Don't Say A Word

Last night I was cooking two dinners at once. That is right, cooking dinner for last night and assembling chili to put in the crockpot for tonight.

I am a domestic GODDESS.

Except not really.

I mean it worked out just fine, both dinners were good and I felt highly efficient. But I moved out of my parents house almost ten years ago and I still do not feel like I have this whole running my own house thing licked.

I actually like cooking. It is part pigging out part science experiment and who can argue with that. Especially since I can drink wine while doing it. It is the meal planning and the cleaning and the fucking dishes afterwards that I hate.

And I really hate that somehow it is my job.

This is not because J secretly expects me to do it. That he publicly talks about equality in marriage and then privately beats me with a stick until I make him a pie or something. It is just that he is a master of some husband games. Especially the one where he just doesn't do it because he knows, at least subconsciously, I will take care of it for him.

And I do. And the sick thing is that there is a deep dark part of me, a place that is too ugly and small and HIDDEN to even talk about, enjoys being able to do that.

Oh god, my college self just put a gun in her mouth and pulled the trigger. That was just too much for her to take.

It is too much for me to take. But you know, there is something deeply satisfying about having steam cleaned floors. There is something about being able to cook two meals at once.

But don't tell anyone.