HELP WANTED: 1950s Housewife (She Had No Rights, But at Least She Had a Routine)

Heads up! This is satire—aka me coping through sarcasm. It’s a comedy of errors starring overachieving teen girls, tired moms, and the fantasy of folding laundry without existential dread. I’m not actually trying to bring back 1950s housewife culture (no offense to Jell-O molds). This piece pokes fun at how exhausting “having it all” has become for modern women and teens. Read with a sense of humor... and maybe a cup of tea. No, I don’t want to live in the 1950s. Yes, this is sarcasm. If anything, this is a love letter to the absurd expectations of modern womanhood, where feminism means freedom... to be exhausted in new and exciting ways.

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Position: Full-Time 1950s Housewife

Location: Somewhere between a Pinterest board and a feminist fever dream
Pay: Emotional stability, a daily roast, and your husband’s name on the mortgage
Start Date: Yesterday, according to my teen daughter’s dramatic TED Talk delivered over cold roti and dal

Description:
My 17-year-old daughter—aka AP Class Warrior, SAT Gladiator, and President of Literally Everything—recently looked up from her 14 open tabs of Google Docs and teenage trauma to announce:

"Honestly? I just wanna cook, clean, shop, and be a homemaker. Like, THAT sounds peaceful. Why did women even fight for rights?"

And instead of launching into my usual monologue about suffragettes and systemic oppression, I just blinked...and agreed.
Because girl, same.

Welcome to the golden age of girlbossing, where “having it all” means doing it all, then still being asked what's for dinner. Clearly, it’s time we hired a 1950s housewife. She had exactly one job—and it involved Jell-O molds and looking hot while folding laundry. Frankly, I get it now.

Job Duties:

• Cook gourmet meals while flawlessly applying lipstick and repressing your political opinions

• Iron socks, sheets, and simmering internal rage

• Send children off to school with moral guidance and homemade sandwiches shaped like woodland creatures

• Experience no guilt for not “having it all” because “all” means “meatloaf and approval”

• Smile politely when your husband refers to your entire existence as “just staying at home”

• Smile sweetly when someone asks, “What’s for dinner?” while you're actively on fire

• Host parties where the food, the furniture, and the conversations are all reliably beige

• Pretend “basting a ham” constitutes a fulfilling identity

• Gossip politely about Sandra two doors down who burned her pot roast and probably voted Democrat

Qualifications:

• Fluent in passive-aggressive thank-you notes

• Able to bake pies while quietly sobbing on the inside

• Deeply uncomfortable with ambition but gifted at matching wallpaper to upholstery

• Bake a lasagna and your feelings simultaneously

• Prefer “going to the market” over “going to therapy”

• Comfortable with gender roles and gender rolls (you’ll be baking both)

• Must never utter the phrase “I have dreams too” unless referring exclusively to the one where Harry Styles makes meaningful eye contact in Whole Foods

• Totally fine with not having a bank account in your own name (yay, fun!)

Bonus Skills:

• Can say “I’m fine” convincingly in 27 distinct ways

• Expert in emotional repression and elaborately themed gelatin dishes

• Ability to gaslight, gatekeep, girlboss—just kidding! You can only gaslight yourself here

• No career aspirations (or at least excellent at pretending you don’t have them)

• Nod respectfully at mansplaining

• No LinkedIn profile, no problem

• Can run a household with the efficiency of a Fortune 500 CEO but still be consistently told you “don’t actually work”

Perks:

• No SATs

• No unpaid internships completed “for the experience”

• No résumé-building at age 16

• Just vibes, meatloaf, and being called “Mrs. Johnson” even though your first name is Rachel

• Depression exists, sure, but nobody has the language for it, so you just dust more vigorously

Fine Print (aka Welcome to 2025):
Women got rights. Yay, amazing!
But then society decided we should have every right and every responsibility.
Now it’s:

• Raise kids: Check

• Build a career: Check

• Cook dinner: Check

• Mentally spiral during carpool: Check

• Shatter the glass ceiling: Check

• Sweep up the shards because Chad tripped on them again: Check
  Meanwhile, some men still appear baffled by the existence of dish soap.

Conclusion:
My daughter thinks, 1950s housewives had it easier.
I think modern feminism forgot to include rest in the equality equation.
So, if there’s a portal to an alternate timeline where expectations are delightfully low and mental health blissfully high, catch me wearing pearls, vibing with my vacuum cleaner, and ghosting unpaid labor.

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My special Note: This piece is satirical—served with sarcasm, side-eye, and a dash of exhaustion. It’s not a tribute to 1950s housewife life (no thanks to gender roles and gelatin dinners), but a commentary on how modern womanhood can feel like a relentless juggling act. Whether you're a teen dreaming of simpler times, a mom running on fumes, or just someone questioning the cost of “equality,” this one's for you. Read with humor—and maybe some carbs.

What's your thoughts? Do let me know.