If you were to take a peek into my home (which probably would never happen) the first thing you will notice is the lovely (as designers call it) “tablescape” in my pitiful excuse for an entry way.
What then you will notice is the chaos. Things strewed about like we were robbed, papers from my (very expensive) visa journey all over the coffee table that is starting to become my work table much to the dismay of my husband who also uses the same table as his gaming headquarters (I say this because my papers also share space with his two remote controls, headgear piece – two as a matter of fact because one is apparently not sufficent, and his keyboard) and dinner table.
Now the dining room table instead has my craft stuff (I blame this damn wedding) all over the place: fabric remnants that was suppose to be a curtain for the kitchen, thank you notes that I could have bought but in my stubborness decide to “make” them by stamping our initials in a passable monogram (I wish) and a heart (that is as DIY as I get and even then the letters turn out crooked or smudged or what have you) and colored gel pens all over the place. I will not start on the bedroom.
The one place of comfort is the kitchen (my mother’s doing. I cannot abide a dirty kitchen). There at least everything is wiped down, dishes are put away, and everything is stuffed somewhere in a semblance of order (don’t open the ‘junk drawer’ though. I cannot be held responsible for what jumps out at you. You have now had fair warning).
Thankfully, Cory isn’t the neatest of people. Thus, we have managed to cohabitate peacefully under the same roof without anyone yelling about putting the dishes in the sink (okay, so I might have done this a time or two but nowhere near as often as I could, believe me) or grumbling about shirts lying about (also him).
I think I remember a time where my room was orderly. The bed was made everyday. Clothes, papers, homework (no gaming consoles to worry about then) had their place. That period of time is what I like to call pre-depression Jesselyn (not very imaginative but that’s the best I got). As the chaos grew inside me, so did the chaos around me. Seems fitting. I once heard someone mention that a person’s home is a look into someone’s soul. At first, I thought they must be at least mildly exaggerating. Now I wonder if there is some truth to her (it must have been a her. A man would have never been that dramatic) words.
Looking at the mess around me, I have to confess, I am at a lost. I am not certain how I got here and not exactly sure how to get out either. It is afterall, easier to mantain than to fix. I think that is a similar analogy to how I feel inside. Similar I think to most situations we get ourselves in. Weddings (we get sucked in), perceptions of beauty, our integrity, etc. I digress. We were talking about my housekeeping skills or lack thereof. Now I did not read A Practical Wedding’s * exploration of “wife” series. I had every intention to. I mean, I am a wedding blogger who takes herself seriously after all. Not very many fluffy, pretty pictures to speak of but my attempts at “deep” thoughts on not a very deep subject. Anyway, I was planning on reading them but reading the debates and such just made my head hurt. So I say when I say I am in charge of the housekeeping, I say it with much trepidation waiting for a bunch of brides to come over and chew me up and spit me out in little pieces.
*waits for it*
Lemme explain: I am in charge of the housekeeping because at present moment, the husband is in charge of the bread-winning. Believe me, no one is more unhappy about this situation than I am (except maybe him). So yes, I have to take care of the cave and care for Arden the Beagle (and occasionally write papers on the state of the economy and financial theories) while my caveman husband goes out in search of food. Personally I think I make a much better “hunter” so to speak but the US government first wants to make sure I am not crazy (understandable but I do ferverantly wish they would hurry up about it). So it is only fair wouldn’t you agree? I mean, the husband works what? 60 hours a week and I sit on my bum doing nothing. He never says this. Cory is far more compassionate person but the word hangs in the air unsaid. Probably just me conjuring it.
Problem now being as I have now explained to you. I have not much housekeeping skills to speak of. Or maybe I do, it is just buried. Along with my sanity somewhere (my therapist do wishes I stop saying that). Even if my feminist denies the housekeeping ability, it is a useful ability to have. Married or not. So I am resolving to embrace my inner “Martha” and get to work on this apartment.
Only now, where do I start?
I could invite my sister over to help me and ply her with food. Cooking at least I am decent at. (Except chicken pot pie. Chicken pot pie being the easiest recipe in the world and it fails me. Every. Single. Time. I kid you not. Even the frozen ones) But the last time she was over the look of disgust was too much for me to bear. I cannot ask her back again. Even for food.
Help a sister out. Tips to tackling the apartment. Hit me. (Gently)
If you notice I didn’t wrap this post up nice and neatly this time with a epiphany or a solid conclusion about the subject. My only solid conclusion that I suck at housekeeping but somehow must flounder along until I get a job and start working (and not sitting on my bum all day)
Picture by Amazon.
* Who I greatly admire and at the same time selfishly envy because I realize all the realizations I have had about the wedding industry complex, brides, and indeed, wife she has already covered (and covered more eloquently than I ever could). *sigh*