being homely.

For the longest time, I thought "homely" meant "domestic."  When my father would comment that a woman was "homely" (and, for the record, my Dad is the nicest guy ever and used that phrase rather sparingly), I would wonder how he could tell her ironing capabilities and that she excelled at baking just by looking at her.

I am not "homely."  And I do not mean that as a compliment my own appearance.  What I mean is, I suck at ironing and baking.

While in Mexico, a friend of mine, who would likely consider herself a "recovering Mormon" in the way I think of myself as a "recovering lawyer" (in a "I respect it, it's just not for me" kind of way), walked into our kitchen to find me unsuccessfully attempting pancakes.  Within seconds, she had the bowl and the spatula out of my hands and was adding some kind of magic ingredients.  Within minutes, we had fluffy, delicious pancakes.  It was incredible.  Whereas, I, on the other hand, have screwed up Puppy Chow to the point of no return and have excessively relied on the "baking at altitude" excuse for every single cookie and brownie resulting in utter disaster (aka all of them).

I also recently discovered that I need to drink beer in order to iron.  I have had 6 items of clothing sitting on my dresser now for about a month, waiting to be ironed.  After an especially difficult month in the finances department, I decided to cut down even further on "unnecessary spending."  Apparently, that also included drycleaning.  I ambitiously decided I would wash my work clothes and then just iron them, thereby saving myself about $3 per shirt.  That was a mistake.  I'm terrible at ironing... and what's more... I HATE it.  I would rather have the stomach flu than iron.  And my work product reveals my disdain.

My mother, who I consider to be even less domestic than I am (sorry Mom, but it's true), supposedly used to iron my father's dress shirts back in the day.  Growing up, I was told how my mother would starch the collars and dutifully prepare each and every shirt for my father, who was (and still is) in sales and required a press shirt daily.  Now that I have had the privilege of ironing my own dress shirts, I find her reputation hard to believe.  My Dad was the one who taught me how to sew and adorned an apron every night (both literally and figuratively).  And while, to her credit, my Mom can make a mean cookie (and bean dip!), she just isn't domestic.  And that has to be where I get it from.  I also inherited her love for hosting parties.  You would think these two characteristics would be mutually exclusive, but they're not.  It turns out you can throw a fantastic party without having to lift an iron.

So I am left with a ruined skirt, half a beer and a pile of wrinkly clothes.  But, at least I can confidently say I'm not homely.