Wednesday, January 27, 2010

Get a Grip

People like to laugh at me because I don't know how to cook.

I don't care.

Not usually. And not a lot if I do.

And why should I? I am a single woman and the world is rife with businesses waiting to take my money and give me food in a quick and convenient way. I never set out to be Martha Stewart and all evidence suggests I've been successful in achieving the opposite.

I don't know where to hang things in my house, or what combinations of fabrics and colors and candles and shelving are appropriate in a given space. I don't know tricks to get stains out of clothes, or clever things to do with towels. I don't know the names of the pots/pans and other "cooking" receptacles in my house, what quantity of anything they hold, how to use them, if they have teflon or why that matters.

This is my life and for better or worse I just don't give a damn about these things, but at the same time... I crave them.

I love when my mom sews for me and hems my pants; I admire her home - the way it's painted and decorated by her own hand; I always look forward to a dinner invitation, or Christmas or holidays. When I am at her house, (provided no one is mad at anyone else) I am comfortable. I am happy. I am secure.

My Mom (and Dad - yes he lives there too and helps out with stuff) has made a real home.

I, on the other hand, have made - at best - a VERY nice, and quite expansive storage space and - at worst - a domed and carpeted dumping ground. Even my dog can't tell the difference between taking a shit outside or in the house. Sometimes I feel like it doesn't make a difference.

I have excuses for the reasons why I do what I do, and some of them actually make sense otherwise I couldn't pull off such an existence for so long. "I won't be living here that long;" "I need the money for other things," "I am only one person, spending a lot of time cooking and a lot of money on food is a waste." "Nothing I own 'goes' together."

But in the last three months I have begun to see that I cannot sustain the weird, disjointed existence that has been the new norm. I also see that it would be beneficial for me to take some steps toward personal responsibility. You are happy to roll in the mud, if you are a pig. But if one day you are rolling around in the mud and you realize you aren't actually a pig - you probably want to get out of the mud.

And that is where I am at.

Except my mud is kind of like quick-sand.

The good news is, I think I've FINALLY grasped a rope and may be able to pull myself out before I turn 29.

Sure the rope might slip out of my hands a few times before I finally get my feet on solid ground, but at least I got a hand on it.