You bitches make me feel guilty.

I can't cook.

Upon reading this statement you're probably thinking, "YES, YOU CAN! I can cook and so can you! It's not that hard, and can be so REWARDING! Jessi, cook something! :) !!!!!"

Shut up. I hate cooking. I know I can cook. I can also volunteer to teach Sunday School. I can sell magazines door to door and wax my own pubic hair. But I choose to do zero of these things. Because that's the power of free will.

But you lovely little ladies with your Vera Bradley clutches and your banana hangers are making me ill. It seems like everyone these days is making their own cooking blog. And if they're not dedicating an entire blog to the business of listing recipes and posting out of focus photos of pie, they're using their personal blog for a once-a-week Paula Deen shout-out.

I have to give credit where credit is due. My former college roommate used to get drunk and make us pasta. She was known to fall asleep on the kitchen counter surrounded by her measuring spoons and using her oven mitts as a pillow. Since her days of following the Moose tracks through the ice cream (to another roommate's chagrin), she has started her own cooking blog, hilariously titled "That's What She Fed." I can stand behind something like this.

My mother is an excellent cook. As I've mentioned before, it is her specialty. She makes homemade cinnamon rolls every Christmas. Everyone wants in on Darlene's cooking. My grandmother has not been well recently. When asked if she would be attending my mother's 50th birthday party, she answered with a question,

"Will she be making food?"

You're in luck, Nanny. My mother is the kind of person who can and will and can't stop cooking for her own birthday party. So my grandmother came to the party. As did anyone else with common sense. My mom is a great cook. A typical southern woman, she enjoys recipes that include butter. And sugar. And melted butter. I have creeping obesity.

Thankfully, I have married a man who enjoys cooking. He loves to make a big ole mess (which is also what I call cooking). He makes big breakfasts with eggs and bacon and toast and home fries. We are in love. And most of the time I don't mind cleaning up the big ole mess. We have a healthy relationship when it comes to cooking. I will make grilled cheese at any given time, and he will decide when he wants grilled cheese and when he'd like to make real food instead.

But these girls. THESE GIRLS. Quit it with your exotic recipes. Your slideshows. You are making me feel bad. My house is immaculate, our bills paid and the oil is changed in the car. But stop posting torturous material. I go to Trader Joe's exclusively for flowers and wine. And my new years resolution is to stop feeling guilty about this part of myself. I'm not turning into Rachel Ray anytime soon. She has nodes anyway.