How Would You Rate On This 1930's Wife Test?

by Christine Organ
Originally Published: 
Image via Everett Collection/Shutterstock; American Psychological Association

A 1930s “marital rating scale” re-emerged

When it comes to considering the state of one’s marriage or long-term relationship, some people might ask: Are my spouse and I happy? Is our marriage healthy? Are we growing together and meeting each other’s needs, while tending to our own needs as well?

But why ask yourself logical and helpful questions like these when you can judge yourself and your spouse based inane, sexist, and downright ridiculous standards, such as whether a spouse can play a musical instrument or goes to bed with a charcoal face mask on once a month.

Behold the 1939 Marital Rating Scale, created by Dr. George W. Crane. This list is otherwise known as the most laughable shit to emerge on the interwebs since Kirk Cameron’s Marital advice.

Each item counts as one point unless specifically noted in parenthesis. So you get one point for each “merit,” and you subtract a point for each “demerit.” Let’s go through a few of these gems, shall we?

First, the demerits. Yes, demerits. Because, apparently, 1930s wives were treated like teenagers at a military reform school.

She doesn’t like children.

Aside from the sanctimommies who profess their eye-roll-inducing undying love and devotion to their children all the time and write #soblessed Facebook posts about “enjoying every moment,” real motherhood means that sometimes you don’t actually like children. Of course, we mothers love our children with our whole hearts and would die for our kids, but show me a mom who says she likes her children all the time and I’ll show you a mom who is a delusional lying liar. Even the best mothers give their dearest child an angry middle finger or mutter a fuck you under their breath now and then. We love you, sweet children, but that doesn’t mean we have to like you all the time.

She fails to sew on buttons or darn socks regularly.

Apparently “darn” means “mend.” We didn’t know that because the only time we use it is when we’re trying not to swear around our kids. And no, we don’t mend socks. Minus one point.

She wears red nail polish.

Yes, please! Preferably glittery red polish painted on by nail tech during a two-hour long mani/pedi appointment while hubby cares for those kids we love-but-don’t-always-like.

She’s often late for appointments.

Always. Because kids. And husbands. And all that time we spend picking up their damn socks.

She wears soiled and ragged dresses and aprons around the house.

We have kids. Everything is soiled and ragged. In fact, most days there’s some kind of mysterious bodily fluid on our clothes – whether its smeared snot because moms are basically human tissues, dried spit-up, or leaked breast milk – and that’s on a good day. On the shitty days, it’s literal shit on our “aprons” and “dresses.” Step off and put in a load of laundry, hubs.

Okay, so what are we doing right? Something tells us we modern moms won’t be any better when it comes to the “merits,” but let’s see.

She’s a good hostess – even to unexpected guests.

Unless it’s the UPS driver delivering our Amazon Prime purchases, we aren’t even answering the door so that’s a big NOPE.

She lets her husband sleep late on holidays and weekends, and she never goes to bed angry.

Cue the eye rolling.

She’s a neat housekeeper – tidy and clean.

Cue the hysterical laughing. You know what they say, cleaning with kids is like brushing your teeth while eating Oreos. Most of us would agree that we’d prefer to binge-eat Oreos with a glass of wine while watching “This Is Us.” Besides, our house would be a whole lot “tidier” if someone who shall remain nameless could pick up his damn – er, darn – socks.

She has meals on time.

Excuse me while we laugh our asses off for a minute. The only thing that would make this funnier is if it said we should also have the meals ready while wearing a clean apron. Oh wait. Fuck. We’re screwed.

She dresses for breakfast.

If by “dresses” you mean wearing yesterday’s yoga pants and by “breakfast” you mean reheated coffee, then that would be a hell yes! #WINNING.

This article was originally published on