The Mystery of Marriage

I've figured it out. Why I'm not married, I mean. It's always been a bit of a puzzle to people who know me. I know this because they say things like this: "Why aren't you married by now?" Followed by this: "You're beautiful, talented, funny, easy-going, blah blah blah." And after I finish basking in the praise, I suddenly think, "Hey yeah. If I'm so great and all, why AREN'T I married?"

So it's been a bit of a mystery, but today I think I figured it out. Here it is.

I can't remember to take the garbage out.

So simple, really. Let me tell you how I arrived at my conclusion. My parents went on vacation this week. My mom asked me to take the garbage down. I said sure, no problem, I'll take care of everything. I didn't. I forgot. Whenever I remembered, it just wasn't convenient for me to haul it down to the dumpster. Then I would forget again. Today I finally took it down, but of course the garbage man had already been and gone.

What I'm trying to say is, I have a preternatural inability to do anything right when it comes to domestic matters. The garbage is just one example. I also can't cook, clean, or maintain an organized filing system for my bills (or anything else for that matter). I have a Palm Pilot I never use, except as an alarm clock (which I ignore anyway). I keep receipts in my wallet, and forget to go through them until my wallet gets to the point where I can't close it, and then I just throw them away.

Somehow, guys seem to have figured out my non-domestic tendencies. I don't know how, because in general they give off this air of stunning cluelessness (not ALL guys, ok?) about almost anything that has to do with the inner workings of the female mind and heart. But, unfortunately for me, I think they have a radar that is primed to pick up domestic signals from potential mates (especially in terms of cooking skills), and in my case, there are just no blips on the screen. So they pass right by, like a...submarine or a...I don't know, plane that uses radar? Um, yeah. Well, you get my drift.

Well, I'm here to say that there is more to me than making beds and whipping up a gourmet meal in 15 minutes or less. I may not be Martha Stewart, but who wants to be? Look where she is now--prison! That's right. An overactive domesticary gland landed her in the clink, folks. Ok, maybe it was her lying tongue more than the gland that I just made up, but who cares. The point is, she's in jail and I'm not.

No, wait, that's not my point! What was I talking about?

Oh right, why I'm not married. I have more to say on this subject, I'm sure, but I'm getting hungry. Time for dinner. I'm off to Panda Express, after which I'll sit down and avoid writing several more pages of the next Great American novel. Hear that, men? You'll just have to fall in love with my amazing talents.