The Domestication of a Wife: It's a Good Thing

I remember my mom watching Martha Stewart on late summer mornings when I was a teenager. As I made my way out the door wearing some variation of bathing or work-out garb in a vain attempt to tone my thighs and get a tan I would think, "What a colossal waste of time! After all, you can just buy most of the stuff she makes. And anything you can't get from her line at KMart, you probably don't need." Then I would proceed to exit the house for a good skin scorching, returning several hours later to spend some quality time in front of TV, cultivating my encyclopedic pop culture knowledge while watching VH1.

Fast forward to me being married, under-employed and dirt poor in 2009. I have a part-time job and three long, hot months before I start my grad program. I've had enough blistering sunburns to give up on my quest to darken my vampire skin (which, thanks to Stephanie Meyer, is now coveted by teenagers everywhere). And as much as I love reading books no one else cares about, it's embarrassing when Rob comes home from a long day at work and I have nothing to show for my day but some wacky stuff I found on the Internet and a second or third reading of one of my Christopher Moore books. So, what's a girl with a guilt complex to do?

Well, I got crafty. I've learned to cook. I'm no longer afraid of handling raw meat and I've learned how to slice tomatoes without them falling to pieces in my hands. I'm no Julia Child, by any means. Let's just say I've gotten to the point where I'm no longer in awe of Rachel Ray.

But cooking wasn't enough. I needed more productivity to fill up my days. Probably because we don't have cable. So, I got a sewing machine. I bought a book about printing by hand. I'm on a first name basis with the ladies (and dude) down the street at Sew LA. I'm desperately trying to grow a plant, despite the fact that my thumb is about as green and nurturing as Henry Kissinger. I bought a hot glue gun. And an embroidery hoop. And a subscription to Ready Made magazine.


Bed Pockets by Lotta Jansdotter. Too bad my Singer doesn't have the cajones for canvas.


Hair clips.


My checkbook cover. Corners are hard.


My sick, sad plant.


I didn't make any of this, but those chairs are awesome, right? Garage sale!

That's right. I'm a real wife now. And I mean that in the most sexist way.

hiiiiiiiiiiiiii YAH!!

so, apparently the three of you who read this blog don't take too kindly to serious posturing, as the previous post has so blatantly proven. and then it took almost a month for me to see anything post-worthy that wasn't comPLETEly inappropriate. and i mean COMPLETELY inappropriate. (hey man, click at your own risk. but i warned you)

but then, fresh air arrived. i'm talking down-by-the-jersey-shore fresh. i give you... the very definition of high art:



i can't tell you how grateful i am that my family was too poor to own a videocamera when i was a kid. i guarantee you i did this very thing. in my front yard.
those were the days.