Currently viewing the tag: "domestic disgrace"

Step 1: Congratulations! Here begins your meteoric rise to culinary greatness. Start by selecting a recipe. I suggest something that will require at least an hour and a half to two hours to prepare. For example, I chose Williams-Sonoma’s Butternut Squash Risotto with homemade butternut squash puree.

Take a second to get pumped up, and imagine how much better your life will be after you’ve prepared this meal.

Step 2: Make an elaborate show of announcing the mind-blowing meal you plan to prepare.

I recommend giving your loved one(s)–in my case, the Mr–a minimum of eight hours to ready his stomach to receive the gift of pure love in the form of rich, savory food. Stretching is encouraged.

Step 3: Use the enormous sense of self-satisfaction you’re feeling to propel your body to the grocery store, where you will acquire the fixings for your fancy supper. Parade down the store’s aisles like the smug, sanctimonious sonofagun you’ve earned the right to be.

Your strut exudes stone-cold dominance, so people might be intimidated by you. Get used to it. You’re on the verge of mastering this one recipe the kitchen THE UNIVERSE.

Step 4: Prepare the meal according to instruction. Make sure to time the preparation perfectly, so that you are just adding finishing touches when your spouse or partner arrives home. Use boisterous, Emeril-like gestures while chopping and stirring. Too much pride is never a bad thing.

Step 5: You’ve been cooking for two hours now, and even though you’re quite tired, you feel a swelling of pride in your chest as your meal is nearly ready. This risotto is going to be effing beautiful. For a brief moment, you imagine the look of elation on your spouse’s face as he takes the first bite. “He’s going to propose all over again tonight,” you think.

Add the final ingredient–a requisite 1/2 cup of Parmesan cheese–with a flourish. You’ve been stirring this risotto for nearly an hour. Your arms are weak, but your edible victory is close.

As you sprinkle in the last few bits of cheese, realize that you’ve been slowly contaminating your meal with molded Parmesan.

The cheese is blue and green, and dead all over. And now so is your risotto.

Check the expiration date. The cheese has not passed its “sell by” date.

The only plausible explanation: This mold is some kind of hell-born monster sent to destroy your will to live.

Your food has betrayed you. In seconds, your risotto is no longer edible–instead, it’s a health hazard. The demonic mold has negated hours of your life, pulverized your soul and now seems to be mocking your dying dreams of an ascent to super-hero status.

Step 6: Begin your crying jag by throwing something across the room.

I chose a spoon, but you’re kitchen is filled with objects sized and weighted just right for flinging, like salt and pepper shakers, and ripening fruit. By all means, get creative with your selection.

Step 7: Greet your spouse at the door as he arrives home, scaring him within an inch of his life by running toward him screaming. Tell him that everything is wrong and the world is over, and launch into 15-25 minutes of ugly crying.

Step 8: After nearly 30 minutes of hard sobbing, you’re famished. Realize that you still have to eat something for dinner, and rummage through your kitchen for food. Find alcohol. Drink it.

Step 9: Enjoy a small pity party on your kitchen floor. Invite your new buddy, booze, because now that you’re a failure at life, booze is all you have left.

DO NOT invite your spouse, because he can’t understand your special brand of crazy. Also due to your persistent claims that he would dine on a giant bowl of heaven, he’s starving, and you can’t afford to be bogged down with other people’s needs right now.

Step 10: I can’t really remember what happens during this step.

Step 11: Start to feel woozy and realize that your best bud, alcohol, is actually poison, engaging in an angry battle with your body and–probably–your already weakened soul.

Decide you’re going to need some food in your stomach to help your body fight off alcohol’s warring advances.

Step 12: Pour cereal and milk into a bowl, adding dashes of shame and self loathing and just a pinch of tears.

Every day, for at least 10 minutes a day, it occurs to me that I need to stop staring at my cuticles and sweep the hardwood floors in my living room. Then I think, I should probably put down the remote and clean up my bedroom closet. It also crosses my mind that, rather than planning a Glamour Shots photo shoot for my dog, I should fold the laundry that’s been sitting in a hamper for two days.

And, you guys, I always REALLY think I’m going to do some of these things. I pinky swear and cross my heart and hope to die promise myself that I’m going to get my act together and make chores my bitch.

Here’s what usually happens instead:
– I end up spending a good hour and a half tweeting about what color my hair is or how awful tropical-flavored skittles are.
– The internet sucks me in to a mean game of “read the first two paragraphs of everything published today” (I’m still not clear on the rules of this game, but I’m pretty sure I’m losing.)
– My DVR has some Bravo programming saved on it that I NEED to watch.
– There’s something shiny on the floor, and I want to play with it for a while.

Ladies and gentlemen: I am a domestic disgrace.

And I spend a lot of time beating myself up about this fact. I tell myself that normal people are cleaning their houses daily and not complaining about it. I ridicule myself for having no real job and, consequently, plenty of time to get lots of housework done. I practically beg myself to straighten up and fly like Martha Stewart.

And sometimes it works. And I am shamed into dusting or vacuuming.

But today, I’m too tired to dole out and/or endure the beating I deserve, so I’m considering another tactic.

Today, I’m going to try going all Grey Gardens on my failure.

If you don’t know what Grey Gardens is, then you don’t have time for this post. You have to go read this Wikipedia page and get Netflix to send you the movie same-day delivery. Not the HBO movie. The real movie, circa 1975. Go. Do it. Now.

If you do know what Grey Gardens is, then you know that the documentary followed two classy broads who sat in a ramshackle home–complete with a raccoon–for over two decades, ate what was probably cat food and wore their skirts upside down (or as capes).

And they were fabulous.

Now, I’m not saying I’m ready to dine on Fancy Feast (although, I might look good in a skirt-cape.)

And I don’t think I’m sparkly enough to shine through two decades of mess like these ladies. In fact, I don’t even know what kind of dedication it might require to take a house from this:

Grey Gardens in 1936

To this:

Grey Gardens in 1971

I’m just saying that today, I’m not going to beat myself up over all of the things I think exemplary domestic-types do. Today, I’m going to do like the Beale ladies, who, as far as I can tell, didn’t subject themselves to any mundane chores at all.

Instead, I’m going to read poetry or sing or wear a head scarf. But in order for this scenario to play out, I’ll need a partner in crime.

Hence the title of this post.

I am currently seeking a character to be the Edie to my Edie.

Here are some of the required job duties:

Please list your qualifications in the “leave a comment” section*. Act fast, and this could be you:


*Fear biters need not apply.