Shortly after May of 2000 is when I noticed the change. Coming home to my messy apartment and pouring a bowl of cereal for dinner just didn't feel right anymore. It used to be my favorite part of the day. After leaving the office, I would kick off my black stilettos for the drive home and leave them under the seat until the next time I needed them. My bag, coat, and keys would end up thrown on the kitchen table, wait... the floor? Nope, it was the table. Then began the search for the box with the most cereal left in the bottom. It was my own personal happy hour. Dinner on the futon, with Pat Sajak and Alex Trebek.
Now trading those two men in my life for the one I married was a fairly easy decision. I would gladly dine on burned spaghetti in a 500 square foot living space, with a heater that was stuck on 85 degrees year round... as long as it was with him. But would he? This is where I noticed my first symptoms. Rather than laughing at the fact that I was actually able to burn a pot of water, I was concerned. Not only did I desire to serve my newly wedded paramour spaghetti that was cooked al dente, but I wanted to offer him a favorable presentation and complimentary side dishes. Where was my trusty old cereal bowl? Why did I feel this sudden desire to make food taste good and look pretty? Domesticopathy was the only credible answer.
The first year or so was the worst. Learning to deal with a new disease takes time, patience, and understanding. Luckily, my new husband was up for the challenge. He would never raise his voice when finding women's personal care items in his toiletry bag, or makeup on his toothbrush because I needed to tame my eyebrows. He picked up pizza when dinner was scorched so badly that our fire alarm went off, even though he took the batteries out. And he was never irritated by the fact that he had to dig through a pile of half clean/half dirty laundry to find two matching socks. He even occasionally offered to pour us both bowls of cereal for dinner after I got home from work.
Just when I started to figure out the best butter to use in my chocolate chip cookies, which, by-the-way, have become somewhat of a legend... enter: kids. I put away my cookbooks and home decor magazines and purchased my own copy of "What to expect when you're expecting." Oh they don't tell you the half of it. I knew that having a child was a risky move considering what I had already learned about my disease. I knew my symptoms would worsen, and there would be no chance of a cure. Blankets, burp rags, binkis, and bottles? And those were just the B's! My head hurt when I couldn't find tights to match the perfect spring dress, and my stomach would fall ill if I missed out on an end of season sale at the Gap. Who am I kidding... it still does.
I have learned a lot since the beginning. Thanks to the Internet, good books, photography, and a few fine retailers, I have welcomed the challenge. I shutter to think of the poor ladies of old, who had to deal with the same challenge in, oh.. say the 1980's. I mean really, sometimes you just count your blessings and make the best of things. The purpose of this blog is to share some of the treatments that I have discovered, and to lend support to all whom may be suffering along with me. Food, home decor, photo's, and retail therapy have all played a part in the success of my treatment. I believe that together we can conquer anything. So ladies, (and all of you metro sexual males who quite honestly do most things better than women), let us dine together, photograph together, shop together, and laugh together until we find a cure!
