Sporty Spice or lazy housewife?

I love my sweatpants. I’m not kidding. I think I may actually be in love with my sweatpants. Every morning when I get out of bed they are lying in wait for me, beckoning to me from the drawer, begging to be taken out and pulled on to take their rightful place on my comfort-seeking body. And every morning I take them and their counterpart, the tank top, out and put both of them on feeling slightly uneasy that I am wearing this costume for yet another day. I immediately begin running through reasons for why they are so absolutely necessary to my life. This minor uncertainty leads me to ask…does my daily uniform of tank tops and sweatpants make me Sporty Spice or just a lazy housewife?

You’ve seen them, those cute little athletic types who tool around town in pink sweatpants and cropped sweatshirts, the word “Juicy” displayed prominently across their tight little behinds. They might even be wearing a prim little visor or low ponytail and carrying their environmentally-conscious Sigg bottle on their way to the gym. I’ve tried to be those girls but have experienced some glitches along the way. Problem 1 – I look horrible in a visor, and Problem 2 – I don’t actually own a Sigg bottle (or have a gym membership for that matter). And I’m pretty sure that my faded black Old Navy yoga pants with fraying hems and reinforced stitching in the thighs made necessary due to some unfortunate repetitive rubbing action really don’t compare. And yet I’ve recently been sporting my yoga pants (and, no, I don’t actually practice yoga) to run my errands around town without a blink of an eye. So what’s the problem you ask?

Here’s the problem…I think I may have crossed into a whole new territory, one of which I have been fairly certain I would never inhabit. I might possibly be lazy. Not in a sit-on-the-couch-all-day-eating-bonbons kind of lazy. More like a stand-at-the-couch-folding-laundry-eating-bonbons kind of lazy. My role as a SAHL (Stay-at-home-lackey) requires very little public interaction, and to be quite honest, folks, it is much more comfortable to stand around being lazy in sweatpants than in anything else. Now, I feel I must clarify that I have not yet sunk so low that I have started wearing my pajama bottoms to shop at Walmart. It’s not that bad…yet. But I fear that I may be on my way to this new standard of living.

So, again I ask the question, “Sporty Spice or lazy housewife?” Hmm…Maybe a little bit of both. But one thing’s for sure…I definitely need some new sweatpants.

Love to all, Mindy

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