Free American Housewife by Helen Ellis Page B

princess bra—from the towel rack. Myrtle takes off the balcony. Her breasts droop. They look sad. The pink princess bra is happy. I hold it out for her to slip her arms through, but Myrtle doesn’t budge. She stares at the appliqué tulips on the straps.
    She admits, “I can’t afford it.”
    “You could charge it.”
    “Barbara won’t let me have any debt.”
    Myrtle pulls her not-so-sporty sports bra over her head. She gathers herself. Her tamped-down nipples look like googly eyes.
    I say, “You’ll keep your mom from gossiping? You’ll keep the other women in line?”
    Myrtle nods.
    “You’ll be nice?”
    She picks up my washcloth. She folds it and places it on the edge of the sink. She puts the balcony and the basic back on their hangers. She spreads the kimono so that its cranes look like they will fly off the peg.
    None of this is done as I would do it, but I wave my hand:
Good enough.
    I slip the pink bra into her purse.

HOW TO BE A
GROWN-ASS LADY

C ompliment everyone. Take a compliment. Wear sunscreen on your face and hands even when it’s cloudy. Dye your gray hair black, brown, or blond. Run the dishwasher half full. Have company over and serve what you want to eat. When a guest says your meat loaf looks like a football, don’t tell the woman that her husband is obviously gay.
    Don’t bite your cuticles. Get rid of a wart before there’s a cluster. Don’t sit on a toilet in front of anyone, ever. If your husband wants a bigger TV, for heaven’s sake let him have it.
    Go to the mall for your Clinique bonus gift. Buy three pieces of clothing twice a year at full price. Get refitted for bras on your birthday. Replace your tights every winter. Forget thongs. If your white shirt has sweat stains, throw it away. Tip 20 percent on the whole bill including alcohol and tax. When St. Jude’s mails you personalized address labels and asks for a forty-five-dollar donation, write them a check.
    Get your Pap smears and mammograms. Get your teeth cleaned. Join a book club. Join two. Never put your phone on a restaurant table. Don’t tell your friends with kids that if they die, you’ll take care of their kids.
    If you don’t like something someone says, say: “That’s interesting.”
    If you like something someone says, say: “That’s interesting!”
    Don’t brag about not going to church. Don’t complain about your interior designer. Give flight attendants your full attention during their in-case-of-emergency takeoff routines. Talk to cabdrivers. Engage strangers while waiting in line.
    Don’t reprimand people who call you sweetheart.
    Don’t reprimand people who call you ma’am.
    Accept it: you’re too old to drink more than one drink and sleep through the night. Face it: you’re never going to get carded again, so quit asking bouncers if they want to see your ID. Quit going places where they have bouncers.
    Call friends you haven’t spoken to since high school and tell them about your weird dream that they were in. Don’t chastise your husband because he dream-cheated on you. When your husband is in the bathroom, don’t knock on or talk to him through the closed bathroom door. When a young person doesn’t get your reference, don’t repeat, “Kiss my grits!” with the hope that they will.
    Call people under thirty kids.
    Call people over sixty young.
    Listen to gangsta rap in the privacy of your own headphones. Listen to erotic audiobooks when you scrub the bathroom floor. Worry about cancer. Google menopause. Challenge insurance claims. Ask your friend who’s a shrink if you should see a shrink. Don’t look at your profile because it’s not the mirror or the lighting or the time of day, it’s you.

HOW TO BE A PATRON
OF THE ARTS

Step 1: Take your husband’s money.
    He will offer it to you six years after your first novel is published. You refused to marry him until that first novel sold. Then you spent those six years writing a second novel while you held on to your secretarial