It's happened.

I enjoy being domestic.

Good grief!

Now, I mean absolutely no offense against stay at home wives/moms and or any other sort of homemaker when I say the following: This isn't right!

You have to understand that most liberal arts majors spend many hours imagining their lives as anything but 'domestic'... and by domestic I simply mean the daily chores of life which are unavoidable unless you wish to live in squalor. While we study all sorts of juicy stuff in university, moving steadily towards some vague, unspecified future, we know only one thing : our lives will not be ordinary.

We will travel. We will spend months in a tiny apartment overlooking the Seine, stabbing away at a cheap typewriter because we haven't sold a story in months and can't afford the electricity. We may marry (though it's unlikely) and if we do, he will be some misunderstood artist who insists on wearing a ragged black cape for inspiration while standing out on the balcony of some Swiss chalet, barefoot and freezing. We'll latch on to strangers as Muses, seek inspiration in the most unlikely places, so that when we win some obscure Canadian prize for our first short collection of poetry, we can offer some witty, esoteric anecdote to the literary student who interviews us. We will dress oddly, in a randomly thrown together yet artistically fashionable way, and try to have some trademark feature (massive white handkerchief, strange headpiece, messy hair pulled back into a bun, etc) so as to maintain our sense of mystery. And through all this, we will do whatever it was we studied so hard for in university. (Di has probably spit her coffee out twice while reading this, because she knows exactly what I mean.)

You're beginning to see how in all of this, things like doing dishes, folding laundry and preparing meals don't play a role. We'd be much too busy eating the petals of lilies so that in the poem we were writing we wouldn't be limited to touch, sight and smell in our descriptors.

But then (hopefully) you realize that real life doesn't work that way. Wallace Stevens was an insurance man. Robert Frost delivered newspapers and worked in a factory. Ezra Pound tried his hand at being a tour guide in Gibraltar and Venice (scary thought). Elizabeth Bishop, she who set up house in South America, just happened to be independently wealthy so it's unfair of me to use her as my example of true esoteric, Bohemian living.

Adjusting to reality in terms of being a successful writer/poet while living a regular life actually took a bit. I had it in my mind that no one living a simple life of hard work and ordinary chores (sans travel, eclectic husband and 'starving artist' experience) would even be considered for publication. Some editor would look at me in my jeans and tee-shirt (sans unique hankie, headpiece or wild hair) and grunt, "Nope. Boring life. Go away."

I can look back on that mindset and giggle a bit. My understanding of who I am as a writer, and what genres I would work in has grown through experience and maturity. I realize I would rather be real and approachable to my readers, than some elevated object of intellectual or academic scrutiny.

And yet despite that, it still seemed wrong to derive pleasure from the simple tasks that occupied my day today. I savoured the warm stickiness of dough between my fingers, the sight of it rising and baking, filling my house with a warm, welcoming aroma. I thrust my hands in among freshly tumbled laundry, sorting, folding, putting away. I cleared the counter of dishes, prepared a menu, reorganized a shelf in the pantry. It just felt right. Though as soon as I acknowledged that, it felt all wrong.

I am seriously messed up.

Maybe I can be that writer I've always wanted to be. Equal parts messed up and ordinary.