The Demise of my Domesticity

I used to be quite domestic. I prided myself in setting a beautiful table, making impressive recipes from scratch, decorating my home… but now? Now, I’ve never once sat at my dining room table, I own one tiny skillet, one tiny 2-quart saucepan and no muffin tins, still haven’t hung pictures in my apartment after moving in 5 months ago, never make my bed, much less use pillow shams, and I honestly cannot remember the time I washed dishes.  Somehow I’ve regressed. Most people eat cereal out of re-used take-out containers, don’t have a single table linen and have refrigerators filled with more beer than food when they’re in college or right after, not when they’re 28.

When I look back on that domesticated life I once had, I’m a tiny bit nostalgic and I think I want to be that way again… some day. 24-year-old me would’ve shaken her finger at 28-year-old me for living like this. But come to think of it, 24-year-old me was wound just a bit too tight and she didn’t know much about having fun.

I don’t know if it’s because I moved out of the South and away from alleged societal pressures to be the perfect housekeeper and hostess or because I’ve finally started living fully. I’m busy now. I don’t have to fill my empty evenings with table linen shopping  or wreath making because my evenings are full. Full of lively, fun activities I really enjoy. Full of good, deep, true friendships. Full of writing and working towards a career I actually dream about.

So, I won’t mourn the demise of my domesticity. I’ll just get super rich and hire a housekeeper to be domestic for me.

First Day of School and Other Updates

I had my first day of class on Tuesday and it was a lot of fun!I can tell it’s going to be really good for me and that I’m going to learn more than I thought possible.

In Throw Mama from the Train*, Billy Crystal’s character Larry has a personal motto that he’s not very good at sticking to, “A writer writes. Always.” Larry teaches writing courses and is supposedly working on a novel but he can’t seem to get words on the page.

I can identify. I’ve been quasi calling myself a writer but I haven’t been writing anything. I can’t even seem to compose a cover letter for job applications because I’m terrified of putting something awful down on paper.

In class, we wrote stuff and it didn’t have to be good – we were just writing. Our instructor told us to value process over result, quantity over quality and persistence over talent. Simple but freeing advice. I now feel a lot better about applying for jobs that require writing samples. Who cares if a lot of what I write is pure crap? Of course I won’t submit everything I put on paper, but not putting anything down at all certainly isn’t getting me any jobs or improving my form.

I’ve even been enjoying my homework. But much like this blog, the hard part is forcing myself to get over my laziness and fears to just write something!

In other news, below you’ll find a little slideshow of some pictures of my apartment that I took.  Keep in mind that I did not decorate this place but it has been quite cozy and comfy.  I can’t make 3 of the pictures turn the right way… sorry.

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I haven’t been out to eat since Kristal and Yancie left but after some careful research, I’ve determined that there’s a delicious and cheap Thai restaurant (Garlic & Chili)  exactly one block from my apartment. I’m trying to hold out and not eat there just yet because I know once I start, I won’t be able to stop. Dangerous.

I went to Whole Foods today to find some Clemmy’s brand ice cream and spent the entire time scoffing at the patrons and products. It’s rather appropriate that Whole Foods is just off Superior St. because the air of superiority in that place could choke a person.  I doubt I’ll become a regular patron.

For Mr. Cunningham

I wrote this for my Tumblr but it isn’t terribly funny so I’m posting it here for those of you who enjoy Happy Days and/or endearing stories.

 

 

I can't be the only one who thinks Richie Cunningham is a total fox.

 Photo from here.

Tom began moving towards the bright light he saw in front of him. He’d always heard it would be white but instead, it shone a rich, beautiful gold. At first he was afraid, “Am I dying now? Am I already dead? Who will take care of my wife Patricia? Will my kids and grandkids be alright without me? What will God be like?”

But then he realized he no longer felt pain. He felt relieved, comfortable, even happy. The pain in his chest was no longer there. That bum knee wasn’t aching and he felt lighter, younger, more fit, as if the heaviness of living was no longer weighing on his body. The light grew brighter and more intense, soon he was no longer able to look directly at it.

“TOM BOSLEY,” someone proclaimed loudly. Tom tried to shield his eyes but was strangely drawn by this powerful yet kind voice.

“Yes?”

“WELL DONE, GOOD AND FAITHFUL SERVANT”

“Are you St. Peter? Isn’t he like the welcoming committee or something?” Tom chuckled to himself.

“I AM THAT I AM.”

“God?! Wow!! I can’t believe it! Ain’t this a kick in the head? So, this is heaven, huh? Just a bright, comforting golden light? What about the streets of gold, the crystal sea? You know, I’ve got a lot of questions for you. For starters, what ever happened to Chuck on Happy Da-“

“FOLLOW ME.”

“Oh, okay, I guess we’ll chew the fat later. You probably need to write my name in the Book of Life or get me registered or whatever anyway. We’ve got all of eternity for me to ask questions, am I right?!” Tom laughed nervously as he followed the warm, inviting light.

He didn’t notice anything but the golden aura so he was surprised when he heard other voices. They entered a beautiful banquet hall with marble floors the likes of which Tom had never seen. The alabaster ceiling was so delicate, the stars shone straight through. There in front of him was a carved, mahogany table set with gold plates, silver chargers, platinum silverware and crystal glasses, he’d never seen anything on earth that could compare. The table stretched farther than Tom could see, as if it never ended.

Tom looked down the table, scanning for a familiar face. Somehow he knew he was among friends but he didn’t recognize anyone in particular. The light gently led him along again. As they passed the diners, each one smiled at Tom as if to welcome him into their party.

Above each plate was a placecard made of the finest linen paper and written on it was a name in calligraphy so beautiful, each card could have been framed and sold at auction. Barbara Billingsley, Art Linkletter, Dixie Carter, Dennis Hopper, Lena Horne, Lynn Redgrave, Peter Graves, Jerry Orbach, Tony Curtis, Rue McClanahan. One by one, he read the names of old friends, acquaintances and colleagues. And then, he saw her, she looked so familiar but he couldn’t quite place her. She was beautiful, even lovelier than the faint memory he was struggling to find. She looked rested, younger, sweeter.

“Jane?” Tom reached out to her, calling the name of his first wife who had been taken from him too soon. He checked her placecard, it read Jane Eliot. “Janie, it IS you!” He wanted to cry when he took his first love in his arms but no tears would come. He held her for what seemed like only a second before the light beckoned for him to continue on.

“COME. I HAVE PREPARED A PLACE FOR YOU.”

The light led Tom to an empty place in the center of the table. He read the names of the two men on either side, Walter Matthau and Jack Lemmon.

“TOM BOSLEY,” God boomed, loud and clear, “THIS IS YOUR CHAIR. SO SIT ON IT!”