Dear Elli,
I am not a domestic goddess. You know that. Pretty much everyone knows that. I was simply not cut out for domestic activity of almost any sort. Nothing about it brings me joy.
There are a few things that I struggle more with in the domestic department, though. Some things are just particularly awful for me.
Cooking is okay. When it's on my terms, I'd even say I sometimes love to cook. But I hate dishes. Truly despicable things staring at me from the sink. I detest them. I refuse to wash a single thing by hand. I did that for the first decade of my adult life, and I'm never doing it again. I will jam anything and everything into the dishwasher, in whatever haphazard way it will fit. I have very little respect for our dishes, and no respect for the dishwasher itself. Your father told me that in a very terse manner one time: "Jenn, you have no respect for the dishwasher." (Then he shook his head and walked away to the sound of a giant plastic bowl banging repeatedly against the inside of the dishwasher door.)
And laundry. With the exception of my work clothes and a few other extra special items, I don't sort clothing. I haul the hamper to the laundry room and literally dump it into the washer. I wash the clothing. Then I dry the clothing. Then I put the clean clothing in a basket. And then I glare at all the baskets of clean clothing until I run out of empty baskets. At that point, and only that point, I will fold and put the clothing away so that I can start the whole torturous process again.
Another painful activity is figuring out where to put random things. A perfect example is your Easter basket. It's been sitting on the counter for weeks. It will likely sit there for several more weeks. We have no productive use for it, but I feel like I shouldn't throw it away because Easter baskets seem sort of special. I could save it for next year and use it again, but that would require me to actually remember that we own the Easter basket next year. I won't remember that. So, based upon my historic behavior, I will most likely leave it on the counter until June. And then one day in June I will finally be totally disgusted by the sight of it. I will grab it very aggressively, march outside, and throw it in the trash. And then I will feel relieved.
Decorating is the final domestic endeavor that sucks the life from my soul. I enjoy art. A few pieces on the wall, some tasteful furnishings, and that's it. Anything that has the propensity to collect dust or create any unnecessary maintenance is abhorrent to me. The centerpiece on our dining room table is a bottle of Tabasco sauce. I don't own a single tablecloth, decorative pillow, indoor plant, bedskirt, placemat, garden gnome, or even a single set of curtains. All of those things give me anxiety.
I know I'm kind of weird, kid. You tell me all the time, but I actually came to terms with it many years ago. I'm just not domestic. I'll do what I need to do to get by, and that's it. It's just not important to me.
I would rather hang out with family and friends. I want to read and write and listen to music and travel and work. I want to have amazing conversations. I want to laugh until my stomach hurts. I want to sit quietly and think about a million different things. I want to be the best possible human being I can be. But I don't want to wash the freaking dishes. Or anything else for that matter.
I love you.
Mom
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