Although she would not admit it, she had an acute aversion toward homemaking. Granted, she had not been brought up to concern herself with such matters, but most women in 1918, even those raised with servants, were nonetheless able to care for themselves in an emergency. Dorothy was not. So phobic was her reaction to domesticity that she would have starved before boiling an egg. Throughout her life, she would eat bacon raw claiming that she had no idea how to cook it. The mechanics of laundry would be equally mysterious—when she removed her underwear, she threw the soiled lingerie back into the drawer with the clean and let a maid, if there was one, figure it out.

Along with the flat, they acquired a Boston terrier that they christened Woodrow Wilson for patriotic reasons and a canary that Dorothy called Onan because he spilled his seed on the ground.

A newspaper reporter asked her if she would care to say a few words about her life.
By all means. It was "terrible."
Didn't she enjoy anything?
Certainly. "Flowers, French fried potatoes, and a good cry."