That sound you just heard? That was me falling to the floor laughing hysterically at the thought of myself ever being described as domestic.
I? Am not domestic.
I mean, sure, I can fake it like the best of them. I can keep a clean house, I do laundry, I even cook, and do a pretty darn good job of it, when I need to.
But Betty Crocker, Martha Stewart, June Cleaver I am not.
Now, I realize most women are not either, but truthfully, as much as I love my home, domesticity seems a bit lost on me.
I’m just not that girl.
But this does not mean I wouldn’t like to be. At times. There’s certainly a side to me that wouldn’t mind the ability to cook-up a family meal without having to think too much about it. To know exactly how long it takes to cook a pot roast (I wouldn’t even know what kind of meat to buy to make pot roast). To be able to turn on my sewing machine, and hem that pair of pants I just bought (I own a hand me down sewing machine, and have no idea how to work it).
I’ve come a long way in the nine plus years I’ve been living on my own, but “domestic” is just not a word anyone would use to describe me.
But really, I could fool you if I wanted to.
I would invite you to my home, after I’d spent a good day thoroughly cleaning it, I would cook up some finger foods (I’m really good at those), and perhaps one of my “no fail” recipes, I’d light some scented candles, line up my martini glasses on the bar, turn on some music, and maybe, for good measure, I’d wear this:
I think that sounds just enough "domestic", don't you?