Book Review: "Wifey," by Judy Blume

Big thanks to my friend Tara who totally made my Friday. Not only did she come over with no less than 13 books for me to read, but she also brought lunch, nummy lemon bars (!!) and chocolate chip cookies from our friend Tina's bakery, AND her adorable six-month old son, Nile. I'm not quite sure how she carried all of that, but she managed quite well. She even did a little reconnaissance work for me by scoping out the people moving in next door...and confirmed my worst fears: our old neighbors are back.

A little back story: we live in a teeny-tiny house. The houses on our block are about three feet apart (I'm not joking) and the backyard walls are no taller than 4 feet. We did not know this when we purchased the house in 2004. Since then, our neighborhood has been flooded with less-then-desirable neighbors that Brian and I have affectionately nicknamed, such as 'The Drug Dealer,' 'The Drug User,' 'The Gang Banger(s),' and 'That horrible white trash family with the delinquent kids.'  I'm about as bleeding heart liberal as it gets, but even I draw the line living next to a home that is no larger than 1200 square feet and houses one mother strung out on prescription pills, three teenage boys, and two grandparents that are too old and too frail to manage the boys. Juvenile Probation has been over to the house many, many times and me, being the nosy neighbor, try to watch what is happening while hiding in our kitchen by the cat food.

I thought we hit paydirt last November when the kids literally moved every single item in the house out to the driveway. I casually sauntered over and asked the mom, in one of her more lucid moments, what was going on. "We lost the house," she slurred to me. I feigned sympathy but ran back to Brian and high-fived. I'm not usually mean person (maybe I am? Don't answer that), but I really wasn't relishing in their bad luck. It's just that our house had been broken into back in 2006 and after conducting a thorough investigation, I'm 99% positive it was the kids next door who did it. So, yes, I was happy they were leaving.

After a week of living next door to a house with every item in their house displayed on their driveway ("EVERYTHING MUST GO SALE" is what the sign said, but I'm pretty sure no one was going to buy the dirty kitty litter, the rumpled boxer shorts, or the broken TV), they finally, blessedly, left. I could finally vacate my perch in our bedroom that overlooked their house and stop my near-daily phone calls to 3-11. No more would the smell of marijuana drift into our yard, and the constant 9-11 calls (usually for domestic violence) would stop. A great day, indeed.

So yesterday, when dear Tara brought over all of the books and treats, I also asked her to check out the activity next door. By nighttime, my worst fears were confirmed: the mom, knee-brace still in place, was sitting on the porch chain-smoking while her delinquent children hefted their tattered furniture back into the home. Needless to say, Operation New House is now in full-effect, and Brian and I are desperate to get out. Hopefully sometime early next year.

And yes, I'm totally voting Republican in the next election. Sorry. Living next to these people has converted me (Adam and Tiffany, congratulations. You win. Just tell me where to sign up). I can't help but feel one of Obama's policies helped the family get their house back, which in turn, is going to cause me to lose my sanity.  Screw this whole 'lets-help-each-other' philosophy. How about, let's guarantee my husband, myself, and my child don't have to live next to people who consider stained potholders appropriate garage sale material, and used carpet and old mattresses an adequate backyard accessory. Brian literally works his butt off, we pay our bills on time, and take pride in keeping a clean home. Yet we get no tax breaks, no bail-out, no housing credits, and are taxed up the wazoo. And we live next to the Old Mattress House.

::pulling hair out::

Sorry, just had to get that off my chest. On to the book review.

Okay, so most of us have read Judy Blume at one point or another in our lives. I'd be hard-pressed to find an adult woman who didn't read 'Are You There God? It's Me, Margaret' as an adolescent. Ms. Blume continues her fascination with psychosexual development with 'Wifey,' the tale of a suburban housewife in the early 70s with a  fondness for Jacki O and a deep resentment towards her husband. While the sexual scenes in the novel are graphic, true to Blume-style, the whole novel reminded me of an updated version of Kate Chopin's 'The Awakening,' one of my favorite books in high school.  

Poor Sandy, the protagonist, is in desperate need of a soft place to land, and she finds that in the willing arms of multiple suitors. Just the interaction between herself and her mother-in-law was enough to make my skin crawl; this woman has no voice, no opinion, and no way out. She's bullied into everything and knows it, but lacks the courage to stand her ground.  Her husband feels as though he is providing the best life for Sandy because he pays the bills, but has zero insight into his emotional treatment of her. Sandy wallows in self-doubt and struggles to discover why she feels so empty on the inside. The country club membership and  newer, bigger house offer little respite to the vacant-ness of Sandy's life.

I'll never pass up a  novel that explores the complexity of women's relationships, and more importantly, the role that women play in society. How far does one go to be 'obedient' to one's husband? How do you keep a healthy balance between your husband and kids, while still remaining true to yourself?  'Wifey' reads like a warning tale for any woman who has dreamed of being "the best wife and mother" possible; sometimes, that's just not enough. I think Oprah has been able to accurately push the message of not sacrificing your identity for that of your family, but striking that balance sounds easier said than done.

I'm just thankful the book took my mind off of our scary neighbors for several hours last night. I know, I know, ironic that I'm complaining about our neighborhood while talking about not putting stock in material positions as a key to happiness. Really, though, a new house (and a new neighborhood) would make me happy. Maybe not happy in the spiritual sense, but at least I wouldn't have to bullet-proof our windows and keep the shades drawn.

Grade: B