On Becoming Domesticated

  Anyone who knows me would die laughing at the thought of applying the term "domesticated" to myself. Lord knows that I am no domestic goddess, my kitchen sink almost always has a pile of dishes, washed and unwashed laying around, my bedroom floor is strewn with clothes, the bed is never made and I am completely content with the thin layer of dust that is ever present on my bookshelves as I believe that books are so much cooler when you pull one from a shelf and have to blow off a layer of dust before opening it. But somehow, by some strange series of events here I am.

  

  So how did this happen? I never had any ambitions of being a home maker. I am a nurse in a busy ICU, whose career choice is one of long 12 hour night shifts followed by a coma like sleep state the next day. There are no children that need to be cared for, cooked for or generally entertained, and I have a husband who is relatively undemanding. In fact a bowl of ramen noodles for dinner is met with as much enthusiasm as a perfectly cooked steak. I'm not sure how it happened but I know it did, perhaps it was partly self preservation. My husband for years was in charge of the cooking and other household duties while he was working on his degree. That all changed when he returned to the 9 to 5 world that I have no familiarity with and left me to fend for myself on the days I have off. I admit, I have been terribly spoiled over the years and have enjoyed great meals, now it's up to me to find food. But when did pie crusts made from scratch and home baked scones become the norm rather than the treat? In my case it came from the frustration of not being able to find an acceptable fast, off the self option and my stubborn streak. If I can't buy it then I'll make it dammit!

  So here I am, unintentionally domesticated.