The Feminist Spin Cycle

Dear Zen Mother,

My husband always buys me an appliance for Christmas – last year, it was a dishwasher. This year I think he has his eye on a trash compactor. How can I tell him women prefer something a little more romantic, maybe something cozy, without hurting his feelings?

Janet in Newburyport

Dear Janet,

As shocked as he may be, calmly explain to him that when the Victoria’s Secret catalogue arrives, it is not for him. He will be visibly shaken, in denial, and possibly despondent. You may want to have an extra-dry martini available – again, not for him. With a little encouragement from you, however, he’ll be selecting cashmere over the compactor in no time.

Why do husbands buy appliances for their wives? Well because of the vast Y Chromosome conspiracy, of course. To which my husband, “the doctor,” thinks I suffer from paranoia.

I can’t imagine why. I simply explained to him that the major appliance department at Sears is run by a secret male society to keep women in the bondage of dirty dishes and laundry – you know, those creeps from Stepford.

“And you don’t think your delusional?” he asked.

“Don’t you see those female androids on TV, with the glazed look in their eyes, selling those products? They use expressions like Voilà! I don’t know any real women who say Voilà while doing laundry – do you? Clearly they are being controlled by the man.”

“But Sweetheart,” my husband gently explained, while discussing the need for a new washer. “These machines save women from hours of domestic toil.”

“That’s so like a man to say that,” I quipped, as I locked myself in the bathroom with a 1974 copy of Ms. Magazine.

But aside from my husband’s neanderthal perspective, we were in sorry need of a new washer. So begrudgingly, I followed my husband to Sears. The selection of washers was overwhelming: high-efficiency, low-detergent, ultra-quiet, super-fast, keep-you-in-chains machines.

“These machines do not keep women in chains!” my husband yelled, exasperated.

“Oh yeah? Then show me the Elizabeth Cady Stanton model or the Billie Jean King model. All I see here are washers made by the Male Chauvinist Pig Corporation!”

“Well, we need to select one of these washers. Which one do you want?” he asked.

“One that’ll get the kids ready for school, pick up groceries and cook dinner so that I may enter the workforce, realize my full potential as a female, and make right the wrongs of this society. SISTERS! ARE YOU WITH ME?” I screamed from the top of a Maytag.

My husband pulled me down, selected a machine, and got out his credit card, while I continued screaming: “Pass the Nineteenth Amendment! My uterus belongs to me! I am more than my apron! Erica Jong, where are you?”

In time, however, I came to accept my new washer. In fact, I have become quite attached to it. It lights up and beeps with the friendliest of manners; its exterior is shiny and elegant; and its barrel emits a soft whirl I find curiously captivating.

And it couldn’t be more efficient; I put the dirty clothes in and the clean clothes come out in half the time – Voilà! I mean, uh, it’s very liberating.