Honestly, it was almost as alarming as catching another woman smooching with my husband in the kitchen. Some people were over for dinner, and I’d stepped out of the room for just a minute. When I came back in, I saw that one of the guests had planted herself in front of my stove and was languidly stirring something in one of my pans. At the sight of this intrusion into my cooking arena I felt that flushing sensation flaring up over my entire body that signals somebody has crossed one of my lines.
In case you’re concluding I’m an ungrateful wretch for resenting help in the kitchen, let me explain. I already had the whole meal planned, and it didn’t include whatever muck she had taken it upon herself to concoct. I also had its timing all worked out, which, as any hostess worth her ruffled apron knows, is crucial, and was just approaching that frenzied peak of whipping everything from oven and fridge and getting it on the table.
This meal-meddler with her behind parked in front of my stove was both in the way of my process, big-time, and creating a major delay. Oblivious to the fact that the preparation of the meal was coming to its carefully calculated climax, she stood there immobile as a cow, calmly coaxing along some godforsaken scratch sauce guaranteed to take forever.
She also had the nerve to start calling out for ingredients. I, of course, was of absolutely no mind to fetch them; at this point, in fact, steam was pouring out of my ears like a cartoon character’s. I glacially claimed to not have any of them, including flour and salt.
You just do not come into this woman’s kitchen and start cooking without permission. My husband says she asked him while I stepped out of the room, but he was obviously a mere peon in the dinner-party process, whereas I was wearing the designated hostess apron and the elbow-high oven mitts with a timer clutched like a ticking bomb in one of them. It was pretty darned obvious who was Grand Marshal of that production, and proper deference was due.
Oh yeah, I’ve got my boundaries. When I was growing up we had two pink-flowering bushes on the side of our house that overlapped to form a cave, and that space became my domain alone, exclusive of my two sisters and the other neighborhood kids. It’s like I’ve carried that flowering cave around in my head ever since, with its shadowy, scented hollow that all others are denied entrance to. It’s got lines drawn around it and when one of them gets crossed, the burning sensation cranks up and you’d better back down, “cause I’m ready to take you on. I may not always say anything directly, but you will feel my ire in some fashion.
If you’re thinking, Oh, how uptight, or what a bitch, let me assure you that I went through a “just run all over me, everything’s cool” phase which lasted until I woke up and realized that, in fact, everything isn’t. That totally laidback attitude requires either hailing from California or pumping a steady supply of mood-altering substances into your bloodstream such as I can no longer handle or afford.
Some of my boundary lines surround physical do-not-enter areas and others mark mental ones. Included in the tangible off-limits territories is my face: don’t get in it, and Jesus, don’t slobber on it. It riles me when a person gets super up close to talk to me like they’re hard-of-seeing, or when somebody else’s husband kisses me on the lips. You haven’t paid the dues for that privilege, pal, and as my husband will tell you, they’re steep.
Don’t flop yourself down at my desk, either. Once I came back from lunch to find a co-worker cozily settled in at my desk, just a-scribblin’ away and shedding coconut flakes from a candy bar on the blotter. My head instantly started smoking, exactly as it did at the sight of the trespasser in front of my stove.
Final physical line: No matter who you are, and that includes you, Mom, don’t stick your fork in my salad. Ever.
As for my mental lines, don’t call me “Hon” if you’re female. Don’t ask me why I’m not drinking. Don’t not say you’re sorry if you’re late.
Fellas, please don’t describe your porn to me. Hearing about real sex has some salacious appeal, but reported video antics are void of anything but a big “Ick” factor. If I were a dog, my ears would go back the instant you start detailing your latest computer download.
Actually, my ears do go back and that steam pours out when one of my lines is crossed, so if you see this happening, prepare to pay.
This article appears in Jun 9-15, 2004.
