This reflection comes from a series of facebook posts by my family. And with all things, because I am one hell of a defensive human being, I’m going to give a little context. My fiancé and I rarely eat at home. We both work full time, and for a teacher that means 11+ hour days every weekday. I get home around 6-6:30, and he gets home around the same time. Generally, the best we can do is pop something frozen in the microwave a rock what I like to call fancy hotdogs. What are fancy hot dogs? The nicer sausages at safeway that have stuff in them. Like apples or mangoes or your hopes and dreams. The usual. As a woman, people began to give me a little grief that I couldn’t “Take care of my home.” Did my fiancé hear this? Not sure, he doesn’t talk much. However, I will always bow to societal pressure, so I started making dinner on Sunday nights because we had a little more time and it left me a ...
One nerd's adventures into the crafting world, both past and present.