Why IS it that... I'd like to cleaver June Cleaver?
 by: Shana McLean Moore

If I see one more Leave It to Beaver re-run, I might just use the Cleaver family name against them. The very civility of their lifestyle, as orchestrated by the family matriarch, makes this modern housewife look as pale as Junes polished porcelain. And its got me thinking that we girls ought to block her out via V-Chip before our husbands realize just how good Ward had it. If were not careful, men will be scheming to send us back to the door to welcome them with the nightly pipe and slippers.

Like all of you, I delight in the fact that were no longer expected to greet our husbands dressed like a 50s version of an Ann Taylor ad, complete with pearls and the combined scent of Chanel and a roast beef simmering in the oven. But lets be honest: When our modern-day men view this on TV, after just being greeted by someone with all the symptoms of post-traumatic homework disorder, theyve got to be a little disappointed. Dressed in sweats and enveloped in the aura of Top Ramen, Im afraid Ive evolved so far from the standards depicted by June that I could easily be nicknamed December.

While Mrs. Cleaver and I both bestow a tight-lipped kiss upon our husband as he leaves for work each morning, we surely purse our puckers for different reasons. June did so out of some sense of propriety, or to preserve her perfectly etched lipstick. Im just trying to spare my man the noxious fumes of morning breath. The way I see it, protecting his olfactory sense is the least I can do after already having assaulted his eyes with baggy flannel pajamas and a three-inch radius of bed-head. (Not all domestic niceties are dead.)

Once he leaves for work, I am not expected to sit amongst hundreds of recipe cards to plan an elaborate evening supper. Instead, I often sit amongst friends at the local coffee house, sharing a latte and a laugh. I then swing by the store for some gourmet something, like refrigerated pasta ala jarred sauce and a well-preserved salad in a bag. And you know what? When June isnt showing off on the small screen while I do my ten minutes of culinary prep work, I dont even feel guilty about it.

Lord knows Id be the talk of Mayfield for opting to spit-shine my sense of inner peace over restoring the luster to my roasting pan. But June, were not in Mayfield any more. The rest of the June-lites and I take the time to replenish our patience for the after-school shenanigans of our own little Beavs and Wallys. For the record, if our conversations with them ended with Gee whiz, mom, instead of a six-syllable rendition of Whateveeeeeeeeeeer, we, too, might still have enough hair to coif.

I suppose my Ward could also argue that his emerging cranial shine has a lot to do with me responding to him with What!? more often than Yes, dear. Theres even an unspoken understanding between us that hed be as bald as Kojak if he protested my time off for average behavior. Yes, I know: June would have been lucky to step out to a Tupperware party while I am entitled to regular meetings of Bunco, book club, and the occasional girls night on the town. This would have required poor Ward to rise from his recliner to serve up Junes dutifully prepared ham and cheese casserole. But my man knows just where to find the frozen pizza.

Yes. By finding our voice in marriage, women have, indeed, forced men to find the stovetop, washing machine and toilet brush. Weve even cleverly convinced them that they live longer (and b-b-better?) now that they cohabitate with us as a solid match of equals. Yet after theyve caught an eyeful of June, I cant help but think theyd rather we just nod and smile, as if to say: Why, yes, dear. A big screen TV is a delightful addition to my favorite decorating nook.

For any man who waxes too nostalgic for the days of his forefathers, though, I ask him to remember the one irrefutable perk he receives from a womans improved lot in life. Its a little something that is far more likely to happen in a double bed than in a respectable set of twins. And the quality goes up tenfold when a girl feels fulfilled enough to trade her bakers apron for the French maids variety.

Slow cook that, June!

© Shana McLean Moore

About The Author Shana McLean Moore is the author of Caffeinated Ponderings on Life, Laughter & Lattes and the co-author of the recently released Femail: A Comic Collision in Cyberspace. Enjoy her wit and wisdom during your next coffee break by visiting www.caffeinatedponderings.com. caffeinated@sbcglobal.net

This article was posted on March 01, 2006