To understand this story it's important to know two things about my domestic tendencies: (1) I don’t refuse to touch raw meat, but I usually do my best to maneuver it into the pan without having to actually make contact. (2) I hate doing the dishes (yes, WAAAY more than I dislike raw meat).
Tonight Kyle generously promised to take care of the pile of dishes in our sink if I did the cooking. He even offered to move the ground beef into the pan for me, but I turned down his offer since I figured I was already coming out way ahead in the trade. We didn't need all of the meat, so I peeled off the plastic wrap halfway and prepared to flip the exposed half into the pan – no touching necessary, just the way I like it. Unfortunately, all that came out at first was blood, which was kind of disgusting (I feel myself gravitating towards vegetarianism as I type this, actually). I controlled my gag reflex and went over to the trash can, planning to drain out the blood. I tilted the container a little…and a little more… I assume everyone but myself-a-few-hours-ago could figure out what was going to happen next. With a horrible flop, more than half of the meat slid straight into the trash can. Kyle didn’t even get upset, but I felt angry and idiotic and literally sick to my stomach.
Why didn't I use a big spoon or put the plastic wrap back on or just touch the stupid meat!?!
It bothered me so much because I do this all the time. Well, okay, I’ve never thrown expensive meat into the trash before, but I always seem to be spilling liquids or dropping silverware or injuring myself. I take risky shortcuts. I lose focus. I become incredibly klutzy whenever I’m not on a sports field. I’m a danger to myself and to the food, really. Combine that with my hatred of cleaning and my ineptitude with most home repairs, and I make a VERY poor housewife.
And that’s okay now, because I’m not a housewife – I’m running around doing three part-time jobs – and I never really wanted to be one. But I always complain that the jobs keep me from what I really want to do in life, which is to write. So if life presented me with the opportunity to quit or downsize those jobs and stay home and write? I would jump at the chance. But unless that writing was making us enough money to turn Kyle into a trophy husband, I’d also have to be the one in charge of most tasks around the house. It’s a terrifying thought.
And don’t even ask me about taking care of those incredibly fragile baby things. Even though I theoretically want some eventually, I get shaky just thinking about them under my klutzy, distracted care.
Obviously I’m not giving up my full-time writer dream because of some mishandled raw meat. But it does give me motivation to do a few things:
- Put more effort into really making writing work while I still have other jobs, so that I don't start to believe that my dream will only happen if I'm a housewife.
- Research more lucrative careers for myself so that Kyle could work part-time and become the house husband. (Trust me, he'd be much better at it.)
- Become less of a klutzy idiot before I have children.
- Consider writing a story about an unwilling and inept housewife so that I can really use this material.