As you know, Bob, I got laid off from my job a month ago. Been trying to decide what to do with myself since then, and just realized that I’ve always wanted to write full time, but never had the nerve to do so. Always felt like I’d be leeching off my husband. even when I was raising our kid as an infant, I did freelance writing to feel like I was contributing SOMETHING to the household. I never let myself just write.

So now I’m doing it. I’m working on a novel that I’m calling Project UNDERGROUND (not the title, obviously) and I’m 12,000 words in. I’m also focusing more on my podcasts. But to give back to the household and family, I’m taking on the domestic duties.

Yes. I am domestic now.

The funny thing is, the perfect honesty of a five year old is really gratifying, as she looks at her clean bathroom and say, “Wow, Mom, you did a great job cleaning!” I’m cooking more, cleaning most everything, doing all the laundry and folding, and so far it’s going OK. I am not doing this in a frilly dress, and I’m not meeting Jim at the door with the paper and a martini, and I’m writing about the Welsh goddess of the underworld working at an NYC publishing company, so I don’t think I’m fitting into the mold of housewife yet.

I’m excited and scared. And if you want to hear more about my thoughts on this, check out my latest I Should Be Writing.

On the domestic front, I’ve actually made an orchid bloom for the first time in 10 or so years (making me want to go out and buy a bunch more orchids, of course). I’ll post pics when it actually blooms. But I’ve noticed something about myself. I can cook, and pretty well at that. I have decent knife skills. I can make a mean angel food cake, and filet mignon, and roast a mean bird.

But I cannot do breakfast.

There’s something about breakfast that kills me. I ruined about six pancakes this morning. Either the pan wasn’t hot enough or I used too much butter… but I even defeated Teflon. Big mess all over the pan. Sausage is frightening since I never know when it’s done. Bacon goes from limp and underdone to burnt in about one minute when I cook it. There’s some sort of mental block in my head regarding breakfast and I don’t know WHAT it is.

I can do eggs. I’m proud of my eggs. And I don’t think I can mess up toast.

So. To sum up: I’m writing full time. I’m a domestic goddess. I made an orchid bloom. I ruined pancakes. Got it?