance. Right?
Does “Home Ec” cover toilet management?
My daughter is fond of toilet paper. When engaged in toilet activities, my daughter prefers to approach the “wiping” stage of the process with a hand wrapped completely with paper. Sort of half-way between an oven mitt and a boxing glove. The toilet is no longer amused, and the plumbing is threatening to rip itself out of the wall.
At least once a week my son calls me with “Moooooooom, she did it again!”. To which I start howling like an injured baby wolf “nooooo way… nooooo freaking way…I told her to stop using so much paper…I told her I wouldn’t unclog that mess again.”
I have to believe that Home Ec would have taught me how to simultaneously fish out all of the paper to allow all of the “stuff” to flush while gagging, turning my head, holding my nose, and swearing in Spanish.
21st century “Home Ec” courses
HGTV and the Food Network would have you believe that homemaking is all balsamic vinegar and paint chips. I would argue that it’s mostly about snot, anti-gravitational fecal sauce, and a continuous proliferation of pubic hair.
High schools across the country should add a required course for all high school seniors called “Children Make You Gag” – I have a feeling it will do wonders for the teen pregnancy rate.
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