It appears that I’m quite a catch.
I never really thought of myself as much of anything. Other than a normal person, happily blending in with the crowds. Middle of the pack. Too afraid to stand out. Plain jane. Regular.
Craig’s co-workers, male and female, are so enamored by the tasty treats I bake for them, that they’re offering marriage proposals left and right. The old adage has been proven true. The way to a man’s (and woman’s!) heart is most definitely through his (or her) stomach.
While I’m very much betrothed and would never dream of becoming unbetrothed for another, I wouldn’t want to hurt all of their feelings by rejecting their offers. Instead, I tell Craig to relay to his friends that I’ll *consider* marrying whomever makes the most money.
Shallow as a kiddie pool?
Oh yes, I think I am.
They can save their money on an engagement ring, diamonds are not my best friend.
I would, however, like to maintain my “lady of leisure” status for as long as possible.
I would be loathe to relinquish the lifestyle I’ve grown so accustomed to. Read, I don’t have to work, can spend two hours at the gym and enjoy a quiet house in the afternoons, all before that comes to a jolting, screeching halt at 3:05 pm.
This might not be the most forward thinking thing to say, but I like home keeping.
Cooking, cleaning, making sure my family is healthy and fed.
I’d rather do that than slave away at an unfulfilling job.
Someday I’ll work, doing something I’ll hopefully enjoy, but for now, I’m happy being a neurotic version of June Cleaver.
In jeans and Nikes.
According to Craig’s co-workers, I’m some sort of domestic guru and he’s the luckiest guy ever.
It’s hard to refute such accurate claims, but that wouldn’t be very “keeping it real” of me.
It’s quite clear that they don’t read this blog. For if they did, I’d be willing to bet that they just might change their minds.
If they only knew…..
Sure I can bake.
But I also worry myself into a frenzy on a regular basis, inflicting my inner turmoil, outwardly on my family. They don’t know that I hate when there is food garbage in the bathroom trash cans. Or despise overhead lighting and do my very best, including straining my already strained eyes, to avoid it at all costs. They don’t hear my loud sighs when I find clean clothes in the closet everywhere but on the hangars. They don’t hear me holler “wash your hands with SOAP and water” “candy is NOT a snack” and “PUT YOUR SHOES IN THE SHOE BASKET!” for the fourth time in one afternoon.
If they knew, they’d take back their proposals.
There is something very appealing about receiving a container full home baked treats. It might cause you to think that the preparer of such goodies is as sweet as the treats she bears.
You don’t know how badly I wish this were true.
But I’m hopelessly flawed.
Wicked with butter, sugar and flour, but messier than the aftermath of my marathon baking sessions.
Outwardly I am a catch. I have shiny hair, I’m physically fit, I’m a font of useless pop culture knowledge, I can reference Seinfeld with the best of the bunch, I’m frugally minded and practical, my common sense is above average (excluding last week’s possible wearing of two different shoes), I’m organized and I’m very low maintenance.
But inwardly? Ugh! Cracking this nut would be messy.
Like Bob or Larry says on Caroline’s Veggie Tales CD, God made me special. And by special, I mean, wha?!?
When I get to heaven I can’t wait to ask Him what he was thinking when he made this bundle of pessimistic, obsessive, neurotic idiosyncrasies.
I’m quite sure the majority of my family members will be lined up in front of me, interested in the answer as well.