I'm pretty sure it's hopeless. The odds of domesticating myself are slim to none considering half the time I don't even bother to bust out my Martha Stewart skills since I have this job that takes over my life and the other half of the time when I do try, I don't just fail, I actually manage to embarrass myself without anybody even witnessing it.
Take for instance my recent attempt to cook. I went on this "take a stand for single people" kick and looked up a bunch of cooking for one recipes, picked a few, then bought the ingredients for Italian crusted chicken breasts or something like that at the not single friendly grocery store.
First of all, I didn't even know how to defrost a frozen chicken breast. Yes, people, I fucking Googled it, then called my mother. I'm awesome. Shut up.
After making some sort of water-in-a-bowl-in-the-sink-with-plastic-bags-and-glasses-to-weigh-it-down chicken defrosting contraption and waiting an hour, I then had to psyche myself up to play with raw meat, which totally freaks me out - milk, flour and cornmeal mixture, then onto a baking sheet and into the oven - for 550 years. I'm pretty sure the worst thing that could happen would be to sit down to eat dinner, cut into a lovely Italian crusted chicken breast only to realize that it was still raw in the middle. I would probably vomit right onto the plate and even if I didn't, I would most likely throw it away instead of trying to cook it more because it would gross me out so bad that I would have dreams about it.
So, a long story short, I cooked the shit out of it and lets just say it wouldn't make my mother proud. I mean, it was edible, but nobody besides starving children in third world countries would want to eat it.
The other day, I purchased my first vacuum and found that while watching the carpet change colors every time I use it because of the dog hair is quite appealing, I also suck balls at operating it. I mean, how fucking hard is it to push this sucking machine across the floor of a 600-square-foot apartment without injuring one's self? Apparently extremely difficult because the first time I used the attachment roller brush to get the fine layer of white Andy fur off my fabulous black and white duvet cover, the entire thing fell over and landed on my right foot so hard that it brought tears to my eyes.
Then, a few weeks later, while running a quick vacuum through the place before somebody came over, I managed to suck my nightstand table cloth up into the rollers then the entire nightstand came crashing down soon afterwards. I ran to unplug it and watched a curl of smoke rise from my wake of destruction and the stench of toasted tablecloth fill the air. I stood there and stared at it for a good minute going, goddammit! I just broke my three week old vacuum on a tablecloth and I just threw away the box yesterday! But all I had to do was pull the tablecloth out, which unfurled from the rollers easier than expected and everything was fine...besides the horrible stink of domestic retardedness that hung in the air which was masked nicely by vanilla body spray - thank you Victoria's Secret.
I found myself in a similar situation with my blender a few days ago. Blender and I have always gotten along and considering I love smoothies and milkshakes and all that good stuff, I have quite a bit of experience with it as well. In went my ingredients, I turned it on and this sound came out: RRRRRRRRRRRR*&%)@_TTTTTTTTTTTDKR!
Frightened by the demonic sound my old friend made, I stopped it, pulled the pitcher off the base and was greeted by a puff of smoke and a familiar stench. What. The. FUCK! I realized that whatever I did royally jacked up the blender so bad that chunks of it were missing...and apparently important chunks because now it wouldn't work. I almost cried when I shoved the Kitchen Aid in the trash can. Good thing it was a garage sale find.
So, I can't cook, I can't vacuum and I can't operate kitchen counter top appliances, however, I can sew on a button, make pillows, decorate and use a bottle of Windex and a roll of paper towels like a 1950s housewife so I give myself a C in Home Economics.
And, hey, C is for cookie, that's good enough for me.