I envy domestic goddesses. Usually most women envy what they are not. I am NOT domestic, and unfortunately my husband and children know this all too well by the piles of unfolded laundry, unmatched socks, stacks of dirty dishes, and a freezer full of frozen entrees guaranteed to gag a buzzard. I think I had to refer to a science manual to learn to boil water. Needless to say, the domestic gene does not flow through my veins. I don’t swap recipes, attend social functions, shop at the mall, and I frequently forget birthdays, anniversaries, and holidays. I admire my mother, and her mother before, my sister, aunts, and cousins, all of whom at some point, even being ranch-raised, still find their domestic/nesting side. My sister often points out that I may have more than my allotment of testosterone in my blood, but what can I say? I like the out-of-doors, the thrill of the hunt, the smell of two-stroke exhaust, big trucks, horse trailers, & Muck boots. Truth is, this is when I am in my element. But at some point, I have to come to terms with that word: DOMESTIC. And Lord knows I’m trying. Hell, just last week I turned on my oven to actually bake a pie. Granted… it said Marie Calendar’s on the box, but I didn’t burn the dang thing! I also figured out that you have to occasionally change a vacuum’s bag in order for it to actually suck. (If they are supposed to suck, why don’t they anyway? Can’t get the damn thing to suck dirt right in front of you, but God forbid if there happens to be shoelace close by!) The washing machine and I frequently argue. To me, an extra large load of laundry means 10 pairs of jeans, 4 sweatshirts, 1 bra (that’s all I own), wool socks and white socks, the sheets off my bed, my chap stick with barnyard mung, 13 bath towels, plus the dog’s collar, and my Carhartt jacket caked with horse sweat and trail dust. The dryer then takes 4 hours to dry anything! (Which reminds, I need to call the Sears repair man…) So this is why I figure I am more productive outside. I can muck stalls, drive a tractor, shoot a rifle, vet a horse, dog, or kid with the same medicine, and cuss like a sailor. The barn is clean, the horses are fed, and my life is full! So, who needs that stupid word: DOMESTIC. I’ll learn to bake someday…
4 thoughts on “Dirty House = Clean Barn”
You are truly gifted at writing!!! LOVE your blog!
Oh my goodness!!! LOVE IT! I hear ya! I can cook, but don't like to most of the time. I can be domestic when I'm called to do it, but I'd much rather be doing other things that I love.
🙂 This is so true! I always say the sign of a happy woman is a dirty house and a fit horse!
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OMG!! Good stuff! I love my barn time! Hate housework!