A Place to Put Your Feet Up

I've been thinking a lot lately about what a blessing it is to have a home. Tonight I went over to Zach's sister's house to pick up something I had left there. As I walked in I was overwhelmed with a yummy smell, candles were lit, the place was spotless and yet still cozy. She was making bread and cream of broccoli soup and I just thought how wonderful it is to have a homemade meal. I can't remember the last time I sat down at the table to eat. I live a life of coffee, yogurt and all things portable. I'm ususally at work until 10 o'clock at night so dinner is most often an after thought.
I also recently visited potterybarn.com and snuck a peak at their holiday decor. I had such sadness that I could not decorate my own home this year. Zach and I decided that we wouldn't live together until we got married, so even though I have a place to live (and decorate), I feel my home is with him. He lives in the house we are fixing up (to live in when we get married) and I just really see no point in putting a Christmas tree in a house with a gutted kitchen.
I can't wait until I can have a lil home and a lil family, until I can make a proper meal and bake a proper pie, until I can create lovely christmas curtains and table runners. Yes, it is truly a blessing to have your own home! I am inspired to take good care of the space I have been given.

The George Costanza of Housekeeping.

Today was another Sunday of thinking about cleaning. Lots of thinking, not a lot of doing. My room is an epic failure. When I go to bed at night I feel like a boy. You know, one of those boys at college. You walk into their dormroom and you are baffled at how anyone can live in such a disatrous, smeeeelly bit of living space. I have lived like that recently. It's been about 3 weeks of "I will definitely get to it tomorrow. Tomorrow is going to be such an awesome cleaning day." But it never seems to happen. I did manage to pick up the kitchen, do a load of laundy, vaccuum the porch, and start filing the pile of paperwork at my desk. That's a pretty good day, but because there's so much to do, I didn't even make a dent. June Cleaver, where are you when I need inspiration?

Just as I'm feeling my dumpiest, I pick up this month's edition of Redbook (because one cannot procrastinate without proper reading material.) To my joy I find a collection of letters the gents have written for their ladies:
I love your very bad housekeeping
O Annabelle...
Why am I charmed by the way you rip open cartons of cereal, packages of deli meats, and bags of potato chips like you are a feral, starving animal? Whenever I see those slashed, leaking, torn-asunder containers, I gush with amorous affection. And I'd love for some scientist to explain how you can jam your laundry into the washer like you're stuffing a holiday turkey, let your clothes sit in the dryer for days before pulling then out all stuck together, and then shove them unfolded into your dresser-- and yet the moment you put them on, they look amazing! You go out all professional and pressed, but I get to see the genuine you, the raw, wild, sexy Annabelle; my undomesticated bride.
Jeff

And with this there is some hope, dear reader. A sprinkle of light scattered in my direction that a) one day Amy, you will get that food processor inside your head working correctly, and your appendages will move at sonic speed to maintain a lovely home and b) even if you don't, your man still loves you anyway.

hostess with the (not so) mostess

My handsome and wonderful Zachy is turning 25! I have been trying to think of things to do for his birthday for a while and I think I've finally settled on throwing him a party. I could take him somewhere, but I really think he'd be happier to be surrounded by his friends and I really want him to be honored with a whole group of people gathered to celebrate his date of arrival.

The only issue is...I'm freaking out about throwing this thing together! I have A LOT of cleaning to do. There will be A LOT of cooking to do. And handfulls of other things to put together by the 18th! I want to hang a bunch of pictures of him throughout the years and I have a few other cute ideas. I just really want this to be great, but I'm worried it will look like crap and no one will have enough to eat/drink etc. It's not the work I'm afraid of...it's the finished product!

So in lieu of starting my sewing classes and taking on the world of baking, I'm taking on the next 10 days and putting together the bash of the century for my baby! (or at least the bash of his quarter century.)

Keep 'em crossed.
Ames

Only slightly overwhelming...

Now that I have found myself in need of domesticity, I am at an impass. FOR CRYIN' OUT LOUD WHERE DO I START???

There are so many wonderful hobbies to choose from. I want to garden (both vegetables and flowers) and of course I want to learn how to cook and bake. Zacho got me this awesome (pink!) sewing machine for my birthday and I think that's at the top of my to-do list. But just when I get to thinking about sewing I remember how much I want to knit! and crochet! and scrapbook!

Oh. and clean. I gotta learn how to do that too. Joy.

So I'm gonna sit in my corner, collect my thoughts, and get back to you on which area I'm headed for first!

Learning not to be upset that you can't do the things that you really never wanted to be able to do, but realizing you do actually want to be able to do those things.

Let the blogs begin!

I suppose I should start with a little background: I hail from the Oregon Coast (via California, like everyone else.) At 21 I made the decision to finish college in Georgia, where I played volleyball for my college team. Since I was roughly 6 feet tall at birth, sports were kinda my thing growing up. My parents raised me to be a fighter, to be tough, and never to accept poverty. College was the only option. The only way out of broken-down cars and canned tuna on toast. So when I was offered a full scholarship to play volleyball, I packed up my things, kissed the 'rents goodbye, and moved to the south, sight unseen. I fancied myself to be courageous, you see. I had a solid background in Women's Studies (at least, I had taken that one course at the community college,) I had read Elizabeth Cady Stanton (I mean actually read her stuff,) and I was out to conquer the world... or at least the top 3 market in television news.

A few years into the Georgia stint I met the most wonderful man, the man that is truly better than my dreams!, my fiance Zachary. Zach proposed to me and we are currently planning our wedding. He is doing his best to fix up a little house for us to live in after we get married and I'm doing my best not to drop the bomb that he is gonna be way better at this marriage thing than I am. The guy just exudes patience. It's borderline obnoxious. He is constantly thinking about me, he is kind, funny, quirky, and cute. He is a strong man, but also a fun boy. God has blessed me far beyond my expectations (isn't He good at that?)

But during our engagement I ran into a little problem. It started with the fact that he can cook really well and I can't follow a recipe (don't you tell me what to stir into my pancakes, Sara Lee!) We shortly realized that whilst Zach is a Danny Tanner by no means, he actually enjoys doing the dishes. I, on the other hand, don't cook specifically because I don't like doing the dishes. Or putting my clothes in the hamper. Or taking care of my mail. I can vaccuum. That's all I'm interested in. He also has a one-up on the whole child-rearing process. As the youngest of 8 children, his nephews and nieces came fairly early. I dabbled in baby-sitting, but mostly with cousins who were potty-trained.

(I see this is getting long. I have a point, I promise.) My general lack of tidy had never truly bothered me before. I did not advertise it, but I had my excuses. I'm creative. Creative people never clean. I'm a writer for crying out loud. Writer's cannot be bothered with such simpleton things as bleach and swiffer dusters. Yet I found myself increasingly defeminized by my fiance's abilities and my own shortcomings. I was completely insulted when he would suggest I use nutmeg, instead of cinnamon. I am the woman. I think I know how to bake a cake. While watching his nephews he made another suggestion to me and I nearly ran for the hills. How dare he correct me! I'm the girl, dammit! What can't he just be the domestically aloof man and just let me be the girl!?!?

And thus my plight, dear reader. I have found myself in desire of domestic skills. Skills which, according to society, I don't actually need to have. My culture tells me that I have a choice. I can be a career woman if I want to be. And my culture is correct. I have more of a choice than so many women before me. But...SHOCK AND AWE...I want to be good at baking! I crave to know how to knit, sew, scrub, clean, and care for children. This is not what I expected when I got on that plane, but it turns out that I'm a bit old-fashioned!

So here are my adventures in a homemade life. From scratch! I am determined to become house trained (and hopefully a better partner and person in general along the way.)