I’m Freakin’ June Cleaver Gosh Darn’it | Jenny From the Blog

Every once in a while you have a conversation that is that is so stereotypically female, it makes you wonder if things have truly changed that much. It also feels like you’ve unwittingly set women back a half century.

I had one of these conversations last night at a baseball practice, and the sad part?  It was so natural, I didn’t notice the irony until today.

It started with someone discussing her phobia of germy sponges.

spongebob sick

Other Mother: You don’t have to be afraid of them, when they get dirty you can just nuke ’em?

Me: I run mine in the dishwasher.

Spongephobe Mom: I’d NEVER use a sponge.

Spongephobe Mom (to us moms, who sat with our mouths agape at the idea of not using a sponge):  I don’t need a sponge. I just let my dishes soak in some hot water with JOY.
The above sentence, which really occured is the very reason the rest of my tête-à-tête with the team moms will include 1950s translation.

Other Mother (visibly shaken): What do you use… a paper towel?

50s translation: Don’t tell me you use paper towels?  They can rip and tear! Why, they’d never hold up to vigorous dish-washing.

 

Spongephobe Mom: Nope.

50s translation: I’m confident in the cleaning power of Joy.

 

Me to the Other Mother (accusingly — like an evangelist being told about evolution): I bet she’s scraping that crud off with your nails.

50s translation: That explains why her nails look so unkempt. (For that phrase to have the truest 50s effect, one would have to utter it in a loud whisper to other disapproving woman during a game of mahjong.)

 

Spongephobe Mom: Nope.

50s translation: Stop staring at my nails, gossip maven.

 

Me: But what if you sauté?

50s translation: How does it hold up to grease from deep frying?

 

Spongephobe Mom: No problem.

50s translation: It cuts right through the oily residue that frying can leave behind.

 

Me and Other Mother (in unison):  NO?!!!

50s translation:  Gasp?!!!

 

I nonchalantly inspected her hands for cracking and chaffing.

50s translation: “I bet your manicurist isn’t pleased with the way you do your dishes.” (Snicker snicker, then I would look to other girls for nods and implied high fives.)

 

Spongephobe Mom:  I only soak the dishes, not my hands, dumbass. (okay, in the actual conversation the dumbass was merely implied.)

50s translation:  Joy leaves my hands supple and soft, and it’s emollients condition as it cleans. Then she would look at my hands sitting in a bowl of what I thought was simply water and say, “You’re soaking in it.”

 

So that happened. I can’t take it back, in fact I wish I could just not have realized how trite the whole thing sounded a day after it happened. Let’s be honest, you’ve read my blog … I so rarely have cliche conversations, I’m due one every so often, no?

 

6 thoughts on “I’m Freakin’ June Cleaver Gosh Darn’it | Jenny From the Blog

  1. cherie

    This was a classic. You use of 50’s terminology floors me. You didn’t get that from your mother…

    Reply
  2. Klz

    Please excuse me while I run out to buy some pearls. I need something to clutch when I’m stunned by the powers of Joy

    Reply
  3. Bari

    Jenny,
    June Cleaver was my role model. So perfect, lovely and calm. Isn’t that just like every mom you know. I bet she was on Valium. As for dish washing hands, yep, I’ve got ’em. Those perfect latex playtex gloves just seem to sit in the cabinet instead of on my not so perfectly manicured hands.

    Reply
  4. Pingback: If You Translate Your Day Into 50s Speak it Makes You Seem Like a Better Mom and Wife – Here’s Proof … | The Suburban Jungle

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