Musings of an Undomestic Goddess

Lately, I've been trying to be more domestic. I figure I'm working part time these days. It should not be so hard to keep our house straight and cook a few meals. Every time I visit someone else's house I look longingly at the matching furniture, the paint on the walls, the manicured garden and think, "Someday...." Then I come home and think HOLY MOTHER OF ALL THAT IS DOMESTIC, how did our house get like this? I know that part of the problem is I am not domestic. I am not a cooker, or an organizer, or a decorator. Those are things I would like to pay someone else to do, except, I can't afford it.

A domestic goddess' mummies

Sometimes I do have domestic inclinations, though it usually ends up looking more like Beetle Juice did it than than Donna Reed. This week was little beast's 5th birthday so I attempted to make mummy cupcakes to take to her class. The cupcakes were from this great cookbook my man bought for her called A Zombie Ate My Cupcake. The cupcakes look simple right?

However, they are not and mine ended up looking like some crazy crack head toddler got a hold of the icing bag, but no, it was just me.  I'm just not cut out for this domestic goddess thing. 

A Queenpin's mummies

The whole experience got me thinking about domestic goddessism and it made me look around my house. This is what I saw:

My enemy - the needy whore laundry

My desk - AKA the I'll file that shit later pile

Big Beast's room - all three of our rooms look about like this. 

An then I went outside and this is what my poor neighbors have to deal with:

The "hedge"

The "garden"

The front porch

Our house is a wreck. 

I have this vision of what I should be. You know, that sexy mama, with cleaning pixie dust shooting out of her uterus. I'm a woman right? Domesticity should come naturally.

I have perfect excuses for being a little bit of a mess: single working mother, in grad school, young kids, yet I also know women do it all the time. I've seen it. Yes, I have seen clean, organized houses. Just not mine.

I have a rent - a - husband on the books. He does odd jobs for me, and when I can afford it he cleans my house. Yes, I love that a man cleans my house more than me. It cracks me up. But his cleanings are few and far between, so really, on a day to day scale our house looks like a tornado has blown through the inside. 

My therapist and I talked about it today. Cleaning, organizing, cooking. They are not priorities for me. My mom, the OSQ, and I laugh saying I missed all those important life lessons like cooking because I was always out on the side porch smoking and reading my book, and that is basically true. I was just not interested. My sister cooks, my brother is a homegrown chef, me....I'm an open the box kind of gal. I'm a curl up and write, read, collage, study, kind of woman, not a fix it, clean it, cook it, domestic goddess. All my cleaning pixie dust fell out of my uterus at birth. 

This year in my life has been all about figuring out who I really am and owning it. It's about taking the visions of who I think I want to be and refashioning them into what is real and what is me. I think I'm just going to have to accept this about me: My domestic goddess gene is missing. My writing ate my Molly Maid, my collaging ate my Martha Stewart, my love of novels ate my Rachel Ray. I am fat with those crazy bitches, at some point they may just work themselves back up, and I will be awash in the vomit of domestic goddessesism. However, today, I'm just gonna finish my book.