from Katrina Underwood: I wish I were a plant

Some days I dream of being a housewife. Not like in I Love Lucy or Leave It to Beaver, but within the space of my projected fantasies: a modern housewife with a partner who holds a resilient mental capacity to work under capitalism. Heck, they might even enjoy it. Maybe they will work at a sustainable startup that makes goods out of invasive species, like garlic mustard pesto or common buckthorn rocking chairs.

Perhaps they’ll be one of those people who seems to know how to maneuver the system in a way that benefits them. An entrepreneur. On second thought, that word is terrible and has no place in a fantasy setting. Not in my fantasy, anyhow. However, should others’ happiness matter to me in a fantasy scenario? It does, and that irritates me. 

I just want the fantasy of being a kept woman but even fantasies can be controversial. 

I can spend my days collecting mulberries from the Chicago alley trees for jam and making artisan butter with an antique churn. They’ll know me as that lady that churns butter. The butter lady. What else does my fantasy entail? The housewife fantasy starts to tear at the seams when I realize having a capitalist sugar daddy only means freedom for me. This is not true freedom, though a fantasy is not reality. 

Who wants to churn all that butter for themselves? Being a kept woman isn’t what my heart actually desires. I want a kept community. A kept traveling circus family that does clown-themed makeup tutorials and votes in every election.  

A modern housewife could spend her days pushing the button for the Roomba, the button for the dishwasher, the button for the laundry. Don’t kid yourself darling. Life isn’t a series of buttons. It’s clothes that must be placed and carried and sorted and folded and shelved and hung. It’s prewashing fine china and less fine china and not fine china. It’s food prepping. Little Jodie is gluten free, Sammi is vegan because her best friend is vegan this week, Todd is allergic to peanut butter and can’t eat tomato sauce after five. The labradoodle needs his specialized raw food diet ordered a month in advance.  

I dream of living in an oversized home with a bouquet of always-fresh flowers in the foyer. Not fake fresh. Fake flowers are liars. I went to see a new therapist once. I sat down and absent-mindedly flipped through a two-year-old magazine with Angela Jolie on the cover. Was this a licensed therapist? Why couldn’t this practice afford up to date magazine subscriptions? Despite the limited sunlight, the waiting room had a tall parlor palm. I hesitantly reached out my hand to feel one of the half-moon shaped leaves between my fingertips. 

The plant in the waiting room is fake.

Yes. Is that a problem? 

If you can't keep a plant alive, how can you keep me alive?

You're not a plant.

I wish I were a plant.