An accurate echo of the wails of downhearted suburban frails is
this rowdy little collection of light verse. "Where is it written/
That husbands get a nap and the Super Bowl on Sundays while/ Wives
get to help color in the coloring book." So much for Kama Sutra, a
few madrigals, great literature and philosophy, "clever little
cocktail parties" and a shampoo and set every week. Enter Gerbers,
the supermarket and Whip 'n Chill. In quavering stanzas the author
mourns her lot - the perilous route of marriage 'twixt plumbing and
the cleaners, the dear??iness of the marriage set; lost Paradises
of youth. "The suburbs are good for the children,/ But no place for
grown ups to be." And worst of all, one can't be hip over thirty,
"serving Crispy Critters to grouchy three-year-olds/ And drinking .
. . Metrecal." As is the case with cooking lamb hocks, reading
these slick little verses requires contributive participation which
the mop-weary suburban housewife will surely supply. (Kirkus
Reviews)
The honeymoon is overAnd he has left for workWhistling something
obvious from La BohemeAnd carrying a brown calfskin attache caseI
never dreamed he was capable of owning,Having started the dayWith
ten pushups and a cold showerFollowed by a hearty breakfast.(What
do we actually have in common?)The honeymoon is overAnd I am
dry-mopping the floorIn a green Dacron dry-mopping outfit from
Saks,Wondering why I'm not dancing in the dark,Or rejecting
princes,Or hearing people gasp at my one-man show,My god, so
beautiful and so gifted!(The trouble is I never knew a prince.)
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