Domestic Goddess

I am a goddess among tea towels, hand mixers and ironing boards. I battle with dirty dishes and recipe books, piles of clothes looking at me forlornly from the laundry room corner. I listen to audiobooks about Zen Buddhism while sweeping the floor. I watch TV in the mornings.

I am not good at this, I know. I am a wild creature, whose soul inhabits a tree. At night, I dance around the forest, holding my translucent dress up to show my swirling ankles to the moon. Nobody knows. They see me in the morning, with dark circles under my eyes, begging the coffee machine to brew its magic poison. They call me Sleeping Beauty, another name for Bad Housewife. I pin sadly the invitations for baby showers on the fridge, and feel my skin crawl at the sound of "Girls' night. You should come. It'll be fun."

It isn't all pedestrian. Being a goddess of the house has its upsides, too. I have my loyal followers: My husband, performing his worship rituals of chocolate offerings, kisses and Sunday grill sacrifices, and the dog, who follows me around like a royal attendant for a blessing of rawhide treats. Even the potted herbs on the windowsill regard me with adulation, for they know the powers I have over their leafy lives. 

Oh, that the house would clean itself with a snap of my fingers, like Mary Poppins...


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