a required taste for the pretentious as all get out





i am a domestic goddess
July 01, 2005, 8:02 am

Perhaps it's the season, or the weather, or the fact that we just had new lights installed in the basement, or my nesting instinct has kicked in...whatever...I am turning into a domestic goddess.

Yesterday I found myself in the local grocery store SHOPPING FOR INGREDIENTS TO A RECIPE which I purchased, took home, and made into a meal.

Let that soak in for a second. I COOKED DINNER. IT WAS TASTY. There was no Chinese food delivery, there was no Carini's, there were no reservations at the fancy new restaurant my parents love; nope, just me, some stoneware, and the oven.

Albeit the path to culinary enlightenment did not go smoothly; I overestimated how much I would need to double the recipe and unwittingly put it in a dish far too large for the amount of food I had, but that was a small setback. I COOKED DINNER. The more mature, grown-up side of me is grumbling, "It's about fucking TIME," and the party girl side of me is rolling her eyes, demanding a Cosmopolitan and a bar intervention, STAT.

I called Agent Megan yesterday while having a panic attack in the store and said, "I am standing in the cleaning aisle, and I am excited about buying a new toilet brush. Call me, I may need a psychiatric evaluation. Now." All of this house hoo-hah is really getting to me. I am FAR too excited about flower arrangements and paint color choices to be really in this, aren't I? I mean, I don't even LIVE here, for Pete's sakes...oh wait, I do.

See, somewhere along the line, when I wasn't looking, I somehow ended up fallinginlovemovinginwantingtobeengagedand planningmywedding. Like that. It's not that I don't want all this stuff; it's just the opposite. I want it so desperately I need to take a step back and seriously think that Thumper is the person I want to do this with...I want to grow old with him and be with him and make babies with him. It's not that I don't think he is the person, I do, I just wonder if my flair for blowing everything out of proportion, making something explode with my attention and then holding the broken pieces applies to him as well. The fairy tale side of me doesn't want to second guess this; my rational side (and let's face it, the scared part of me) wants to evaluate, reevaluate, inspect, introspect, overstimulate and overstep my bounds.

What if I'm wrong that he's the one, or, I think even more terrifying, what if I'm right? For now, I'll accept my choice of paint color on his wall as a representation of my permanence. He can always paint over it later, if need be.

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