As the combination of smells—filet mignon, roasted potatoes, strawberry cheesecake—filled the house, I finished ironing my favorite pink party dress with the purple bow in the back. The dining room table was already set and the candles lit. My guests would be here any minute now and dinner would be served!
Then I woke up.
A scene like this could only occur in one of my dreams because in short, I am domestically challenged. Cooking? Hah. Sewing? Psych. Cleaning? Only because I'm scared the hairy thing growing in the bathroom sink may have a heartbeat—even then, I kind of want a pet. I've tried to change my ignorant ways when it comes to the household, but the world of spatulas, Lysol and potpourri is still foreign.
Cooking: I can make a killer omelet, and that's where it ends. Toasting, boiling water or mixing is not a problem, but if meat is thrown into the mix, anticipate the taste of rubber, an uncooked middle section or a disaster involving salmonella.
Though I'm far from vegetarian, the handling of an animal's inner thigh or bosom area just isn't my cup of tea (I can actually make this myself), even with the help of Mr. Foreman. I don't know if it's just me, but food tastes so much better when someone else has prepared it.
Cleaning: Okay, I will do this to maintain a decent living situation, but I enjoy no second of it, especially involving vacuums. They loudly and hostilely suck up anything in their path regardless of its significance, resulting in that crackling sound that makes you say, ""Crap, what the hell was that?"" Vacuums are dust removing Nazis.
I ""tidy up"" around the apartment when needed and pick up after those who try to bake goods on the stove. (I once found a trail of pepperoni and shredded cheese down the hall leading to the kitchen, where my roommate had shoved an entire frozen pizza into a skillet in attempts to cook it over the fire. This was generally unsuccessful, but drunken munchies were fulfilled.)
Needlework: My fourth grade teacher taught our class how to knit—I forgot the stitch three weeks later. My mother once showed me how to sew a couple years ago—I made the original hole bigger than it already was and was told to leave the room. Nothing has changed since then, and the chic-yet-grungy college student look in ripped jeans and worn-in T-shirts isn't really working for me. Instead, my child-like appearance and inability to mend clothing makes me look more like one of those neglected children with dirt on their faces wearing oversized sweaters from the 80s. No, that's not your baby cousin Timmy sitting next to you in discussion, that's me.
But I almost have too much pride to ask anyone for guidance in these domestic departments of my life. It's not that I'm not capable of learning and applying these skills, I will... eventually.
My only fear is that my dear children will be deprived of the housewife mother every kid dreams of, and find me to be a disappointment. Oh well, I'll leave the Bounty sheets and chocolate chip cookies to the family's live-in manny. Wayne loves that stuff.
Want to teach Julia how to sew, cook, clean, or interview to become her secondary manny? E-mail her at shiplett@wisc.edu.
