I love those little lines of extracted text that Google lists under the links. The other day I was browsing online—okay, I’ll admit it—I was Googling my name. Among the library listings, book review hits, and blog links, I got a shock. I was listed in death notices. I know that even though I feel dead tired at times I’m not that bad off, but it’s a strange thing to see your name listed in the obits. Another interesting tidbit: A “Ms. Rosett” is on the editorial board for the Wall Street Journal. (Scroll down, it’s at the bottom, I promise). Oh, that it were true!

As I was pursuing links, I found that my name popped up on a website that breaks mystery sleuths down by category. Very handy. What surprised me was that Moving is Murder was listed under Amateur Sleuths: Housewives. First of all, I don’t think of Ellie (my protag) as a housewife. Does anyone think of themselves as a housewife today? But then I perked up. Housewives are hot. Or the word housewife is hot. There’s the Desperate ones, the ones from Orange County, and even Angry Ones Eating Bon Bons. Here at the Good Girls blog, we gently poke fun at housewives with our retro photos, which I love, by the way. I know those retro photos don’t reflect the reality of what a housewife looked and felt like in 1950 anymore than the impossibly thin, tank-top-wearing women of Wisteria Lane accurately reflect the moms and wives of today.

In fact, I think the pendulum as swung the other way a little too far—doesn’t it always go a little too far? Instead of the post-WWII perky, perfectly groomed women who keep immaculate houses and have home-cooked meals on the table each night, the media now portrays wives and moms with images and messages that imply that it’s great to be a wife, but you’d better look like you’re 20 even if you’re 40.

The expectation about great homemaking skills has fallen by the wayside, but the expectation about looks has risen to a level impossible for the average wife/mom to attain without the benefit of a personal trainer, live-in nanny, and personal chef. Not to mention the plastic surgeon! Used to be that moms were supposed to look like June Cleaver and grandmothers were supposed to look like Aunt Bea. Now moms are supposed to look like Teri Hatcher and grandmothers are supposed to look like—err—Teri Hatcher. Or Goldie Hawn. To me, it seems as if there’s as much pressure on a wives and moms to be perfect today as there was when those retro photos were current. Only the definition of “perfect” has changed. Does anyone else think the pressure on women to look like toothpicks is a little insane?

I’d better go eat some bon bons and think about it some more.