The x gene

 X in this post is the unknown, the missing link. We are not talking about mathematic functions here, or even quantitative analyses (bummer you might say). We are talking x housewife material. In this context x is what I am lacking of the housewife gene. Oh wait. Now I just contradicted myself. The X has been identified! Whowsa! Now I need a hypothesis so I can check to see if the fact that I am missing a housewife gene is a plausible one. If not, then what the heck.

This day got off somewhat rocky. My friends already know I ain’t no perky-gorgeous  Nigella Lawson in the kitchen. For those of you that aren’t fortunate enough to hang with me on a regular basis — it’s time to take that ol’ Kitchen Aid for a spin and conclude once and for all – this will never be a food or exercise blog. Ever! Not because I don’t care, I do, but when the eff would I have time to do all that plus work, study, write, work out, travel, make dinner and look impeccably perfect with my new weave, nose job, bleached teeth and fake bake to resemble an Oompa Loopma instead of Monica Lewinksi for those who feel a comfort in comparing people they don’t know.  Back to the missing gene –I was making some smack-ass low carb pancakes (up yours, fotballfrue!) and having a generally jolly old-time. Then —  [insert nothingness]– time stood still for a second, and I swear I could smell the form of  some minor Apocalypse  in a pre-explotion stage. After the last tick tack of silence the smoke detector went off, my phone was ringing and I broke a kitchen utensil in the midst of it. To top it all, the plumber guy walked into the apartment to fix the toilet. He took one quick look at me and ran for the john. I wouldn’t mess with me either.

 Category 2, Anette? Well, when I finally managed to save what was left of those poor molested pancakes, I smothered them in Sukrin (a sugar substitute) and Kesam to fill the sores. Better than those sugar-coated American pancakes that have sirup, chocolate AND whipped cream on them. Indulgence? Yes, but there are ways to tweak them healthy. The ultimate truth is that I am a “tri-laxer”. No, not like Samantha Jones…” I am tri-sexual “(oohh venturing off here). A tri-laxer, wich label I coined, refers to someone like me who lacks three essential things – a state of being someone might find crucial.

Mine are as follows:

 1) I lack the mother-gene, thus I am always scared of squeezing babies too hard or drop them. I never know what to say to a child, I rather have them go away. Excluded from this is of course members of my close family with Princess Erle on the very top.

 2) I lack basic kitchen skills. As Jamie one said to me after a”fish” dinner – it’s amazing that you used all those spices, I can’t taste a single thing. (Bummer. Hot sauce for you next time, punk.) Love you!

3) I lack grace. I am still in shock that some guy I used to cruise called me “dainty” in the sense of charming and delicate. Hello? Did you even know who I was? Charming, yes, I can see that. But DELICATE? Try an elephant in high heels and you have me. I am as far from being elegant it scares me. I can’t introduce myself to someone new without either spilling coffee on myself or the other person. I trip, fall down stairs, drive like a maniac and mumbles and stumbles all the time.I don’t wear lace gloves, mind you, but I am considering wearing rubber ones. Just to, you know, be careful.

Particularly in the kitchen. Sukrin overload on my pancakes. #Fail.

 pancake fail!


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