I grew up half on the Jersey Shore (it’s nothing like the tv show…well, they’re exactly like every Bennie that a true Jersey Shore resident cannot stand) and half in Dearborn, Michigan (a bit more like the now-cancelled tv show- my high school was half Arabic, which just turned me into a Middle Eastern food snob), which means that no matter where I am, my accent never fits in. Just ask me to say “water”, “orange”, or “y’all” in the midwest or “Boston” on the east coast.
My mother’s motto is “Better than Martha Stewart.” Therefore, I make any 50s-style housewife proud with my ability to cook, bake, clean, sew, embroider, tailor, and knit. That means that I had a number of homemade Easter and Christmas dresses with puffy sleeves (a favorite of my mother’s and not of mine), in addition to sweatshirts with puffy paint. I also never had anything from a freezer (except ice cream and vegetables) or an aluminum can (my mother did can her own food, after all) until I hit college…that was a rude awakening. I might have subsisted on sandwiches and salads for weeks…that is, until I found a ride to Wal-Mart and I could buy a bunch of pots and pans…and then quickly began arranging trips to the grocery store in exchange for homemade baked goods.
Unfortunately for my mother, I’m single and an anesthesiology resident (where I’m ONLY allowed to work 80 hours per week), which means that I won’t be a housewife anytime soon.
I’ve had enough dating disasters to make Chelsea Handler proud, and hopefully y’all can learn (or at least laugh) at my mishaps.