"I cook with wine. Sometimes I even add it to the food."*

   No man will ever want to marry me.

   There are, perhaps, many reasons for this, but the most important is my general ineptitude at all things house-keeping or craft related.

   Take for instance “The Curious Case of the Holes in All the T-Shirts.” I have a plethora of cotton t-shirts. Nearly every one has a mysterious hole in the same exact spot: lower, middle front.

   They all look something like this:

   What’s this about? How does it happen? Are my jeans attacking my shirts? Is it my seatbelt? Do I have a sharp bellybutton? I don’t understand, but it’s been going on for a good 4 years now, so I can’t blame it on any specific item of clothing. I’m truly stumped. And I’m really fucking annoyed.

   I was feeling crafty the other night and decided to re-hem one of my favorite t-shirts in order to cover up the telltale holes on the front. It’s a sweet t-shirt that my Aunt Kris brought back from Korea after she and her family spent two years on the Army base in Seoul. It’s not exactly replaceable, if you get my drift. And it’s super cool because it has dolphins and Korean letters on it that probably spell out something really neat. (I actually think it was a t-shirt from the school my cousins attended there and it was supposed to be for Penelope, but I stole it before I moved to LA. Sorry, P. But once you’ve seen how I “fixed” it, you won’t want it back.)

   Here are a couple of photos of the finished product.

   Good lord, it looks like the dolphins themselves hemmed this shirt. And they were blind dolphins. On strong doses of PCP.

   I have plans to get this problem resolved. This shirt is too special to look this bad. But I’m ashamed. Ashamed that I mention sewing so much and act like I know how to do it. I don’t. And I should never be allowed to touch a real garment again for the rest of my life. I’ll just keep trying out stitches on pieces of cardstock like I did before. Sigh out loud.

   Segue to today when I attempted to make gluten-free peanut butter cookies. The recipe is very simple: take some peanut butter and add sugar, an egg, some vanilla and baking soda and bake it.

   But I am much too clever to follow a recipe. I decided to make mine with chocolate almond butter and since it was already really sweet, I decided to leave out the sugar. Here is what I ended up with:

I thought it might be good anyway, once I let it cool. 

But here's what happened when I tried to cut it. Cookie scale soup, anyone?

   Never make up baking recipes as you go. Or “eyeball” your measurements. Okay, maybe it’s fine if you’re good at culinary stuff and know what you’re doing, but don’t start getting a big ego just because you once made a yellow cake out of box. This doesn’t mean you’re a baker. It just means you can read. I went back and did it right the second time and they turned out pretty good. (I think. I mean they look like cookies. And what's that famous saying, "Get it right the second time"?) Lesson learned. (Dang, I’m just learning lessons all over the place this year!)

Totally passable. Fingers crossed.

   I am comforted by the fact that men still sometimes marry women who can’t do anything useful in the home. Thank goodness it’s 2013 and not 1953. But what can I possibly bring to the table besides my incredible body and delightful personality? It seems unfair to enter into a marriage with only the abilities to sleep for twelve hours at a time and recite lines from movies. On the other hand, no one is actively trying to marry me right now, so I guess I shouldn’t worry about it. And I suppose I can always keep hoping for a rich dude with lots of servants that know how to cook and sew. And I’m not entirely sure I want to get married anytime soon anyway, so I can probably relax about the whole thing. Phew. Yet another crisis diverted. Like my buddy Rebecca always says, "Life is a game of Whack-a-Mole." True, so true.

   I will, however, say a few prayers for my friends. They’re the ones that are going to have to try to eat these cookies tomorrow.

*A quote from W.C. Fields. I swear to god, I made those cookies sober. Maybe I shouldn't brag about it, though.

"Grown men who wear skinny jeans may as well put on a t-shirt that says, 'I MAY NOT BE AN ORGAN DONOR, BUT Y'ALL CAN HAVE MY TESTICLES.'"*

    I think it’s important to realize when things have become inappropriate for you to pull off any longer. Case in point: I no longer stay up on the phone all night or wear skirts that are the size of headbands. I don’t have the body for a headband/skirt, I don’t have the energy for an all-night conversation, and I would much prefer to clean my floors and hit the sack at 10 pm (after a few episodes of Battlestar Gallactica) than get crazy at one of these popular “discothèques” or “sock hops” all the kids are raging about. Battlestar seems pretty nutso, so I feel totally up to speed on what the young folk are doing, even if the young folk aren't really watching that particular show. Don’t worry about me. I know what's up. Furthermore, I don’t dye my hair wacky colors or date dudes that don’t have a place to live. I don’t read Cosmopolitan or get tattoos over my butt-crack…not anymore, anyway.

Battestar Gallactica: Super Mature.

    But sometimes I think maybe I need to leave my cave a little more often—breathe some fresh air, talk to fellow humans (Cylons?), etc.

    To that end, my dear friend, Jess, and I had a “Just Us Girlfriends!” date on Saturday and it was so delightful. We hit an antique shop, stopped into a home-improvement store, and took a sewing class.

    Yes, friends, it’s true: I’m a fully-fledged, trained and certified housewife.

Here I am in glorious black and white. I love not having a dishwasher!

    I can sew, plant, clean and cook. And make babies (I think, though I’ve never tried. I’m guessing it’s not that hard.)

    Does this make me old/washed up/boring?

    I actually think it doesn’t. Jess is a homeowner and can do all kinds of crafty/amazing things: paint walls and ceilings, sod the yard, plant things that aren’t exclusively succulents (the only things that can survive in my home), replace ovens, build furniture and built-ins for closets and recessed walls, make light fixtures work, fix roofs, install sconces and chandeliers, and so on. She’s ridiculously gifted.

    I want to be like Jess. Here’s what I can do: buy bottles of spray paint and then spray paint things. But it makes me feel productive somehow. I’m not suggesting this is some sort of primordial house-wifery instinct. I just like to be creative and crafty. I actually find, more and more, that there are numerous things I DON’T want to do. But most of the things I want to do are "old people" things.

    Like this: make tea, vacuum, watch episodes of "spy shows," sew (so far I just make stitches on a piece of paper, but you never know), read, watch hummingbirds, spy on my neighbors, and clean my counter-tops. Yikes.

    And here are some other things I don’t want to do anymore:

-Go to a blockbuster movie on opening night. (Why would I want to stand in a line for a movie that will clearly be showing next weekend and the 20 weekends after that? Plus, nine times out of ten, I’ll be standing there with t'weens whose parents dropped them off and who insist on talking/making out throughout the entire movie? I pass.)

Lining up for Harry Potter and the Order of Those Who Have No Life.

-Have a sleepover. Unless I’m too drunk to drive, why would I want to be in a bed that isn’t my own? (I would be willing to amend this rule for a girlfriend who was willing to help me dye my gray** hairs (yeah, I'm elderly) and watch Wayne’s World or Rocky Horror Picture Show or the entire first season of Lost with me (missing you, Em and Gabe), or a man--one that doesn’t turn my stomach— who has professed his undying love or at least his short-term respect).

-Listen to current music. I’m sorry. Justin Beiber might be the greatest artist of our time, but I’ll never know because I don't plan on listening to him.

-Send a forward. As far as I’m concerned, these are the modern day equivalent of chain letters. Chain letters always let me down.

Of course, there are more. There always will be, but I’m too mature to keep writing. More later.

*Blake Shelton. Don't know him, don't know country music, don't care. Best. Quote. Ever.
**Had to look this up, but the official verdict is in America, we spell it "grAy" and in England, they spell it "grEy." Easy to remember, but super odd, nonetheless. Names are different: anything goes. Shenanigans.