I am finally home in New York, and for a limited time only, house-sitting in Washington Heights. Feel free to insert all the “In The Heights” references your musically-loving minds can think of. While you consider the implications of two white women living in the heart of Dominican land, I will entertain you with a tale of failed domesticity.
Torie, my roommate, and I are two Wellesley women, who last night were assigned one simple mission: make two queen sized beds. Now if this had been 1950s, we would have been well-equipped with the requisite housekeeping skill set. We would have taken home economics in high school and etiquette classes in college, both of which could have trained us in basic household maintenance.
However, it is 2010, and neither Torie nor I had ever been given the task of covering such a large surface with both a fitted and unfitted sheet. Thus far we had depended on the good will of our maids, a.k.a. our mothers. Hence, when faced with the above challenge, the following transpired: We stared blankly at the first bare bed for a moment or two, unsure of where to begin, and then giving G-d a small wink, attempted to place the unfitted sheet on the bed. We failed. The corners did not align, and we were forced to regroup. After approximately 15 minutes, the first bed was made, but from the looks of the sides of the mattress, where two sheets hung limply, we had not so much succeeded as settled for a small defeat.
The second bed, though made with greater alacrity and efficiency, certainly did not resemble the interior of a five-star hotel. In fact, it had a distinct Motel 6 vibe, reminiscent of a night to be forgotten and never spoken of again. Our conclusion, after two failed attempts at housekeeping– we are destined to be career women, and in the non-janitorial sense of the phrase.
Now I must return to my office of employment, a key part of the aforementioned destiny, and continue my piece on the price of counterfeit drugs in the developing world. Insert fascinated face here.
I leave you with an image that captures the essence of my new humble abode:
P.S. The answer is dependent on the age of the Wellesley woman. Pre-1960 graduate, one. Post-1960 graduate, at least three who have seen a version of “The Stepford Wives.”