In my youth, I thought that I would be happy if I became a
trophy wife. I could lounge about
while my Race Car driving husband made all the money and be, you know,
rich. (Yes, I picked a Race Car
driver to be my income generating man candy. Due to racing’s lack of popularity
among women, and the fact that you can meet drivers before a
race, I feel I could actually have a shot.)
But then I realized something. I am too opinionated to be a trophy wife, and my guess
is, that’s not going to fly with my non-existent Race Car driving husband.
So then I
thought, “I could be a stay at home wife, who cooks and cleans!” Then I laughed at how ridiculous that
seemed, because, let’s be honest, I’m not prepared to take on that kind of
responsibility. I am skilled at cooking two meals, tacos and those Bertolli frozen
bag pastas that claim to feed two, but really feed just one.
And cleaning? My
idea of cleaning is putting everything in stacks and placing it carefully
around my apartment, behind bigger stuff.
Or placing bills and mail in decorative bowls so you are distracted by
the bowl and fail to see the disaster of my life sitting inside it.
And laundry?
I’ll do it because it smells nice, but I’ll also leave it down in the
dryer until it becomes absolutely necessary for me to make the trip to my
basement to get it. And even then,
I’ll keep the clean clothes in the laundry basket until all the dirty stuff
piles up on the floor, and it becomes pertinent for me to empty the clean stuff
to pile in the dirty stuff so my room looks clean-ish.
I don’t want you to think I am a pig. I keep a clean bathroom, I Clorox wipe surfaces
down. But when it comes to general
crap – it is just going to be thrown
on the first available surface I see when I walk through the door. In my old apartment, it was on a chair
that no one realized I had until I moved – today it is the kitchen table. It is around this table where you can
find my shoes, shopping bags, work bag, books, and mail. It isn’t used for eating, that is what
the coffee table in the living room is for, on the off night I decide to make
tacos, again.
So all this to say that I am not exactly domesticated wife
material. But based on that
fabulous sales pitch I just gave, if any of you men are willing to take a
shot, I’d be willing to get married for a teal Kitchen Aide mixer. I am actually a fabulous baker. And by fabulous, I
mean I buy box mixes and add chocolate chips to them and believe that is enough
to tell everyone what I baked is from scratch.
