No longer a domestic goddess
Glenwood Springs, CO Colorado
Lost: My domesticity. Last seen: About six months ago. Goes by the nickname: Ms. Clark. If found, please return ASAP.
Or just leave it on my doorstep and I’ll grab it later.
So I’m talking to my landlady – is that even PC anymore? – yesterday and she mentions she’s stopping by the house to add a goldfish to the back patio pond.
“Sounds great,” I said.
“I’ve found they really help with mosquito control,” she informed.
“Is this fish going to be self-sufficient?” I asked. “Or will I need to feed it every day?”
The laughter on the other end of the line made me realize something.
I’ve gone and lost my domestic ways. That’s not easy for a girl from the Midwest to accept. We’re born and raised this way, for goodness sakes. So much for being a domestic goddess. At least I still remember how to make my grandmother’s infamous “sweetish” meatballs.
And deviled eggs.
Albeit a great idea for a pet – outside of the rock variety of the ’70s – goldfish need to be fed. But I’ve never had an outdoor fish, so I’m new to this concept. Fish eats bugs and algae, so maybe self-sufficiency isn’t so far-fetched? This fish story made me realize it’s probably a good thing I don’t have a baby these days.
I can hear me asking the doctor now, “So is this baby going to be self-sufficient?”
These days, I’m pretty much in uber-single working-girl mode. And no, not the old-fashioned working-girl working girl.
That occupation does have quite the past out here in the wild west.
Lately, I’ve been as busy as the Pour House after the Thursday-night rodeo. Like a lot of people in this valley, I wear multiple hats. I’m a marketing coordinator, columnist and comic. I also have a pet that’s not a fish I consistently feed – a 12-year-old dog named Elwood. I’d say I’m kind of a mom to Elwood, except I get a little creeped out when people refer to themselves as parents of a pet.
I can only hope I will never birth anything as hairy as Elwood.
Which reminds me of something kooky I saw on the premier of “The Bachelorette” the other night. More than one of the bachelors made the creepy comment to their dogs that they were going to bring home a new “mommy” for them.
Red flag, Ali the Bachelorette, red flag.
But the bachelor from Colorado said he just wanted to meet a woman who would go ice fishing with him. So maybe, since he was eliminated in the first round, the Colorado bachelor could help me with my new pet. He could help me feed it and pet it.
Maybe I could become his dog’s new mommy.
Except I’m sure I’ve lost my domestic touch. As a married woman, I was all about being domestic. I shopped for khakis and golf shirts for my hubby. I hosted wedding and baby showers, making bite-sized food for the masses in my Cracker-Jack house’s kitchen. I totally wore Mom jeans and vests with cats and flowers on them. I rocked a mean pair of bangs with my awkwardly styled short hair. I was a full-blown Mrs., down to the color-coordinated oven mitts and kitchen towels and brand spanking-new Diaper Genie in the closet for that baby I would someday birth. Back then, I made enough “sweetish” meatballs and deviled eggs to feed a traveling carnival.
Which reminds me of the time, I was at the Holy Spirit Festival in Indiana and my best friend Megan and I decided we would ride the bumper cars after closing time. Keep in mind we were wearing those feathers with roach clips all the girls wore in their hair in the ’70s-early ’80s. We won them playing ring toss. Didn’t win the goldfish. The bumper car guy must’ve been impressed with our carni fashion because he let us ride for free. It was pretty spectacular.
Until he became very interested in our personal lives.
“You ladies having fun?” he asked.
“Yes!” we emphatically screamed from our bumper cars.
“You girls got boyfriends?” he prompted.
“No!” we yelled back. “We’re married!”
“And now you’re done,” he said.
Then he flipped the main switch to shut down the whole business. And no more bumper- car ride for us.
Maybe I lost my domesticity longer ago than I realize.
April E. Clark … . She can be reached at firstname.lastname@example.org.
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