Domestic Goddess. Or not.
When the Bibliophile and I started our freshman year in college, our lovely zany roommate, the Flashdancer, indoctrinated us in the tradition of Family Night. Each Wednesday was Family Night, and we each took turns cooking dinner for the others. When I finished cooking my first Family Night meal for myself, the Bibliophile, the Flashdancer, and the Quiet One, I called my mom on the phone and thanked her for all the meals she'd ever cooked for us. I told her I'd never understood how much work it took. I think she laughed.
I remembered that conversation with clarity today. I spent yesterday loafing on the couch, nursing a gnarly-ass cold, watching taped episodes of Top Chef and Top Design, and feeling sorry for myself. This morning I felt marginally better, so I went through my blogroll, read and commented on a friend's in-progress manuscript, baked a batch of muffins, washed the dishes, did more reading and commenting, washed more dishes, and cooked most of dinner (barbecue chicken in the crockpot, green beans from a can, and StoveTop...woo! Challenging!). I was feeling pretty proud of myself until I realized that (1) I barely did anything and (2) moms do this stuff and more, all the time, while raising their kids and sometimes working outside the home. So moms? (And dads) I salute you. I bow in your general direction. I am in awe of your mad domestic skillz. Rock on.
Dear Winter: It's About Goddamn Time
Reading: Playing the Moldovans at Tennis by Tony Hawks
Playing: Beck Radio on Pandora
"Wacky Web Site" of the Day: Be Afraid, Be Very Afraid (unusual phobias)