It’s All Starting to Make Sense…

Since accepting the position as the Head-Lady-In-Charge around these parts I have been forced to realize some truths:

1) Stay-at-home mom = easy access to food pantry and Cheez Its… All. Day. Long.

2) Stay-at-home mom = growing collection of yoga pants.

3) Stay-at-home mom = slight addiction to online shopping.

4) Stay-at-home mom = dishes, laundry, vacuuming, dishes, laundry, vacuuming…

Having accepted these truths should make the reality of my at-home life a little bit easier to grasp but I will say that sometimes even my own steadfast foundation gets rocked.

Take the above picture for instance. To the untrained eye it would appear to simply be a frying pan on top of the stove. But wait! If you look a little bit closer you will notice not one, not two, but three spatulas resting contentedly in the unwashed egg pan. What you can’t see is a kitchen that has already been scrubbed from top to bottom due in large part to a Real Housewives of Atlanta marathon.

So at this point I am staring down a dirty egg pan. Upon further investigation I learn that Jer was hungry and fried himself two eggs. In that pan. With those spatulas. All three. For two eggs.

So, like any good boss I inquire as to the purpose of all three spatulas and why they were waiting for me. To clean. In my already cleaned kitchen.

According to Jer:

One spatula was used to spread cooking oil around the “non stick” pan so as to avoid sticking eggs.

One spatula was supposed to be used to flip said eggs but was determined to be too stiff to effectively do its job.

One spatula was used to effectively flip said eggs.

All three spatulas and the egg pan were left on the cooking surface awaiting a specialized sanitization procedure…otherwise known as “washing the dish.” A procedure in which Jer, apparently has not yet been certified.

It’s all starting to make sense to me.


“Do You Think You Can You Keep It Like This?”

I’m a fairly clean person. And, although I pride myself on squeaky clean bits’n pieces, it is not of a hygienic nature that I am speaking today.

I’m a bit “Type A” when it comes to keeping my house neat and tidy. I’m not so much concerned with the nooks and crannies as I am making sure that at first glance, things look put in their place. And, as I’m sure you’re already aware, I have a 7 year-old daughter and a 3 year-old son who, I feel, have been placed here as cohorts to some super-spy conglomerate who’s sole mission is to determine the point in time at which the mixture of teensy lego pieces stuck to the bottoms of my socks, Barbie cars placed throughout the house in precarious ankle-breaking positions and Pop Tart edges glued to the remote control will cause me to spontaneously implode (or explode, obviously whichever is more dramatic.) To simplify it: my kids are trying various methods to drive me cuckoo. And they’re getting close.

That all being said, there have been places in my house that have been grossly neglected. If it can be shut behind a door it has most likely been thrown to the wayside until I am ready to fully deal with the disorder. I have had to come to terms with the fact that my “super-spy” children take up 23 1/2 of my 24 allotted hours on a daily basis, and therefore, some things have to be pushed to the back burner. And I was 100% certain that Jer supported me in this belief.

Apparently, I was wrong.

Have you ever sent your husband to Costco for milk and contact solution and he comes home with milk, eye drops (hey…he thought you meant eye drops) and a set of 15 plastic organizational shoeboxes? Well, I have.

Jer decided he simply had to “do something” about the pantry. He couldn’t stand the mishmash of Kellogg’s cereal boxes and antacid tablets. And I will admit, the pantry is a wasteland. It’s four shelves containing anything from cookbooks to cough syrup to Swiss Cake Rolls (these being a problem entirely unto themselves, but I won’t get into that.) And, I kind of agree with Jer that it’s a hot mess. But. As I mentioned before, I’m a busy lady. And as far as Jer having a huge opinion on the matter, the dude has zero credibility in the “clean and orderly” department. His monstrosity, also known as the garage, has a reputation for swallowing household items and could qualify as a front runner for any episode of “How Clean Is Your House?”. The dude really has no room to preach.

So, basically, here’s my “disorderly” husband attempting to school me on previously unrealized organizational opportunities. In my kitchen. My ‘hood.

Jer spent approximately 3 hours moving various sundries and dry goods into plastic shoeboxes, throwing an occasional smirk my way. There was groaning and tsking and verbal disdain. There was sweating and cursing and a whole lot of flying cardboard.

It was painful. And oddly, kind of sexy.

And, when it was all said and done, as if to pour salt in my already festering wound, Jer brought me into the kitchen for a formal tour of my new pantry.

“And this and this go here…blah…blah…blah…pfft…pfft…pfft.” I managed to tune out most of what he said until I heard the following statement.

“Do you think you can keep it like this?”

Oh no he di int!

But, yes. He did.

“Um, Jer. Are you seriously asking me if I can handle maintaining the pantry?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I am. This took me a lot of time. I don’t want it messed back up.”

People. I could barely look at him with a straight face. I could have began a lengthy explanation of how I clean things daily that get ‘messed back up’ without a backward glance. I could have reminded him that he still hasn’t cleared off his desk which has so many dishes piled up it could double as a restaurant pass-through. I could have gone into numerous pending grievances.

But I didn’t.

I looked at his hardwork, displayed proudly and prominently by macaroni-filled shoeboxes lining the shelving and then I looked at his face, expectantly looking back at me.

And I answered, “Sure, babe. I’ll do my best.”

There’s still empty shoeboxes left, waiting to organize some other part of my home. I noticed Jer eyeing my makeup drawer today. This could get ugly, folks.


I’m No Gardener…But I Can Clean the Heck out of My House!

I’m ashamed. Truly ashamed. Shameful. I have subjected my kids to a side of me that should have never reared its ugly head. There was sweat…lots and lots of sweat. And tears…tons of tears. And there were words…bad, bad words. What tragic scene caused all of this mayhem, you ask? I mowed the lawn yesterday.

It was ugly people. I don’t really know what possessed me to attempt such a noble feat. Maybe I was just tired of the air conditioning inside of my house (yeah, right) or was slightly embarrassed by the unsightly tufts of overgrown grass in my backyard (more likely) and I felt bound and determined to take care of this situation on my own. After all, Jeremy had been very busy lately and quite honestly did not have the time to devote to lawn care. Why shouldn’t I help out? I’m a resourceful woman. I’m capable of absolutely anything I put my mind to. Women do this stuff every day. Pretty soon I’m struttin’ around the house with the determination of Rosie the Riveter and the swagger of Foghorn Leghorn. So, outside I go, my kids following with apprehension.

Where in the hell is the lawnmower? Of course, wedged underneath all of these leftover fence boards. Right. Okay. How do you start the bleedin’ thing? A memory of long ago suddenly rushes to my brain and I remember something about priming and pulling. Got it. I decide to start out in the tiny backyard which is about the size of a poker card…not even the whole deck. Easy peasy. I jauntily wave at my kids – who in all honesty are about as shocked at my behavior as I am-and I push ahead. This is when true hell begins. I immediately get the front wheels stuck in the flower bed and bark-a-mulch is flying at me from under both sides of the death machine. And the sweating begins. After I manage to lift what felt like a 700 pound machine out of the bark I set off and drive right through the hydrangea plant cutting off the whole front section leaving scratches bleeding down my right forearm. Enter the tears. I steal a glance at my kids braving a smile to reassure them that all is okay. Until I run over the dog poop. Then it’s all over. I start cussing a mean streak out there sending my kids inside, presumably to get their father. And this is where he finds me…standing in a pile of dog sh*t, tears streaking down a dirty sweat-laden face, bleeding profusely from my right arm. “I’m done,” I whisper as I limp to the back door, slipping off my soiled shoes. And that folks is the last time I will EVER mow my lawn.

My place belongs inside the house folding laundry and watching all the various romantic entanglements on Days of Our Lives. And I am not ashamed to admit it. Well, maybe the Days of Our Lives part a little bit but have you been following the Sami/EJ/Rafe storyline? It’s getting really good…

Love to all, Mindy