The Suburban Life

I’ve recently been presented with a new situation that is slightly concerning.  This situation is unchartered territory for me and at this point I’m not entirely sure what steps I should be taking to avoid this complication.

You see…

My dog is scared of my exercise pants.

Due to the extensive rain and colder weather this winter I have been doing the majority of my exercising indoors.  On any given day I could be “shredding” with Jillian, “cheering” with the DC Cheerleaders, “sweatin’” with Richard or “walking away the pounds” with Leslie.  And, since we’ve recently acquired a flat screen plasma television neatly mounted above our fireplace in the front room (yeah…definitely Jer’s doing) I have been gettin’ my workout on in there.  (Because, everyone knows, the Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders just don’t look quite attractive enough on a standard screen without high definition.)

Now, normally, Lewis (the dog) is attached to me like a fly to a pile of poop.  Wait.  That would make me the ‘poop’.  Bad analogy.  Um, how about this one.  Lewis is attached to me like candy to a fat kid.  Dangit.  Okay, you get the picture.  He’s attached.  Moving on. 

A couple of weeks ago, I had just talked myself off the couch and Leslie Sansone was in my brain willing me to Walk Away the Cheezits.  I headed toward the bedroom and my good ol’ sturdy exercise pants, my little buddy trailing closely behind me.  

This is when I was faced with the new situation.

As I began pulling up myexercise pants I noticed Lewis looking at me…his furry face riddled with fear. 

“What’s up, buddy?” I asked.

He started backing away from me, slowly.  

I stood there, my winterized legs (in terrible need of a shave) glowing brightly in contrast to my black lycra pants.  I suddenly felt very vulnerable.  Was it the sight of me in these less than attractive pants causing his sudden trepidation?   Were my white legs causing his imminent panic attack?

Watching him back away from me, I pulled my pants all the way on and reached down to quickly shove my feet in my Nikes. 

That did it.

The little puff-ball beat feet and dove under Jer’s desk.  If the dude could drive I’m pretty sure he would have been halfway across the country before I figured out what was happening.

Jer, who I forgot was at his computer and had sat there watching the entire exchange, said,”That was weird.”

“Um, yeah.  What’s his problem?” I asked.

“I’m not sure.  He’s under my legs though and I don’t think he’s moving,” Jer said.

“All I did was put on my…Oh. My. God.  He hates my exercise pants.”  Of course!  Wait…what?

“Mindy, he doesn’t hate your exercise pants.  Why would he?  That makes no sense.”

“Um, I don’t know,Jer.  But as soon as my leg slid into these things the dog freaked out.  Okay?  I need to go work out.  We’ll figure this out later.”  I stomped out, slightly affronted over my dog’s apparent prejudice against athletic apparel.

I started my workout, trying to shake the image of my little dog’s fear-filled eyes, shivering helplessly under my husband’s legs.

About halfway through my sweat-fest I noticed Jer had entered the room, laughing. 

“What, Jer?” I huffed. 

“I figured it out.  I figured out what’s wrong with Lewis!” he answered, between bouts of laughter.

“Okay, what is it?” 

“Every time you take a step on that hardwood it sounds like elephants are partying it up in the living room.   The pounding is resonating through the house.”  Jer was standing there, shaking his head.  Proud of his discovery.

Hmmm.

“Jer.” 

“Yeah?” he asked.

“Did you just compare me to an…elephant?” 

“Um…huh?” Jer asked, his voice suddenly modulating like a pre-pubescent boy. 

“An elephant, Jer?  Really?” I asked.

“Bad analogy.”

Yeah.

So, as you can see, I find myself in a new situation.  I apparently will need to approach my dog’s needs with more sensitivity.  At the very least I should be working out with a lighter step so as not to resonate an elephant-like stomp throughout the house.  Thanks a lot for that, Jer.

Mindy

That’s right.  Slowly but surely I am making my way back unto the living.  I’ve been down and out for a good 48 hours but currently, I’d say, I’m operating at about 70% capacity which means I’m back to doing laundry, dishes, vacuuming and general cleaning but still feeling crappy enough to be slightly bitter.  

Being “out of commission” is unchartered territory for me.  With a first-grader in public school I catch my fair share of colds and an occasional upset stomach but I typically still run on full cylinders and have a firm grasp on the day-to-day duties of running a household.

This time around was slightly different.  This cold, or ”viril rhinitis” as I like to so eloquently put it, took everything out of me.  All of my responsibilities had to go on hold and that was, perhaps, the hardest part of fighting it.  The “knowing”.  Knowing that for an indefinite amount of time, my laundry would go unwashed, the dishes would go unrinsed, the kids would go unbathed and the floors would go unswept.  

And due to this admittedly unhealthy obsession with things remaining orderly and my wholehearted attempts at keeping up a “large and in charge” persona, I have historically not been the best patient.  I have not allowed myself to rest fully for fear that dirty towels and food-caked dishes would take over my house. 

But, again, this time around was a different mamma-jamma.  This time I seriously could have cared less if my towels walked in from the laundry room to sit down next to me on the couch and discuss politics.  It honestly wouldn’t have fazed me if my dirty dishes convened together to march around my kitchen in protest.  I would have laid on that couch and applauded their demonstration. 

At the onset of my snotty nose, I made the decision to take some much needed rest and allow life to go on around me.  And you know what?  It did.  Dinner got made, dishes were cleaned up and my kids got bathed.

I realized that when push comes to shove my husband is a worthy house manager.  I realized that the sun does not rise and set on a clean house.  I realized that stinky kids are still happy kids.  I realized that sometimes a down-and-out cold is a worthy excuse for a much needed respite.  I realized that I do not have to do it all. 

(I also realized that combining cough medicine and rum is not a smart decision given my somewhat unsettling hallucinations concerning my politically-minded towels and march-happy dishes.)

So, as I work on gaining back the remaining 30% of my capacity I will do so with a certain peace as I have learned a valuable lesson.  I will undoubtedly get sick again and my well-oiled machine will undoubtedly come to a screeching halt but when it does…all will be okay.  (Unless my towels do actually sit down to talk to me, then we’re dealing with an entirely different situation.)

P.S.  I wanted to say a gracious “Thank You” to you all for my well-wishes!  It was certainly most appreciated!!

Happy Wednesday,

Mindy

Well, it’s January, the time of year when most Americans renew their pledge to get fit and strong, and I’m no exception.  Okay, if not fit and strong, then slightly in shape and at least stronger than my kids.  And, since they’re only 6 and 3 I’m thinking I’ve got about 6 years to beef up a little.

I’ve always been a fan of exercise.  Most days of the week I get, at the minimum, 45 minutes of moderate to intense activity.  Until recently, when my treadmill decided it was angry for being vanquished to my garage and attempted to burn it down, I was a treadmill junkie.  We set up a television and DVD player right in front of the machine and I could work out forever watching Bridget Jones’ Diary or, yes, Days of our Lives.  There’s something about Bridget’s obsession with her own weight, and the rock-hard abs on DOOL’s Rafe that keeps my mind occupied.  Sometimes a little too occupied, and if I’m being honest here, a tad obsessed.  With Rafe’s abs that is.  Hmm.

Anyway, as I said, my treadmill burned up and I’ve been forced to pull out some workout DVD’s and humiliate myself in front of my family.  You already know about Jack’s fascination with my exercise pants but Avery and Jer are not much help either.  As I’m stomping away in the living room, sweat dripping off my forehead, they pass by and sometimes stop to watch a little.  Now, with Jer, I can pretty much say, “Get lost,” and he will.  But, Avery? I’m trying to put a very positive spin on physical activity, you know, a teaching moment?  So I will let her watch and encourage her to join in.

Until recently.

I was all dressed up and ready to exercise.  Not wanting to do a DVD I decided to check out Exercise TV On Demand.  I noticed a fairly new category named, “Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders.”  Interesting.  I read the introduction to the workout and was immediately intrigued.  Are they telling me that I can do their series of workouts and in no time at all have a DCC body?  Yes, please.  Sign me up. I looked around to make sure no one was watching and clicked play on the “Boot Camp” workout. 

In all actuality, it’s a fairly easy workout.  There isn’t a lot of high impact exercise, but the trainer emphasizes a ton of strength training in cadence (one-two-three-ONE, one-two-three-TWO.)  So you’re actually doing 3 times the standard number of repetitions.   Tiring, but simple.  The ease of the movements along with the melodic counting in cadence started to take its toll as my mind began to wander. 

(Okay, so here’s where the story gets a little bit embarrassing.)

As I said, I was really digging this workout and started daydreaming a little bit.  Having watched enough “Making the Team” on CMT to be familiar I started imagining myself trying out for the Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders squad.   Next thing I knew I was shaking my be-dunka-dunk (that’s a more fly way of saying “but”t and certainly more appropriate for the kind of dancing I was doing) and busting out some old cheerleader moves from the Great High School Squad Tryout of 1990 (FYI – I didn’t make it.)   I was just getting into the rousing second act of my number when…

“Whatcha doing?”

My head whipped around to find Avery standing behind me.  Looking mightily confused. 

‘Oh, hey, Avery.  I”m just…um…working out.”  God.

“That didn’t look like working out, mom.  Were you trying to be a cheerleader?” 

“Um, no.  No.  I was dancing.  Dancing is a great workout, Avery.  Seriously.  It’s good for you.  And your hips.  And stuff.” 

“But you weren’t dancing.  You were doing cheerleader stuff.  I know ’cause I’ve seen these cheerleaders on TV.”

Damn television.  

“Okay, Avery.  Yes.  I was trying to do cheerleading moves.  But, it’s still good exercise.  And, no.  I’m not a cheerleader but it’s fun to pretend sometimes.”

And then Avery reminded me why she is such a cool chick.  “I think you’d be a great cheerleader, mom.  Really.” 

“Thanks, Avery.”  What a sweetheart.  I really don’t deserve such great kids.

“But you’re too old.” 

Selfish brat.

So, from now on I am sticking with my normal workout DVD’s unless I am positively sure that no one is going to walk in and see me get my groove on. 

This new year, 2010, will be a positive and healthy one for this suburban housewife.  I may not achieve the highly coveted Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders body but will work harder at being the best that I can be (which would be more along the lines of the cheerleaders slightly plumper yet beautiful older cousin.) 

In fitness and in health, Mindy

My hubby and I can be kind of cheap.  Not in the traditional “count every penny and waste not/want not” kind of way.  More in the “loathe spending money on things that won’t benefit us in some way, shape or form” kind of way. 

This “cheapness” extends itself into different parts of our lives.  For instance, we both hate buying batteries.  They are just so temporary.  And then there’s the whole responsible disposal element.  So much pressure.  We also can’t stand spending money on stamps, therefore guaranteeing that at any point in time we are needing to mail something, we will be out of them.  We stand there, staring at the stampless envelope as if by sheer brain power alone we can figure out an alternative way to mail the thing.  We haven’t come up with one yet but will let you know as soon as we do. 

The third and probably most soul-suckingly frustrating expenditure of our hard-earned cash is grooming our dog…Lewis.

Lewis is one part poodle, one part shit-zu and one part giant pain in my butt.  He’s probably the world’s laziest animal and spends his entire day finding different throw pillows around my house to form into a misshapen nap spot.  He is a teensy little guy, weighing all of 8 pounds, and is somehow magnetically attracted to my feet as I find him under them throughout most of the day.  He also has an abnormally large amount of hair on his little butternut squash-sized body and therefore requires quite a bit of upkeep.

Lewis is a little over 3 years old and has been to the groomer approximately 4 times.   He has spent the better part of his young life looking like a cross between a small hairy rodent and an oversized brillo pad. 

Did I mention that we’re cheap? 

So, Jer, in all his fiscally-minded brilliance decided that he would cut the dogs hair.  Why not?  He cuts Jack’s hair and has been cutting his own for several years now.  (Occasionally he gets all Vidal Sassoon on us and cuts both my brother’s and neighbor’s hair.  I’ll admit it’s a tiny bit disturbing to see his hands brushing across my brother’s forehead.  Gross.)

Anyway, how hard could it be?  Right?

Oh. My. God.

I am pretty sure that dog groomers have got to be one of the most under-appreciated masters of artistic expression.  They have a gift, people.  A serious calling.  My husband stood there hacking away at that dog’s hair for two hours.  Two flippin’ hours.   I heard more cuss words coming out of his mouth than a drunk sailor.  Hair was flying, scissors were slicing and the dog was…

sleeping.  Through it all.  Jer had to result to cradling the dog like a newborn baby because Lewis refused to stand upright. 

With each snip of the scissors I could feel poor Jer’s manhood slipping through the cracks.

With each slice of the blade I could feel Jer wilting into a shadow of his former self.

And then it was over.  Sure, we saved ourselves $30.00 in grooming fees, but what did we lose instead?  Jer’s pride?  His machismo? 

Should I have—nah, it was worth it.  I’d rather have the 30 bucks.  I’ve already penciled in Lewis’ next hair appointment.

My “fear” post earlier this week got me thinking.  I have some ridiculous phobias.  (And here you thought my fear of landing on the ‘people of walmart’ website was a ridiculous phobia…unless you didn’t because you think there is a good possibility I could end up on that website, in which case, whatever.) 

I’ve always been the type to struggle with over-thinking situations.  I can’t tell you how many times I’ve almost passed out…or more accurately almost talked myself into passing out.  This happens  a lot at the dentist’s office.  I sit in that chair and start thinking about all the things that are happening to my teeth.  My ears start ringing, my vision blurs a little bit, I feel a teensy bit faint and then…nothing.   It’s all in my head.

Now, before you start saying to yourself, “M’kay…Mindy is a total head case,” let me assure you I am not.  I’m just someone who has way too much time to think and a slighty overactive imagination. 

I believe that putting things into words is the first step toward healing oneself.  So I thought I would share with you some of the biggies.  Some of the phobias I deal with on a more regular basis.

1) Nyctophobia - fear of the dark

I’m a ‘fraidy-cat, a chicken-butt, a lover of light.  I despise the dark.  Still.  I’ve hated the dark since I was a kid and I kind of thought I would grow out of it.  Haven’t.  I’m a nyctophobe lifer.

2) Surophobia – fear of mice and rats

Okay, bear with me.  This one’s kind of crazy and slightly irrational.  When I walk down my hallway into my bedroom at night I am afraid I will step on a mouse and it will bite my foot.   Every step into that room is purposeful and calculated.  My eyes never leave the carpet until I make it to my bed, narrowly escaping a brutal rodent attack.  If ever I actually do get bit on the foot by a mouse it will probably be the end.  My last moment.  Arrivaderci.

3) Microwavephobia – couldn’t find an “official” name for this (which worries me even more…am I the first one to experience this fear?)

Whenever I microwave something I stand away from the door because I’m just sure there’s something leaking out of that danged appliance trying to eat away at my brain.  I’m pretty sure I can attribute most of my memory loss to over-usage of the microwave in the early years of my marriage.  Dang, I wish I had cooked that chili on the stove.

4) Eisoptrophobia – fear of mirrors 

I can’t pinpoint my exact fear to a phobia but this is as close as it gets.  Every time I wash my face in my bathroom, I slowly open my eyes because I’m afraid someone will be standing behind me.  I’m just sure that some psychopath/axe-murderer will be hovering behind me with a sinister look on his face that says, “Aha..I caught you when you were most vulnerable.  Washing your face.  Ahahahaha.”  Irrational?  Maybe.  Freakin’ scary?  You bet.

Phew.  There.  I already feel better.  Kind of.  Okay, not really.  I guess these silly phobias are here to stay.  Unfortunately, there are many others which I will go over on another day. 

What are your phobias?   Any crippling fears of the mailman, or maybe intense paranoia sets in when the dryer signal goes off??  Come on…help me out here and reassure me that I’m not alone. 

Love to all,  Mindy