Domestication

If picking up Sica from school, washing dishes, doing laundry, and sewing clothes that have been sitting in a pile for several months counts as being domestic, I was domestic today. What about the fact that yesterday I finished scrapbooking my whole life (I hate scrapbooking and intend to do it all digitally from now on) and the additional fact that I sent more than 35 notes complete with photographs by snail mail to people I haven't seen for years? I know, it's a shocker. I'm very proud of the fact that my favorite pair of pants no longer shows my pasty leg (a year and a half ago when Joey saw the hole, he said, "Are those garments?" Nope, just my pasty leg). I'm also proud of the brown cardigan that I sewed to fit me better, despite the fact that Mom said it probably wouldn't work. I guess blogging doesn't count as domestic, though. Or writing a critical analysis of a Jefferson Lecture.

I thought I related to Jo March years ago. I feel more and more like her every day before she went off to the big city. "I just feel so tragic," I believe she says in the movie. "I can't stay here." Unfortunately, she felt okay with talking to and hugging Marmy after she said that, and I don't.