Domestically Challenged

So I’ve been missing from the internet world for two months, where I have been, you ask? Well, we moved and I’ve been trying my hand at the whole domestic, wifely thing. I’m not so sure I’ve got it down, but then again I’m not so sure I’m a complete failure either.

With the husband working towards becoming the next big Chef in Tampa, I took it upon myself to step up and be a super-wife. I packed up almost the entire old apartment and unpacked nearly the entire new apartment without the help of a man. I did it in less than a month’s time. I hammered, I scrubbed, I sewed, and I laundered. I worked my part time job and took care of our toddler-esque, Pug, Brodie. I think I did pretty well. Even the husband himself, thought I did him proud.

I’ll admit I’m in a work out slump. I’ll admit it’s been a rocky road this fall but we have prevailed, and it’s only just begun. I’ve become pretty crafty with the inspiration of a new “canvas,” also known as our grand, new apartment. I made a tablecloth, a coffee table cover, another cover for a toy chest to match and have arranged it all quite nicely.

The deadline was Thanksgiving. We’d invited over some friends with no other plans just to come hang out. The man loves to cook for others and I am always the hostess. We finished the odds and ends of the apartment that very day and pulled together a dinner for 10 guests, which seemed to be a success. We were beyond exhausted on Thanksgiving night and had to peel ourselves out of bed the next morning.

My next foray into the whole domesticity thing was making a Christmas stocking for the puppy, and making some boring, 8$ stocking holders look cool. I puffy-painted them into adorableness and was feeling pretty strong. I had one more, crazy wife thing for the weekend and then I think I would have fulfilled my requirement for at least a handful of years. Two words: Pampered Chef.

Now let me explain something about myself: I’m not a very “girly” girl in many aspects. Aside from my innate ability to match outfits and my Girl-Scout fed ability to hand sew holes and simplicities; I’m not much of a homemaker. I’m the last person you want in a kitchen, unless I’m hyper-organizing and cleaning. I don’t really cook, that’s why I married a chef. I can barely use a knife, let alone do much else than peel, open and reseal.

When a co-worker’s wife asked me to host a Pampered Chef event I thought, “host,” what I do best, but the whole purchasing of kitchen items is completely foreign to me. I’m pretty sure my husband would prefer for me never to purchase kitchen items. He likes to pick those out himself. But, I thought, “Okay, I’m growing up, time to do the normal wife stuff, bring it.”

It went pretty well, and we made her some money but half the things people bought, I didn’t even know the purpose of, let alone how to use them. I’d asked the man but he said, no kitchen things were necessary. I walked away with two cooling racks for cookie-making and such and called it a night. It was definitely an experience. Having people over to let someone else in the kitchen demonstrating the many ways to create culinary masterpieces as I stayed out of the way downing wine wasn’t too far off from my nights at home with my husband in the kitchen. My job has always been to stay out of the way.

Perhaps I’m just domestically challenged, or perhaps I just don’t care, but certain areas of wifehood are beyond me. My house will always be cleaned and organized, but please don’t ask me to make a casserole. I didn’t even learn how to successfully make coffee until I was 20, but I learned how to use a debit card by 17.

It’s true I’ve inherited some scary qualities from my domestically challenged mother, who didn’t even know we had two ovens in the house until 10 years, later and considered making the salad a worthy contribution to the meal, but as my husband always says, “You CAN cook, you just don’t.” I plead the fifth.

I’m still figuring things out. It’s tough to be a domestic goddess, especially when you have to live up to all the other womanly expectations, like dressing well, not looking like a homeless person when you leave the house, and being maternal. For me it’s one step at a time, and if puffy paint, bedazzling, and sewing some patches can be my stepping stones to full on domesticity, it’s just one small step for womankind, and a huge step for me and my freakishly small feet!