It’s true. I am not a domestic goddess. I know that this may come as a shock to some of you but I am simply not gifted in skills such as cooking, cleaning or, well, generally anything that occurs around the house.
In fact, if you follow my Twitter feed, you’re probably already familiar with the fact that I regularly burn steak, am constantly asking my followers whether I should wash woollens in hot or cold water (can we get a consensus please?) and am frequently out of essential groceries (otherwise known as chocolate).
This is possibly why I regularly drool over the Instagram pictures on AllConsuming.com.au and Baby-Mac.com; both regularly feature their culinary efforts and I look at them in awe, feeling decidedly inadequate when it comes to achievements in the kitchen.
But, apparently, in this age of SuperWoman-dom, we’re meant to be able to do everything. Alas, I sure as hell fall short when it comes to whipping up dinner parties or hosting afternoon teas. Indeed, over the years, my friends have come to the realisation that when I invite them over to dinner, their best bet is to divvy the courses up among themselves and bring everything over. If they don’t want to go hungry, that is.
Sarahnaut via photopin cc
Fortunately, I’m adept at providing crockery, glasses, wine and a menagerie of fluffy white animals to provide hours of entertainment.
Cute little Rambo
It seems that I missed out on “home economics” when I was at high school and went straight to plain old economics. Sometimes I think that’s a shame because a fat lot of good that J-curve has done for me since. And who needs to understand monetary policy when you can’t even poach a freaking egg? (True. I have tried many times – and failed. If someone has the secret, please share.)
I’m not sure whether this malaise is because I simply didn’t have the opportunity to learn these key skills. Or whether I was just born with a recessive “domestic” gene. I think the truth is probably that my Care Factor lies somewhere between zero and negative 10.
But for now, I think I can live with it. I’m owning up to that fact I’m not SuperWoman. Let’s face it. I’m not aspiring to appear on MasterChef any time soon. My neighbours have gotten used to my smoke alarm going off (“Oh, it’s just Valerie’s; she’s burning steak again”). And you know what? If you need a heap of shrunken woollen clothes, well have I got a deal for you …