This is the (urban) dictionary definition of a domestic goddess:
A female who excels at baking, cooking, cleaning-housework of all sorts. She loves to please and enjoys hearing compliments about her awesomeness around the house/kitchen. She may sew, knit, have domestic hobbies that come out well. Husband: “Yeah, I know, ever since we were married she’s become quite the domestic goddess.” Friend: “I wish my woman was like that, I’m jealous!”
Well, there we go. Something to aspire to. In the meantime, I’ve just left my toddler chewing on the insole of an old trainer as I drink coffee (instant; ran out of Nespresso pods in March) from a mug that has a 54% chance of being clean.
There’s Ella’s Kitchen debris (standing on one of those multi-hued caps rivals Lego in terms of pain) smattered across the house and my ‘office’ (an IKEA chair) consists of my Mac/lifeline, a dinosaur, some chia seed bars (a desperate nod to my desire to channel Deliciously Ella in all she does) and a pencil sharpener with no pencil in sight.
My Instagram, of course, wouldn’t dare hint at this domestic unrest – one must use the digital realms to ‘keep your shit together’. Please don’t judge us as we’re manically adding filters (I know someone who literally Photoshops the shit out of her pics to reveal a Scandinavian minimalist palais), it’s the Sellotape holding us together.
All hail the Digital Goddess.
