What's in a poorly thought out name?

I'm beginning to think I went the wrong direction with the blog title. I mean, look at my first post. It's about expired crescent rolls. Gag me.

Sometimes my domesticity astounds me. I mean, it rises to levels that would shock the hell out of 98% of my friends and family. Then, there are days (or weeks) like this one, when the house is a mess and the act of cooking a meal is likened to bamboo under fingernails.

Am I dangerous? Probably. While cooking bacon this morning I thought to myself, "You know what, Self? We probably shouldn't be allowed to cook bacon after that incident in 7th grade." My cooking card should have totally been yanked after the bacon-splosion. Actually, it probably should have been yanked after the frozen pizza turned deadly weapon earlier that year. Basically, my husband is lucky that somewhere between 7th grade and now I have sort of learned how to operate an oven without setting things on fire.

There are four piles of dirty laundry sorted and sitting in my hallway. Danger danger danger.

Maybe I wasn't so wrong. I'm hardcore dangerous in just about all domestic areas. I'm pretty sure my washing machine is about to explode based on the loud noise it is making. I'm ignoring it. It's not so much that my level of domesticity is dangerous. It's more that my attempt at domesticity is dangerous.