Don’t you dare attach that word to me. Domestic. It would be laughable to say the least. It does not apply to a young lady that tromps through the woods in Jane Austen boots, climbs trees, walks through suburbs in the early AM’s, and explores places just for the hell of it. Domestic is a word for a woman that sits quietly at home, taking care of the house. It’s for a woman that allows herself to be tamed by love. You know better than to attach that word to me. Yes, you love me and let me be free.
I don’t know if I ever really want to be considered ‘domestic,’ that can be the mans job. I want to go out and work and actually have true meaning to my life (not that the kids aren’t meaningful). Then I want to come home to my children, a clean house, and a delicious dinner my husband cooked. Then I can pick up my copy of the New York Times and ignore him.
The man and the woman fought all the time. Why must she cater his every need. Who does he think she is? Some worthless piece of shit that does not deserve any respect. This woman has a mind and has thoughts so he should get over himself and listen to them. She is not some domesticated animal, where he can train her to do what he wants.
The house reeked of it. The dark angry vibes between the to was so great that it domesticated the walls do it also. Any man that walk’t in here feels break the skin and puncture the marrow.
“Domestic..?” I thought, thinking of that status of the modern-day male. We were domestic. A once free, wild animal, now stuck only to wear a suit to menial tasks. When will we return to taking new frontiers, and gunfights? When will the wilderness be our true home? Never again.
abuse…a form a torture that people inflict on others inside a household. Sad to think that this word could automatically trigger fear or hate when the first thought should be home.
relationship. gay or straight. Housewife cooking and cleaning and always working behind your husbands ambitions. Feeling hopeless because of the relentless reminders of the success you cannot achieve cooking and cleaning every day of your life.
Domestic beer, cold, cheap domestic beer – goes great on a hot day. BBQ season is starting and domestic beer season is starting. The beer shanty mixed with lemonade, is so refreshing when it’s 100 degrees on a Sunday afternoon.
Beer can be domestic or imported. Women are considered domestic when they possess the ability to cook, clean, and do other household tasks well. Animals are domesticated when they have the ability to coexist with humans.
housewife who stays at home and makes the world safe for her spouse and children. Cooking, cleaning, sterilizing, sweeping, all those things. Domestic can be love. You can’t be a great stay at home domesticated mom and wife without love in your heart to make their world clean and sa
With an exhausted sigh, she pushed the oven door shut; the cough of hot air brushed her stray hair from her face. The baby cried from the next room. The day was only just beginning, and yet the flour still dusted the floor from the night before.
she was a domestic. not in the sense of violence but in the sense that she was always meant to be at home. it didn’t mess with her feminine attitude but rather was a choice. she chose to be at home and be with her children. she chose to have dinner on the table, to keep the house clean. everyone else looked down on her, but to her this was her rightful place.
i dont know what domestic is or how to use it in a sentence right now…..im kind of tired, i’m really hungry..i could go for some oreo ice cream or maybe that delicious cake with strawberries.
domestic bree van de kamp from deserate house wives. some day i will have a family like she did. i will fall in love and get married and have a family. i cant wait till the day that you relize that i’m the girl that you will marry.
this is pants and cheese and i wonder what the hell im supposed to write about domestic this is what women are supposed to be up i guess this means that you are good in the kitchen like you are good at cooking and vacuuming and good at wearing your pearls while you clean up after your children but i also like domestic beer so i guess it means beer.
home. housewife
not what I want to do with my life.
cats
Divorce
stepford wives
robots
meatloaf and mashed potatoes
children
too many of them
creepy babies
mad men
picket fence of lies
makes me want to run screaming
once upon a time there was a little girl who lived in a family. Every day she witnessed domestic violence, against her, her mother, her sister, and her brothers. She suffered terribly from this, and vowed to never do this to her children, if she ever lived that long
(This story was well over sixty seconds, but I just couldn’t stop.)
I was growing my hair out. On my face, on my head. It made everything itchy. But I couldn’t stay this unkempt forever, I thought. I still needed to work. Still needed to eat. Still needed to finish that resume. I’ll clean up when I get the job, I thought. If I get the job. Halfway through the resume I realized I didn’t know what I was doing, and so I drove over to my mom’s trailer. When I got there, she was out back rolling a joint. I sat with her on plastic lawn furniture and we passed the weed back and forth while I asked her questions. “What exactly do I need to put down?” I asked. “What exactly are they looking for?” “You’re asking the wrong person,” she said. “Ask your father.”
I thought about my father, living in Dallas, driving his Corvette with his new wife, her hitting the ignore button on his I-phone when she saw that I was calling. I decided to ask someone else.
But there was no one else, and so I found myself driving, aimlessly through town, high as fuck, in my small beat up car that rattled whenever I tried to stop it to quickly. $1,200 to fix it, the mechanic had said. I’ll get it fixed when I get the new job. If I get the new job. But only if they don’t drug test. I’ll quit smoking pot if I get the new job. Where was I?
I was at my ex-girlfriend’s house. Her dad would help me with the resume. He still liked me. I got out of my car and rang the doorbell, saw him trotting in from the living through the front window. “Nate?” He said, when he opened the door. “Mr. O’Hara,” I said. “I need help. With a resume.” He looked behind him to where the living room backed up against two large windows that allowed for a view of the back deck. Valerie, my ex, was sunning on the patio with her new boyfriend. I could almost hear his brain turning. “I only need to just look at one. Only for a second,” I said, trying to sway him in my favor. This was the same man who taught me how to set a table; taught me how to tie a tie; taught me how to drive stick shift. But this was before his daughter cheated on me. This was before I through a brick through her widow. “All right,” he said. “Come in, quick, to my office. Don’t let My wife see you.”
I barely remember what happened in the office. I remember suddenly being so aware of my hair growing out. I remember feeling crowded and hot. I remember that Goddamned itchy feeling spreading from my face to all over my body. I remembered that my mom sometimes laced her pot. I remember Valerie’s dad asking me if I was OK while he pulled up the Word doc. I remember sweating and saying, No, no I’m not OK and pulling off my shirt and running down the stairs. I remember him chasing after me, Mrs. O’Hara in the kitchen screaming as I took off my pants, and then my underpants, being naked in their kitchen, feeling that fire all over my body, my head spinning. I remember seeing the pool, and running for it, hearing Valerie scream “Jesus Christ!” while her new boyfriend pushed himself up from the deck chair and shouted “What the fuck?” I remember diving into the pool and then opening my eyes, looking up at that turbulent blue reflection of the world outside, and then, underwater, I screamed out all the air I could, like an undomesticated, wild animal.
I am a domestic housewife. I stay home, and do domestic chores–laundry, cooking, cleaning, homeschooling… I teach my children, 3 of them the domestic way of life. We live among our neighbors and learn how to live with one another, engaging one another, domestically.
this is where i live, breath and hopefully breed. my legacy is centered in the stuff i have collected, stored, cataloged and etc. am I good at it? no hardly in fact i am pretty pathetic
Doomed to the mess. The clock is ticking. Tick tick tick. There is never enough time for the dishes, the clothes in the hamper, the mess the dog made on the floor. Instead we argue about it. Then go to bed dirty.
What does it mean to honestly be formal, domestic? Formality has been so misconstrued over the years… Arrogance and hypocrisy. It’s a wonder the earth is even still turning round and round each and every day.
To domesticate is to train. Dogs and cats aren’t the only thing trained. We are trained too, we are just as much animals as anything else. We need to remember that. We try to train everything, but it is all in our heads. Nothing is domesticated nothing us unnatural nothing is and everything is. Everything just is.
i feel that for my age; i’m 22. i’m entirely too domestic. everyone’s always out drinking or partying. i just want to go home and make a roast, drink some wine, and watch a movie… and be in bed by 11. i feel like i’m missing out on my youth, but in other ways, i feel like it’s just beginning.
I think the last thing that ran through her mind was that she really wasn’t the domestic type. She wasn’t a fork or a spoon, she was more like one of those sporks. You could only find them in a second hand store, down an alley way long forgotten, or in prison. Not in a house filled with children.
Domestic violence is hideous. Is ugly and repulsive and it needs to stop. Us ladies need to stand together and form a bond that gives confidence to one another that will make a girl realize she is too good to be hit. It’s not her fault, and when he says he’ll never do it again, he will. Confidence is key. Never forget that.
Don’t you dare attach that word to me. Domestic. It would be laughable to say the least. It does not apply to a young lady that tromps through the woods in Jane Austen boots, climbs trees, walks through suburbs in the early AM’s, and explores places just for the hell of it. Domestic is a word for a woman that sits quietly at home, taking care of the house. It’s for a woman that allows herself to be tamed by love. You know better than to attach that word to me. Yes, you love me and let me be free.
I don’t know if I ever really want to be considered ‘domestic,’ that can be the mans job. I want to go out and work and actually have true meaning to my life (not that the kids aren’t meaningful). Then I want to come home to my children, a clean house, and a delicious dinner my husband cooked. Then I can pick up my copy of the New York Times and ignore him.
The man and the woman fought all the time. Why must she cater his every need. Who does he think she is? Some worthless piece of shit that does not deserve any respect. This woman has a mind and has thoughts so he should get over himself and listen to them. She is not some domesticated animal, where he can train her to do what he wants.
The house reeked of it. The dark angry vibes between the to was so great that it domesticated the walls do it also. Any man that walk’t in here feels break the skin and puncture the marrow.
“Domestic..?” I thought, thinking of that status of the modern-day male. We were domestic. A once free, wild animal, now stuck only to wear a suit to menial tasks. When will we return to taking new frontiers, and gunfights? When will the wilderness be our true home? Never again.
abuse…a form a torture that people inflict on others inside a household. Sad to think that this word could automatically trigger fear or hate when the first thought should be home.
relationship. gay or straight. Housewife cooking and cleaning and always working behind your husbands ambitions. Feeling hopeless because of the relentless reminders of the success you cannot achieve cooking and cleaning every day of your life.
Domestic tranquility. Finding peace in your own home, your own body. Are we meant to be kept in a cage? No. We are free. Birds. Lovers. Humans.
The cops were called that night
Neighbors said it was domestic abuse
She denys hitting him
He says she punched him hard
She yelled at the top of her lungs
He shyed away, not wanting to hurt her
She raised her hand to him
He took the blow hard
His love for her never dyed
Even after the physical and metal abuse
Something in her seemed to snap
And his heart broke when he sent her away
Fifteen years the were together
Then one day she went crazy
Started hitting her kids
Then moved on to him
He cried with sorrow
Grieving his astranged wife
Told his children, mother is sick
But he knows they will never see her again
For he wouldn’t allow them to get hurt
Didn’t want them to feel sad
He would tell them of thier mother
And the wonderful woman she used to be
Domestic beer, cold, cheap domestic beer – goes great on a hot day. BBQ season is starting and domestic beer season is starting. The beer shanty mixed with lemonade, is so refreshing when it’s 100 degrees on a Sunday afternoon.
Beer can be domestic or imported. Women are considered domestic when they possess the ability to cook, clean, and do other household tasks well. Animals are domesticated when they have the ability to coexist with humans.
home. work. pets water garden parents family siblings.. computer tv freedom life food breakfast farm love.. home chairs.. furniture life.. brothers.. sisters.. cooking.. country.. fresh air..
housewife who stays at home and makes the world safe for her spouse and children. Cooking, cleaning, sterilizing, sweeping, all those things. Domestic can be love. You can’t be a great stay at home domesticated mom and wife without love in your heart to make their world clean and sa
With an exhausted sigh, she pushed the oven door shut; the cough of hot air brushed her stray hair from her face. The baby cried from the next room. The day was only just beginning, and yet the flour still dusted the floor from the night before.
she was a domestic. not in the sense of violence but in the sense that she was always meant to be at home. it didn’t mess with her feminine attitude but rather was a choice. she chose to be at home and be with her children. she chose to have dinner on the table, to keep the house clean. everyone else looked down on her, but to her this was her rightful place.
bobestic banana fanna fofestic me my momestic….domestic
i like my beer like i like my violence…domestic
Dogs, cats, animals, plants, farms, human society. I don’t know what else to say haha… tick tock waiting on the clock.
:D
Almost there
i dont know what domestic is or how to use it in a sentence right now…..im kind of tired, i’m really hungry..i could go for some oreo ice cream or maybe that delicious cake with strawberries.
household cupboards full of stovetop stuffing are emptied by homemakers in aprons while sweeping the kitchen floor.
a fire so high
nothing left like
I used to have
no flowing thoughts
just tranquil stops
domestic bree van de kamp from deserate house wives. some day i will have a family like she did. i will fall in love and get married and have a family. i cant wait till the day that you relize that i’m the girl that you will marry.
this is pants and cheese and i wonder what the hell im supposed to write about domestic this is what women are supposed to be up i guess this means that you are good in the kitchen like you are good at cooking and vacuuming and good at wearing your pearls while you clean up after your children but i also like domestic beer so i guess it means beer.
i like my abuse like i like my beer.
domestic.
it’s just about being in love with you…I become domestic.
home. housewife
not what I want to do with my life.
cats
Divorce
stepford wives
robots
meatloaf and mashed potatoes
children
too many of them
creepy babies
mad men
picket fence of lies
makes me want to run screaming
once upon a time there was a little girl who lived in a family. Every day she witnessed domestic violence, against her, her mother, her sister, and her brothers. She suffered terribly from this, and vowed to never do this to her children, if she ever lived that long
(This story was well over sixty seconds, but I just couldn’t stop.)
I was growing my hair out. On my face, on my head. It made everything itchy. But I couldn’t stay this unkempt forever, I thought. I still needed to work. Still needed to eat. Still needed to finish that resume. I’ll clean up when I get the job, I thought. If I get the job. Halfway through the resume I realized I didn’t know what I was doing, and so I drove over to my mom’s trailer. When I got there, she was out back rolling a joint. I sat with her on plastic lawn furniture and we passed the weed back and forth while I asked her questions. “What exactly do I need to put down?” I asked. “What exactly are they looking for?” “You’re asking the wrong person,” she said. “Ask your father.”
I thought about my father, living in Dallas, driving his Corvette with his new wife, her hitting the ignore button on his I-phone when she saw that I was calling. I decided to ask someone else.
But there was no one else, and so I found myself driving, aimlessly through town, high as fuck, in my small beat up car that rattled whenever I tried to stop it to quickly. $1,200 to fix it, the mechanic had said. I’ll get it fixed when I get the new job. If I get the new job. But only if they don’t drug test. I’ll quit smoking pot if I get the new job. Where was I?
I was at my ex-girlfriend’s house. Her dad would help me with the resume. He still liked me. I got out of my car and rang the doorbell, saw him trotting in from the living through the front window. “Nate?” He said, when he opened the door. “Mr. O’Hara,” I said. “I need help. With a resume.” He looked behind him to where the living room backed up against two large windows that allowed for a view of the back deck. Valerie, my ex, was sunning on the patio with her new boyfriend. I could almost hear his brain turning. “I only need to just look at one. Only for a second,” I said, trying to sway him in my favor. This was the same man who taught me how to set a table; taught me how to tie a tie; taught me how to drive stick shift. But this was before his daughter cheated on me. This was before I through a brick through her widow. “All right,” he said. “Come in, quick, to my office. Don’t let My wife see you.”
I barely remember what happened in the office. I remember suddenly being so aware of my hair growing out. I remember feeling crowded and hot. I remember that Goddamned itchy feeling spreading from my face to all over my body. I remembered that my mom sometimes laced her pot. I remember Valerie’s dad asking me if I was OK while he pulled up the Word doc. I remember sweating and saying, No, no I’m not OK and pulling off my shirt and running down the stairs. I remember him chasing after me, Mrs. O’Hara in the kitchen screaming as I took off my pants, and then my underpants, being naked in their kitchen, feeling that fire all over my body, my head spinning. I remember seeing the pool, and running for it, hearing Valerie scream “Jesus Christ!” while her new boyfriend pushed himself up from the deck chair and shouted “What the fuck?” I remember diving into the pool and then opening my eyes, looking up at that turbulent blue reflection of the world outside, and then, underwater, I screamed out all the air I could, like an undomesticated, wild animal.
I am a domestic housewife. I stay home, and do domestic chores–laundry, cooking, cleaning, homeschooling… I teach my children, 3 of them the domestic way of life. We live among our neighbors and learn how to live with one another, engaging one another, domestically.
domestic animals are kind of a sad thing. It’s like an unntural abomination of man trying to tame the natural world. I feel guilty owning animals.
this is where i live, breath and hopefully breed. my legacy is centered in the stuff i have collected, stored, cataloged and etc. am I good at it? no hardly in fact i am pretty pathetic
Doomed to the mess. The clock is ticking. Tick tick tick. There is never enough time for the dishes, the clothes in the hamper, the mess the dog made on the floor. Instead we argue about it. Then go to bed dirty.
pet cozy food blanket pillows fireplace books
What does it mean to honestly be formal, domestic? Formality has been so misconstrued over the years… Arrogance and hypocrisy. It’s a wonder the earth is even still turning round and round each and every day.
Stereotypes say that it’s the wife who should always be domestic.
I hate that.
Why pigeonhole us into something that some of us were not meant for?
Me? I was meant for greatness. I was meant to be wild.
I was not made for domesticity.
home, comfort, joy love, warmth, trust, dishes, clothing, flowers and cosy nights in fron of the fire. food hearth, home, health, sleep , pillows. Dogs & cats warm nights adn pajamas.
A shudder went through him. It was this almost-domestic nightmare that had sent him running for the hills when all of this had started.
To domesticate is to train. Dogs and cats aren’t the only thing trained. We are trained too, we are just as much animals as anything else. We need to remember that. We try to train everything, but it is all in our heads. Nothing is domesticated nothing us unnatural nothing is and everything is. Everything just is.
i feel that for my age; i’m 22. i’m entirely too domestic. everyone’s always out drinking or partying. i just want to go home and make a roast, drink some wine, and watch a movie… and be in bed by 11. i feel like i’m missing out on my youth, but in other ways, i feel like it’s just beginning.
I think the last thing that ran through her mind was that she really wasn’t the domestic type. She wasn’t a fork or a spoon, she was more like one of those sporks. You could only find them in a second hand store, down an alley way long forgotten, or in prison. Not in a house filled with children.
Domestic violence is hideous. Is ugly and repulsive and it needs to stop. Us ladies need to stand together and form a bond that gives confidence to one another that will make a girl realize she is too good to be hit. It’s not her fault, and when he says he’ll never do it again, he will. Confidence is key. Never forget that.