Decidedly Un-domestic...

This is the year I’m going to start owning things. I don’t mean ‘things’ in the material sense. Bear with me on this one and it will all become clear.

Today, A asked me the following question: “If we were to own a house with a bigger garden, do you think you might like to keep hens?” I was momentarily speechless, not certain I’d heard him correctly. In the few seconds it took me to recover and formulate some sort of response, my mind raced through a series of thoughts that went something like this: (Hens?!!! I know that one set of my grandparents were farmers but I was raised in the city! Hens?!!! Me, who if money were no object, would be happily ensconced in a luxury patio home or condo where there is 0 maintenance, replete with housekeeper, personal chef, personal trainer… Hens get mites! Wait… does that mean lice?! Eeeew! What level of commitment would keeping HENS require? Do they smell? Do they poo everywhere? What is the noise level? What if I fail and can’t keep them alive and happy? I DO hope you mean for eggs only and not for… I couldn’t bring myself to ever… Oh, but is this something A really wants? I want him happy… perhaps I could try to keep a more open mind because if it’s something he really wants we could do this together… but Hens?!!).

I told A we could discuss this once we both did some degree of research into what the reality of hen keeping would be. After all, I’d love a pet rabbit but am not convinced that I’m up to the task. Couldn’t we just have a next door neighbor with hens and buy fresh eggs from them?

Friends, family of mine, and those of you whose blogs I follow (and adore) who are happily baking, decorating your homes, and making all manner of clever and crafty things please know that I hope you are not *too* disappointed to know that while I admire these traits and abilities greatly, I have no (known) personal proclivities of these sorts. I was the girl who immersed herself in her career... to a fault.

SO… it’s time I start owning things. Owning the fact that I. Don’t. Know. How. To. Cook. I am only this week (at the tail end of my 39th year of life) making a concerted effort to start cooking. Whole foods. No more frozen dinners and overly-processed stuff that passes for food. I am committed to this process for my health and well-being, but am finding that while I am proud of what I am achieving (which trust me, won’t impress you foodies out there), I don’t actually *love* cooking! I envy people who love it. I want so much to feel that way about it. Perhaps in time I will grow to love it, but perhaps I need to stop hoping this will magically change for me and own this as a personal truth.

I should also own the fact that I don’t fully understand fashion, or have an interior design knack, or know the first thing about gardening (though I love the idea of it… I HATE BUGS). I can’t stand camping outdoors. I am a little afraid of lawn mowers. I like air conditioning and creature comforts.

I am still open to experimentation on the domestic front. I keep hoping that I will embrace it more. I reserve the right to change my mind, but so far I haven’t.

It will be interesting to see what sort of house A and I keep together. He doesn’t seem to mind cooking, and I don’t altogether mind cleaning the kitchen. He is not afraid of bugs and enjoys tending to rose-bushes. I may not be a designer, but I do really enjoy a cozy home so I’m sure I’ll make my best effort in that regard. I hope our friends won’t shy away from dropping by…


The only promise I’m going to make right now is that I will strive to be more comfortable owning the truth… whatever it was, is, or becomes…