A Domesticated Gal

I was not always a Domesticated Gal.  Hard to believe, I know, but once upon a time I?

Was a Career Girl.

Living on take out and frozen pizzas, I knew the pre-prepared foods aisles better than my toddler knows his way to the time-out corner.  My vacuum might as well have been placed in one of those glass cabinets with a sign that said “In case of emergency, break glass.”  Which really means, “In case of emergency, BACK AWAY AND CALL YOUR MOTHER.”  And my iron?  Made for an excellent door-stop.  Suffice it to say, most of my early twenties was spent firmly entrenched in the conviction that I was an undomesticated goddess.  Or at least undomesticated.

Then I got married.

Which was absolutely not as bad as it sounds.

Except for my career.  I married the love of my life, and then moved my life to Middle America.  Small Town Middle America.  Where they bake pies.  And casseroles.  Lots and lots of casseroles.

But my Career?  Jumped the tracks.

And landed in Mommyville.

While I’ve not been given the Keys to the City, I’ve yet to be set upon by an angry mob of Donna Reed wannabes wielding dust-busters and turkey basters at high noon.  It may have taken me an entire summer to master my grandmother’s chocolate chip cookie recipe, despite the fact that she wrote it down for me.  In detail.  And sure, I’m still not entirely clear on the finer points of using the various vacuum attachments.  Or an iron.

But I’m working on it…