Modern men do not want a Fifties-style wife who
| by Alex Fox | March 11, 2008
A new survey suggests that modern men do not want a Fifties-style wife who
cooks, cleans and tends to their every whim.
To which one's reaction is: who are you kidding? The findings were published
in reference to The Good Wives Guide, originally published in 1955 and now
rediscovered by the organisers of the Daily Mail Ideal Home Exhibition.
The book outlines a point-by-point job description for the ideal 1950s wife.
Scroll down for more...
Perfection: A 1950s wife cooks for her man
A good wife, it suggested, should have dinner ready when her husband gets
back from work; take time to redo her make-up and hair for him; be happy to
see him when he walks in; keep the house clean and tidy; and (even I thought
this was pushing it) admonish him if he stays out all night.
Well, I am almost ashamed to tell you that when I read this, my inner John
McCririck - for which read boorish throwback - was immediately unleashed.
Suddenly, I was no longer a sappy, emasculated Jamie Oliver type in a
stripey apron, the business end of a Dyson in one hand and an oven glove on
the other.
As I learned of this ideal woman's grace, propriety, ability, organisation,
thoughtfulness, subservience and unwavering adoration, I couldn't help
thinking how absolutely wonderful it would be if my marital set-up was
actually like that.
How divine it would be if I could play a (heterosexual) Rock Hudson to my
wife's Doris Day.
How I would love if it I was married to say, cute, twinkle-nosed Elizabeth
Montgomery in Bewitched, all perky, sympathetic and pleased to see me
whenever she heard my car rumbling up the drive.
The reality, of course, is somewhat different and disconcertingly
21stcentury. I can't really say "Hi honey, I'm home" when I get back from
work because I actually work from home.
My wife's designated brow-stroking hand is clamped to her Blackberry (if I'm
lucky, I'll get a lick from the dog) while the telly, rather than the radio,
is usually blaring out CBeebies.
Should I choose to stay out all night, the only thing greeting me would be a
profanity-laden onslaught that would give Alex "Hairdryer" Ferguson's
half-time team talks a run for their money.
The thing is, my wife is tantalisingly 1950s in many ways.
She is, for instance, very feminine.
Her hair is always near-perfect, and she applies make-up with a deft
precision and lightness of touch. She wears really nice clothes and cooks
for us pretty much every night.
But here's the thing.
If truth be told, the food is really for the kids, not me.
Her Diane von Furstenberg party dresses and Jimmy Choo heels are put on more
to impress her friends than to light up my evening.
This is the modern way. I don't want
to whine, but domestically speaking, the modern man is under the cosh.
You see, I am by no means perfect, but I can cook and launder, and I know my
way around a vacuum cleaner. I am also handy with a drill and a fistful of
rawlplugs.
On top of this I have to earn as much as I can, be a caring, hands-on parent
and - oh, a man's work is never done! - a loving husband.
While I accept my wife's modern lifestyle and certainly I am loved and
looked after, it annoys me how our lives have become too noisy, cluttered
and chaotic for any sort of order, serenity and old-fashioned affection.
Perhaps we know far too much about each other.
A respectful, emotional distance between men and women kept marriages
together back in the 1950s; now everything is so out in the open. Nothing is
left unsaid. There is no mystery.
My wife's designated brow-stroking hand is clamped to her Blackberry (if I'm
lucky, I'll get a lick from the dog) while the telly, rather than the radio,
is usually blaring out CBeebies.
Should I choose to stay out all night, the only thing greeting me would be a
profanity-laden onslaught that would give Alex "Hairdryer" Ferguson's
half-time team talks a run for their money.
The thing is, my wife is tantalisingly 1950s in many ways. She is, for
instance, very feminine.
Her hair is always near-perfect, and she applies make-up with a deft
precision and lightness of touch. She wears really nice clothes and cooks
for us pretty much every night.
But here's the thing. If truth be told, the food is really for the kids, not
me.
Her Diane von Furstenberg party dresses and Jimmy Choo heels are put on more
to impress her friends than to light up my evening.
This is the modern way. I don't want to whine, but domestically speaking,
the modern man is under the cosh.
You see, I am by no means perfect, but I can cook and launder, and I know my
way around a vacuum cleaner.
I am also handy with a drill and a fistful of rawlplugs.
On top of this I have to earn as much as I can, be a caring, hands-on parent
and - oh, a man's work is never done! - a loving husband.
While I accept my wife's modern lifestyle and certainly I am loved and
looked after, it annoys me how our lives have become too noisy, cluttered
and chaotic for any sort of order, serenity and old-fashioned affection.
Perhaps we know far too much about each other.
A respectful, emotional distance between men and women kept marriages
together back in the 1950s; now everything is so out in the open. Nothing is
left unsaid. There is no mystery.
Our relationship is less like Bewitched and more like an episode of the
Jeremy Kyle show, albeit without the punch-ups and ugly body piercing.
If I do something she doesn't like, she lets me know. At volume. I do the
same.
Maybe I secretly pine for a throwback wife because when I imagine the
perfect housewife, I always think of my mum.
She married in the 1950s, going straight from her family home to living with
my dad.
Aside from the odd sandwich, I don't think he ever cooked a single thing for
himself.
He didn't need to. My mum had food on the table every night at seven.
As my brother and I grew up, Mum cleverly mutated into Shirley Conran's
Superwoman.
Even though she held down a company directorship, she'd be home by half five
ready to cook for us and never looked anything less than lovely, too.
The downside to all this is that my mum died of a heart attack aged just 62,
leaving my dad heartbroken and practically incapable.
I'm pretty sure that the strain of trying to be a career woman and the
perfect wife and mother sent her to an early grave.
So do I like the idea of the perfect 1950s-style wife?
Yes, in my slobby, more chauvinistic moments it sounds like an attractive
prospect.
But really, I'd rather have my own lively and healthy wife with her
Blackberry and her weekly Ocado deliveries than someone who works herself to
death trying to live up to some daffy, washing powder ad idea of a
subservient, always smiling spouse from a different era.
And, anyway, what man wears slippers these days?
cooks, cleans and tends to their every whim.
To which one's reaction is: who are you kidding? The findings were published
in reference to The Good Wives Guide, originally published in 1955 and now
rediscovered by the organisers of the Daily Mail Ideal Home Exhibition.
The book outlines a point-by-point job description for the ideal 1950s wife.
Scroll down for more...
Perfection: A 1950s wife cooks for her man
A good wife, it suggested, should have dinner ready when her husband gets
back from work; take time to redo her make-up and hair for him; be happy to
see him when he walks in; keep the house clean and tidy; and (even I thought
this was pushing it) admonish him if he stays out all night.
Well, I am almost ashamed to tell you that when I read this, my inner John
McCririck - for which read boorish throwback - was immediately unleashed.
Suddenly, I was no longer a sappy, emasculated Jamie Oliver type in a
stripey apron, the business end of a Dyson in one hand and an oven glove on
the other.
As I learned of this ideal woman's grace, propriety, ability, organisation,
thoughtfulness, subservience and unwavering adoration, I couldn't help
thinking how absolutely wonderful it would be if my marital set-up was
actually like that.
How divine it would be if I could play a (heterosexual) Rock Hudson to my
wife's Doris Day.
How I would love if it I was married to say, cute, twinkle-nosed Elizabeth
Montgomery in Bewitched, all perky, sympathetic and pleased to see me
whenever she heard my car rumbling up the drive.
The reality, of course, is somewhat different and disconcertingly
21stcentury. I can't really say "Hi honey, I'm home" when I get back from
work because I actually work from home.
My wife's designated brow-stroking hand is clamped to her Blackberry (if I'm
lucky, I'll get a lick from the dog) while the telly, rather than the radio,
is usually blaring out CBeebies.
Should I choose to stay out all night, the only thing greeting me would be a
profanity-laden onslaught that would give Alex "Hairdryer" Ferguson's
half-time team talks a run for their money.
The thing is, my wife is tantalisingly 1950s in many ways.
She is, for instance, very feminine.
Her hair is always near-perfect, and she applies make-up with a deft
precision and lightness of touch. She wears really nice clothes and cooks
for us pretty much every night.
But here's the thing.
If truth be told, the food is really for the kids, not me.
Her Diane von Furstenberg party dresses and Jimmy Choo heels are put on more
to impress her friends than to light up my evening.
This is the modern way. I don't want
to whine, but domestically speaking, the modern man is under the cosh.
You see, I am by no means perfect, but I can cook and launder, and I know my
way around a vacuum cleaner. I am also handy with a drill and a fistful of
rawlplugs.
On top of this I have to earn as much as I can, be a caring, hands-on parent
and - oh, a man's work is never done! - a loving husband.
While I accept my wife's modern lifestyle and certainly I am loved and
looked after, it annoys me how our lives have become too noisy, cluttered
and chaotic for any sort of order, serenity and old-fashioned affection.
Perhaps we know far too much about each other.
A respectful, emotional distance between men and women kept marriages
together back in the 1950s; now everything is so out in the open. Nothing is
left unsaid. There is no mystery.
My wife's designated brow-stroking hand is clamped to her Blackberry (if I'm
lucky, I'll get a lick from the dog) while the telly, rather than the radio,
is usually blaring out CBeebies.
Should I choose to stay out all night, the only thing greeting me would be a
profanity-laden onslaught that would give Alex "Hairdryer" Ferguson's
half-time team talks a run for their money.
The thing is, my wife is tantalisingly 1950s in many ways. She is, for
instance, very feminine.
Her hair is always near-perfect, and she applies make-up with a deft
precision and lightness of touch. She wears really nice clothes and cooks
for us pretty much every night.
But here's the thing. If truth be told, the food is really for the kids, not
me.
Her Diane von Furstenberg party dresses and Jimmy Choo heels are put on more
to impress her friends than to light up my evening.
This is the modern way. I don't want to whine, but domestically speaking,
the modern man is under the cosh.
You see, I am by no means perfect, but I can cook and launder, and I know my
way around a vacuum cleaner.
I am also handy with a drill and a fistful of rawlplugs.
On top of this I have to earn as much as I can, be a caring, hands-on parent
and - oh, a man's work is never done! - a loving husband.
While I accept my wife's modern lifestyle and certainly I am loved and
looked after, it annoys me how our lives have become too noisy, cluttered
and chaotic for any sort of order, serenity and old-fashioned affection.
Perhaps we know far too much about each other.
A respectful, emotional distance between men and women kept marriages
together back in the 1950s; now everything is so out in the open. Nothing is
left unsaid. There is no mystery.
Our relationship is less like Bewitched and more like an episode of the
Jeremy Kyle show, albeit without the punch-ups and ugly body piercing.
If I do something she doesn't like, she lets me know. At volume. I do the
same.
Maybe I secretly pine for a throwback wife because when I imagine the
perfect housewife, I always think of my mum.
She married in the 1950s, going straight from her family home to living with
my dad.
Aside from the odd sandwich, I don't think he ever cooked a single thing for
himself.
He didn't need to. My mum had food on the table every night at seven.
As my brother and I grew up, Mum cleverly mutated into Shirley Conran's
Superwoman.
Even though she held down a company directorship, she'd be home by half five
ready to cook for us and never looked anything less than lovely, too.
The downside to all this is that my mum died of a heart attack aged just 62,
leaving my dad heartbroken and practically incapable.
I'm pretty sure that the strain of trying to be a career woman and the
perfect wife and mother sent her to an early grave.
So do I like the idea of the perfect 1950s-style wife?
Yes, in my slobby, more chauvinistic moments it sounds like an attractive
prospect.
But really, I'd rather have my own lively and healthy wife with her
Blackberry and her weekly Ocado deliveries than someone who works herself to
death trying to live up to some daffy, washing powder ad idea of a
subservient, always smiling spouse from a different era.
And, anyway, what man wears slippers these days?
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