“Name, please.”

“What?”

“Your name, please. First and last.”

“Where am I?”

“Please answer the question.”

“How’d I get here?”

“Ma’am, I’m asking the questions.”

The old woman sat behind a large desk. She was wearing a gray uniform with

silver buttons and a strange insignia on the collar – a series of letters within a circle.

“What does ARGH stand for?”

“Alright,” she sighed. “I’ll explain. ARGH is The Association for the Re-education of

Great Housewives, and I am Major Malfunction. I’m in charge here.” She pointed

at me with a long, gold pen. “You’re here to be re-educated. You’ll find it easier

to just answer my questions. Now, name, please.”

I tried to think. What was the last thing I remembered? I was going to bed. That’s

it! This is some kind of dream! I’ll wake up any minute.

“I see you’re having trouble. It’s time you realized this is serious.” Major

Malfunction reached under her desk. I felt a small electric shock.

“Hey!” I’d better cooperate! “Clarinda Wiffensnaphel, the traditional

spelling.”

“Thank you. Age?”

“That’s personal.” Just who did this dame think she was? There was another

electric shock. “OK, cut that out! I’m 46!”

“Much better.” Next, tell me what your typical day is like.” She put the pen

down and leaned back in her chair.

“What?” This wasn’t a dream. I could feel the chair, and the electric shocks had

seemed real. The room was warm, almost too warm, and the walls were covered

with shelves of books. On a shelf close to me, I saw Live Comfortably With

Waxy Yellow Build-Up, next to it was Naps Can Make You Younger, and

Eliminate Ironing, Learn To Love Wrinkles. This was not an ordinary library.

“Please recap your typical day. It’s best for the subject to really look at her

activities. Only then can we begin re-education. ‘Admitting your problem is the first

step in healing.’”

“Well, I try to be a good housewife. My husband works hard, and expects his

home to be run well.”

“Typical, typical.” The major shook her head slowly and looked at me with sadness

in her eyes. “I hear this all the time. Go on.” She picked up her pen and started to

take notes.

I talked for an hour. I hadn’t finished when she interrupted.

“Just a minute, is there any time in your day for yourself?”

“What do you mean? I keep house.”

“OK, Mrs. Wiffensnaphel, I think we have the picture. We’ll start you on

our beginner’s program.” She pushed a button, “Hortense, please come in.”

Another woman in a uniform with the ARGH insignia entered. She led me to a room in

a nearby dormitory. She told me to get a good night’s sleep and someone would come get

me in the morning.

I had trouble sleeping. Questions raced through my head. What did “re-education”

mean? Who were these people? Would I ever be allowed leave?

My roommate said she’d been grabbed from the mall. “They pushed me into

a car, pulled something over my head, and I woke up here! There are lots of

us here. Some were taken from the drycleaners, the grocery store, or the

Laundromat. There’s an entire group of women from a Tupperware party on the

third floor!”

“Is there a way to get out?” I asked, hopefully.

“No, the doors are locked and guarded the windows covered with metal grates.

They really mean to keep us here!” The woman began sniffling into her pillow.

I felt like crying, too. I knew my husband would miss me and come looking

for me. Hopefully, a LOT of husbands would be looking! Little did I know how

wrong I was.

The days that followed were a revelation to me. We read books, went to classes,

had discussion groups, and did our homework each night.

Everything I believed or thought was important began to fade. During one practicum

in the school’s kitchen, I walked right by an egg someone dropped on the floor!

The instructor noticed and gave me bonus points! The seminar on “Ignoring Dirt

and All It Stands For” was so much fun! I can’t remember laughing so hard in

my whole life. One of the lessons was to make up jokes about ‘dust bunnies’.

We were beginning to enjoy ourselves.

Each evening, we were required to write in a journal. At first, I wrote about

missing my home, the shiny floors, the sparkling bathroom porcelain, the gleaming

chrome of my kitchen sink, the sweet smells of clean sheets, lemon furniture polish,

and homemade bread. Later, the entries took on a much different tone:

I think Martha Stewart is from another planet. She will cause the downfall of the American

housewife. Do I care if my china matches? Can’t I have paper napkins? Who cares if I make

Christmas ornaments from the leftover seeds from the jack-o-lantern I carved to look like George Washington?

 

The days flew by. Our instructors were pleased with our progress! We were given

a ‘free day’ and had a choice of things to do. I chose to watch “Mildred Pierce”

with Joan Crawford. Now there was a woman bent on working herself into an early grave!

Eventually, the time came to graduate. Boy, were we excited! “Does this mean we’ll

be going home?” I, for one, wasn’t sure I wanted to GO home. Others voiced the

same concern.

“It will be your choice what to do with the rest of your life. You can go back to

the way you were, or use your newfound knowledge to help others. The world is

full of women needing our message.” The Major was giving our commencement

address. Her uniform today was bright red, complete with the ARGH insignia in gold.

“Go forth. Visit with your neighbors, the women in supermarkets, in malls, at PTA meetings.

Wherever you see a woman who looks a little too neat, a little too polished, a little too

tired, give her the message. It’s not too late!” Music began playing softly in the background.

The Major continued, “Let your light shine from this day forward. The word “housewife”

will no longer have the same meaning. Not to you, not to your sisters, not to your daughters.

You are the promise of the future. You are the vanguard of a new movement. You are the key

to this entire project.” Her voice was mesmerizing. “We have re-educated thousands like you.

They’re out spreading the message, and you’ll join them. Each of you will play a part in

transforming the women of the world.”

When we received our diplomas, I wasn’t the only one with tears in my eyes. I unrolled

mine to see the ARGH insignia in gold at the top of the parchment. It read, “Be it known, that

from this day forward, Clarinda Wiffensnaphel is her own woman. She is no longer bound

to her house!” We hugged each other, promising to keep in touch. The freedom was

exhilarating. It was as if we were all high on something. Well, I guess we were. We were

high on dirt, messiness, unmade beds, dirty dishes, and mis-matched socks. We could watch

soap operas, take naps, eat chocolates, and stay in our bathrobes till noon if we wanted to.

We could go to the park, take a pottery class, play tennis, or read books. We could go back

to school, volunteer at a retirement home, or read to the blind. The sky was the limit.

We were FREE! It was WONDERFUL!

As we left the auditorium, we saw a long line of parked cars. Beside each vehicle was

a man holding a bouquet of flowers. Puzzled, I looked at my fellow graduates. Then, suddenly,

a red haired woman near me broke into a run, “Phillip! You found me!” she screamed. Then

another woman spotted someone she knew.

Was my husband here? Would he want me back now?

Someone tapped me on the arm. I turned to see my husband smiling at me.

“Sweetheart,” he handed me a beautiful bouquet of pink roses. “I’ve missed you so much.

The report I received said you graduated at the top of your class! I’m so proud of you.”

“I’m confused. You mean you knew I was here?” This was the man I’d been trying to please.

Had I been mistaken?

“Yes, dear. I didn’t want you to grow old and wonder where your life had gone. I wanted

you to enjoy life, to realize your potential as a person.” He put his arms around me. I’d never

felt so appreciated, so loved.