I am hungry. Someone needs to feed me pretty darn soon. I am not used to fending for myself. My beloved comes home, makes dinner, and serves it to me. This is the way of the world. There is one acceptable alternative; beloved brings take-away food home for me to eat, puts it on a plate, and presents it to me. If I am not fed, I will live on frozen juice bars and cheesy poofs. EVERYONE knows this about me. If you didn't, now you do.
You may think I am a big baby, but I put nutritious, made to order, meals on the table for every meal, for 21 years. It is my turn to be waited on. Oh sure, sometimes we cook together. I can still manage to steam some vegetables or cook up some rice; I'd just rather not.
Are the dishes done? Yes. Is the laundry clean, folded, and delivered to the appropriate bedrooms? Yes. Have the dogs been groomed and fed? Yes. Is the house tidy, and the bathrooms shiny and sweet smelling? Yes. I am a pretty face; I am a pretty face who takes pride in making a nice home for my family. I'm simply not a goddess who cares to cook anymore. The big, handsome, strapping man took on that chore last year. He tells me that cooking relaxes him. HA! The children were both living away from home last year. As of yesterday they are all back. It is all too overwhelming now I presume. Sigh. I know, get over myself. The dude has been working all day. The kids can cook. I'm not going to starve. I am just a bit cranky.
May peace and dinner be yours from, The Goddess of Everything.