Who do I think I am?

I am a city-living, dining out, beauty routine junkie who can't live without getting her mani/pedi's and brow waxes. I know the latest jeans to trot around town in (Denim Leggings), the juiciest lip glosses to frost your lips with (T. LeClerc) and the most amazing stiletto in town to sum it all up (Balenciaga Fishbone Slingbacks).  

The other day, Brett remarked how domesticated I have become.

Domesticated? Could he have hurled a bigger insult at me?

Fine, I haven't worked in a few months. So what if I have time to frequent the grocery store and clip some coupons. Cooking is a good thing and it saves so many calories. I can watch my carb vs protein intake and make sure I'm getting enough daily vitamins and minerals. So what if I see this as a healthy new obsession...my nails and hair will for sure prosper from what Brett calls "domesticated."

Okay, fine. I've decided I like the living room organized as to how I go about my day. I want the kitchen pots stacked properly and our bed made in the morning. I don't think it's bad to not want left over shaving cream bits or toothpaste in the sink. I want things put away. I had dinner ready as Brett walked in the door last night. Yup. I sure did. And, I have the whole weeks dinner menus already planned and prepped. I started a database of weeknight recipes so that Sunday grocery store runs are efficient as hell. Don't even get me started on how I do the laundry.

These are no small things. I'm not a natural housewife.  

I admit, there are days when I haven't been so graceful while working at my new gig, and sometimes, I've even been resentful that Brett gets to go to work in the morning. But I really have to give it up to my husband for sticking by me through this most unexpected time.  He's a champ like no other and goes above and beyond for Oliver and me on a daily basis.

Domesticated or whatever, I'm getting my hair highlighted this weekend. 

Old habits die hard.