Adventures of a Live-In Girlfriend: My Kitchen

I used to listen to certain friends tell me about their weekends and special nights with their boyfriends. One thing I've always been jealous of is couples cooking meals together. What a fun thing to do! Dancing around, sharing ingredients, bumping into each other playfully. That's how I pictured it.

But it has never worked out like that for me.

With my first real boyfriend, we were together when I was around 19 and 20. Needless to say, ...well maybe it is necessary to say, I had never really cooked anything besides scrambled eggs and spaghetti before. We got the chance to play house one weekend, so after asking my mother for very specific instructions on how to make chicken parm, everything from the breading to the sauce, I was ready to do this. While cooking the sauce, my ex leaned over and tasted it. "It needs more spices" he said, and started shaking in every spice within reach. My body temperature rose, and I was paralyzed with both anger and embarrassment. I wanted to scream "BACK. AWAY. FROM THE POT." This is supposed to be something I know how to do better, ME, not the boy. So we never did that again.

My last boyfriend pulled similar stunts. "Why are you cutting the peppers like that?" "Don't add that much salt." "Maybe you should add some more spices." This time, I couldn't keep it in. "Okayyy you're done here. Time for you to go sit on the couch and stay there until I'm done! " Unfortunately, this was a time when I was not only teaching myself to cook, but I was also obsessed with weight watchers. So, following the weight watchers recipes to a t, all my dishes came out stupid. But when the relationship isn't right, neither is cooking together.

So now here I am. The only woman of the home, and a man who shares it with me. Finally, I can cook a meal alongside the person I consider to be my best friend and the love of my life. Relationship chemistry = kitchen chemistry!

Except it doesn't. I am still an overbearing kitchen nazi- the only place in the world where I turn into the boss and can get nasty. ...And by nasty I just mean quiet. "See the trick is you have to cook the potatoes first" OH REALLY? HAVE YOU DONE THIS BEFORE SMART ASS? "yes, lots of times." "OH." Darn. I hate not knowing best! And I hate when boys tell me what to do in the kitchen! As a former women's studies major, that should make me feel ashamed. But I can't help it...I want him and everyone else to think I'm a master of all foods and the perfect working-housewife/girlfriend, even though I'm not even close.

I should have known that love isn't enough to keep things civil in the kitchen. I have a mother who is an unbelievable cook. And a father who has recently discovered the cooking channel, and subsequently, his desire to cook. He now uses phrases like "just drizzle a little olive oil" and makes marinades out of ingredients like molasses. My mum has kept her cool when being told how to cook things she's cooked perfectly for over 35 years, but it all came to a head when the yellow squash she thought she was eating as part of a mixed vegetable side turned out to be lemon halves, because he likes to "wing it." So now we all know that lemons don't taste good with zuchini, onions, and peppers.

So like father like boyfriends. I always seem to date guys who reeeeally like to be involved with the cooking, but... this really isn't about them. It's about me. And apparently me = controlling & domestically insecure.

Darn it.

Going in for more...

Taking seconds can be a humiliating process.

When I'm by myself, there is no shame. I don't take seconds, I take fourths. The apple squares that I made for "JR" and "a coworker's goodbye party" are slowly disappearing inside of my house when no one else is around. ...It's a mystery! When I make rice pilaf, there are never leftovers. I have eaten weight watchers ice creams until I am literally ready to bend myself over the toilet.

But in the real world, things change.

Like at big family dinners and get-togethers. These definitely don't prevent me from overeating, but shame finally enters the picture. Announcing that you're going in for seconds helps soften the blow. As long as you humiliate yourself, the second helping is less humiliating in itself. "Okayyyy, done! I'm getting more, my second plate!!" Then you hopefully wait for others to chime in "Okay me too!" "I'm already on my second!" and it makes you feel better about yourself. Occasionally you even throw in a "help!" after you're announcement, just to let everyone know that you realize what this looks like. But God help the person who really does ever try to intervene. So in this situation, full disclosure is the key.

Outside of family, things change even more. Like taking seconds at work. Say it's a coworkers birthday, and someone brought in ice cream, or cupcakes, or ice cream cake. We want to make sure everyone gets a piece, so the first round portions are not what we'd call generous. So sometimes I really want another slice! But is it appropriate to go back for more? And how do you do it without calling attention to yourself? Are people judging me when I go for another scoop? I'd say yes, since I work in public health. Meh. Are men the only ones who are allowed to have seconds at work without being considered piggish? So on a good day, I stick with the one helping. When things are bad, I wait until the leftovers are placed in the kitchen, and I take them when no one is looking. Problem solved.

Then there's a more intimatate environment, like when you're on a date or someone else is hosting a dinner and you're a guest. I had dinner at a friend's house the other night, something I'm not used to doing seeing as though I'm very new to the "adult" world. Everything was so delicious, I just wanted to keep eating it all. But, this isn't my house - this wasn't me overeating in the privacy of my own home. There was someone else there. So I stopped short of what I really wanted...which surprisingly still made me feel full. Who would've known?

I guess the moral of this story is about portion control. After thinking all of this through, I'm realizing I've had it wrong all along. Portion control isn't about will power and making yourself take smaller quantities of food and saving the rest for later. It's about having an audience. Because, it's too embarrassing to overeat in front of other people. So, who's coming over for dinner?

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Yahoo!

Guilt.

I have guilt.

About lots of things, whether they happened once or are a recurring event in my life.

Like how I told Patricia in transitional-first grade (shut up) that she could eat my strawberries and then told on her for eating all of my strawberries. And she cried, and cried.

And how everyday I pass the Spare Change Newspaper guy and don't buy a newspaper.

Or how once a week I would bolt after grad class so I wouldn't have to take the T with anyone from my summer class I had nothing to talk about with. And then I would ask myself why I don't have friends.

I feel really guilty that JR fell asleep before dinner, and is passed out right now, so I just pigged out on his frosted flakes and have totally spoiled my dinner and am praying he sleeps for like 3 more hours til I'm hungry again so he won't find out.

I never wash fruit.

Everyday I pass the lady begging for money on crutches with a disease eating away at her legs that you can actually see, I want to give her money. But don't.

And I should put change in the guitar case of all of musicians who play at the Davis Square T stop at morning rush hour. Also don't.

I have tons of guilt surrounding my entire freshmen year at Uconn. We'll just leave it at that.

Anytime my mom asked me to bake something, the finished product would always be less than what she thought should be there. She always knew it was because I ate so much batter, but I still denied it every time. Sorry I lied, mummy.

I have eaten candy out of Adam's easter basket without him knowing for like, 18 consecutive years now. But if he doesnt know by now that he needs to hide his peeps and cadberry eggs than that's just his own damn fault.

I feel awful about all the times I've snuck one more slice of pie/cake/anything I wasn't supposed to. Well less awful and more fat.

I still feel guilty that when I was 3-4 years old and had twin babysitters - Sandra and Brenda- I was asked if I could tell them apart. I replied, yes, and I could tell because "B"renda was "B"igger. I think only Sandra babysat for us after that.

I cheated on a boyfriend once. I don't really feel that guilty about it, but it's probably better to say that I do.


I'd like to now provide a safe place for you to admit one thing you feel guilty about. You'll feel better, I promise. Tonight I'm heading home to an empty house where I'll be shamelessly attacking a leftover trifle, and I'll be doing it almost guilt-free. It's a good day.

I am who I am

In my big Armenian family, filled with successfull business-owning women, full-time mothers, and full-time cooks and cleaners, cleanliness/domestication is a must, and anything else is "shame-shame".

Just ask Nana. She'll tell you to always keep you're house clean as if you're expecting company, and for the house to be clean, and quiet, when the husband comes home. The ukushuluk, which later I found other people to call "dustpan and broom" is one of Nana's most prized possessions, as is her dustbuster. Hours are spent on meals. Armenian delicacies are prepared on a daily basis for no reason other than just in case people come over. Papa, to auntie Penny the day before her wedding, told her that the key to marriage was always keeping a clean house.

That puts a lot of pressure on a girl. So I have spent my entire life trying to convince my friends, roommates, and boyfriends (though I'm not sure they were ever convinced) that I am clean and an expert cook, even for foods I've never cooked before.

But, it isn't until now that I'm ready to admit things to myself.

I am messy.

I honestly don't remember the last time I scrubbed a bathtub.

I have remembered to wash a floor maybe 6 times in my life.

I really can't believe how many times I have to wipe a god damn counter for it to be completely crumb-free.

I could probably do a better job of cleaning things that have touched raw meat...

I hate loading and unloading the dishwasher.

The only reason I'll be vacumming like crazy this year is because it is literally written into my lease that I have to.

JR thinks the only reason we may ever break up is because I refuse to stop throwing wet towels on the floor instead of hanging them up.

I don't like cleaning my hair off the floor. To me, its normal for it to be there.

The fact that all of my clothes are in drawers right now is almost absurd.

I cooked bacon the other day, for JR's breakfast sandwhich before work, because that's the kind of live-in girlfriend I'm portraying myself to be. It was then that I realized, I really haven't cooked a lot of bacon in my life. I don't know what I'm doing. How can it skip crispy and go straight to burnt?

I still have to call home sometimes to ask which kind of oil to cook things in.

After I cook a full meal, and dessert, it literally looks like a bomb when off in my kitchen. I cannot keep it together.

I've said before, I'm a terrible multi-tasker. Last night I cooked spaghetti sauce, meatballs, and sugar cookies from scratch. My brain and body were both ready for bed by 9:00pm.

I have never cooked lasagna. THERE, I said it.

I eat things as I'm making them. And while Nana would never lick the spoon of the batter, I practically make myself sick off of it.

I also eat leftover orzo out of the pan. That does bring me shame, as I'm sure it brings shame to my family, but I'm here and I'm admitting it.

Now that I am the woman of my own apartment, I'm starting to understand. I now know that it's embarrassing for poeple to come over and see a messy house. So yes, I'll be sweeping, and mopping, and scrubbing, and wiping, and spraying, and UGH YES, HANGING THE TOWELS UP. But, I am who I am, and it'll always be a struggle.

With that said, any messy confessions from other girls or guys are happily welcomed...

Adventures of a Live-In Girlfriend: The beginning

Not really sure how I believed that renting an apartment with the bathroom directly next to the bedroom was a good idea.

The end.