I'm insane, how are you?

Last night I questioned Kevin's ability to gauge whether the nachos baking in the oven were "done." That's right, I was afraid his frail little man-brain couldn't handle the difficult concept of melted cheese.

Maybe I was frustrated that no amount of whining throughout the day thwarted the boys' desire to watch the Superbowl. Granted, they were more interested in the commercials than the actual game (the nerdy, sensitive, girly-men they are--and I mean that in the most affectionate way possible), yet that didn't change the fact that I was subjected to hours of what is to me the visual equivalent of nails on a chalkboard.

So I questioned Kevin's cooking abilities, or rather, his removing-a-pan-from-the-oven abilities. It could be explained by my afore-mentioned football resentment or a brain fart, but I'm afraid that the real answer is that I'm turning into a control freak.

My domestic gene is kicking in pretty heavy lately--acting as chef, maid, and social coordinator for two men seems to have amplified my care-taker instincts to insane proportions. To help you understand, here's what goes through my brain during a typical day:

• Shit! We've run out of breadcrumbs! What if I need to cook something breaded for dinner tonight?
• Dishes to wash...
• I wonder if they'll want goat cheese or cheddar in their omelets?
• I just did three loads of laundry, but our towels and sheets really need to be done too...
• If we don't go to Will and Ellen's today, our entire social lives for the past week will have consisted of playing cards and watching TV together.
• More dishes to wash...
• I wonder if they give refunds for bulk beer-bottle recycling?
• Where the hell is that vacuum filter I ordered a week ago? I need to VACUUM, damn it!

Now I'm not saying that I do everything--Kevin's been great about picking up the house and emptying the dishwasher (my least favorite job), and Thom often takes care of dinner and cleaning bathrooms. The point is, whether I do everything or not, this stuff is always on my mind. My brain is now controlled by The Care Taker Beast--a fluffy pink monster with Martha Stewart's voice, Swifter feet, and fast-scrubbing-action claws. To the Care Taker Beast in my head it's perfectly reasonable to expect that all household decisions be filtered through me.

Thus, the Nacho-Nazi emerges.

This wouldn't be such a problem if I didn't have an occupation outside of Domestic Goddess. I like taking care of people--I seem to be good at it and I certainly have more time available to do it than Thom. But if I don't start to loosen the grip of the Care Taker Beast, I will be consumed by it. And that way lies the crazy.