Joking, of course, my mom's response when I told her that I was changing my last name to Weaver after the wedding (and dropping Keck all together, not hyphenating or adding a middle name) was, "What kind of feminist did I raise?!"
Well, no worries, mom. Becoming Mrs. Weaver has apparently not turned me into a barefoot-in-the-kitchen housewife.
Here's how I know:
Neal and I were talking about our cooking abilities this afternoon. I explained to him that (even though I hated to admit it) Bruce is a much better cook than I am. He's more creative, cooks to taste rather than to recipes and genuinely enjoys the process. I - on the other hand - need recipes and I need them to be simple. I tend to obsess over meat and whether it's cooked all the way through (subsequently often overcooking it) and the first time I tried to make breakfast for Bruce and me (first weekend alone in Atlanta) I burned the bacon, filled the apartment with smoke and stood in the middle of the kitchen and cried.
True story.
I digress.
So Neal and I were joking about the fact that we need recipes because what if there is an off chance two spices absolutely CANNOT be mixed and we happen to mix them? I don't remember much of high school chemistry (I spent most of it practicing my saxophone in the music hallway, honestly), but I remember that you weren't supposed to just mix chemicals. Is the same with spices? How do I know that I won't mix the right amount of spice A with spice B, top it with some oil and vinegar and POOF!! I have carbon monoxide?
These are the things that go through my head.
So anyway, you would think after this particular conversation I would throw in the dishtowel and order pizza. But - recipe in hand - I ventured to the grocery store after work.
And this is what happened in one short trip to Publix ...
- I had to ask an employee on the refrigerated dairy isle where the blocks of Velveeta were only to be informed they were "down on isle 10, Velveeta doesn't need to be refrigerated until after it's opened." (who knew?!)
- I walked up and down the canned vegetable isle thinking that because there were canned tomatoes I would find taco shells and seasoning (I did not).
- I circled the store three times before I found potatoes (they're in produce near the onions, if you're curious).
- Once I found said potatoes I had to call my father (yep, I'm a big girl - I'm married and live 1,000 miles away but I still call my parent's house from the grocery store) and ask him what russet potatoes were. I think it's safe to say my father was trying hard not to laugh as I lowered my voice and muffled the question into the phone as to keep from drawing attention to the people around me with my embarrassing lack of potato knowledge.
And Bruce wondered why I had a weird look on my face when I walked in the door with the groceries.
So barefoot-in-the-kitchen housewife is out.
How about wearing-spike-heels-while-holding-a-pink-cocktail? I think I can pull that one off.
Maybe there's still hope. We've only been married for 39 days, after all ...
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