Celebrating the day of patriachal sovereign rule, I spent the day reading Aubrey Andelin’s fascinating Man of Steel and Velvet: A Guide to Masculine Development, getting glazed-eyed at the thought of having a dominating husband-provider taking charge of his family and wife. How else does one celebrate the last few good men who are still man enough to be good dads and strong domineering husbands in this day and age of tree-hugging, granola-munching, george winston mp3-owning sensitive male sissies?

I have been steadily amassing books from the fifties and sixties concerning marriage, practices of the good wife. Some include compendiums of Christian advice pamphlets. (Ooo, a shudder of delight here) Coming from a liberal and casual Presbyterian family with a Catholic-raised father, the ultra-conservative marriage advice books read like science fiction far beyond the reaches of Asimov and Wells. Being open-minded was the default in our household. Therefore, talking like a scriptures-quoting fundie became all the rage if one wanted to affect the spoils of rebellion. The more protest I see from Amazon reviews and the women’s rights gang, the more forbidden and glamourously delicious these books become. My rule of thumb is this: If I find more than five 1-star negative reviews, I immediately purchase the book on the spot. Anything that is so wrong is guaranteed to be so positively right!

How fantastic it would be to enter a realm where the man makes all the decisions for his meek and dependent gentlewomanly wife who governs her tongue and countenance, fearing the husband and always following his lead? Days of martinis at five, dressed to the nines doing household chores, a dizzying parade of pearl necklaces, greeting the husband at the doorstep, backrubs, dinner at the table, dressing and looking one’s best to please the man of the house, and putting his and his children’s needs before her own. A wife was to obey and submit herself to her husband in everything he commanded, even if it was against her will. Ah, one does not even begin to appreciate what “Apocalypto” truly means until one utters the former sentence at a feminist coffeehouse poetry reading session.

(sigh!)Someday, when I get married.

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