Although I do come with a house now. A house that I totally mine and I will love forever despite the fact that I’ve been told sixteen different times today, “OMG what if you meet someone and move away and then we need solid-surface counters? WHAT THEN???” Except for the laughable idea that I would ever let anyone tell me where to live. The amount of work I’ve done? Johnny Depp could show up and be like all “I want to marry you and have lots of sex and babies!” and I’d have to reply, “As long as we can do it in my beautiful kitchen with the integral sink and extra hole for that squirty water hose thingy.”
So now I have solid-surface counter tops. And a sink that my mother helpfully pointed out was big enough to wash a baby in.
Or, you know, drunkenly start a small fire fueled by dissertation papers. I’m guessing that’s more likely.
That’s why I won’t make a good housewife. I always make the pumpkin pies for Thanksgiving. Well, that’s not true. My mom obviously used to make them, and then we made them together, but the last couple years I’ve done them. And I love it. It makes me feel downright domestic.
I just ignore things like how long they’re supposed to cook or the fact that they have to cool. I kind of forgot about them being in the oven because Criminal Minds was on. And then I kind of didn’t realize that you need to leave them out for like FRICK THIRTY minutes. My dad offered to set his alarm and I’m all, “What? Why?” and he’s all, “Your pies. They are hot. And need to cool. Idiot.”
He didn’t call me an idiot. I added that. But I’m guessing that’s what he was thinking.