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.

Mindy

A Watched Pot Never Boils…Especially When It’s EMPTY!

You know, I don’t ask for much. I’m a provider by nature and get a whole lot of satisfaction in taking care of my family. Like most wives and/or moms I try to keep good snackies on hand for the kids, clean underwear and socks in the hubbie’s dresser drawer and a good combo of veggies and fruits at mealtimes (black cherry ice cream and baby carrots count, right?) Now, in full disclosure, I should also add that I wholeheartedly enjoy being the recipient of such caretaking at times. And I’ve never been one to turn down a good gift. But it does my heart good to provide just about anything someone needs.

And what I need every single morning is, coffee.

Each night I set up the coffee pot with water and grounds and go to bed dreaming of the steaming, milky, sweetened cup o’ joe that will be greeting me in the morning. It’s a ritual that has become a part of me, like brushing my teeth or starting a new diet every morning.

But occasionally, on a late night, I will ask my night owl of a husband to set up the coffee pot for me. Now, I typically only hand this responsibility over to him if I am so tired I can barely manage to drag myself off to bed. And even then I hesitate.

You might be wondering why I am so passionate about this subject?

Because there is absolutely nothing worse (barring war, death and disease) than waking up in the morning to a cold coffee pot housing yesterday’s leftovers. Otherwise known as the “husband totally forgot to set up the coffee pot” pot. Wiping sleep from my eyes only to look into a cold coffee pot with a half inch of overly black 24-hour old caffeinated sludge is akin to only eating popcorn and hot tamales all week long and gaining two pounds. Horrifying, isn’t it?

Drinking your morning cup of coffee, for those so inclined, is as much a part of the wakeup process as showering or putting on new underpants and to be denied such an instrumental part of my morning is, well, tragic.

Now, back to my husband and his one and only extremely rare responsibility towards providing for my general morning well-being.

He always forgets.

Forgets.

Always.

He.

Tragedy ensues.

And yet I continue to ask him to help me out on those nights where I can barely manage to say my prayers (which usually include asking God to make Jer set up the coffee pot) and I go to sleep, dreaming of my most likely non-existent morning coffee. I wake up and head toward the kitchen, hope lifting me through each step, only to discover he has forgotten again.

And then I make coffee.

And then he comes waltzing in, stopping to give me a sweet kiss on the cheek, notices the coffee machine and begins to genuinely and profusely apologize. And I forgive him. And then we do it all over again.

Love is a frickin’ battlefield.

Until later,

Mindy

“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.

Mindy

Desperate times…my hubby is my WeightWatchers coach.

I have been a “Weight Watcher” on and off for several years now. On when I have extra money and well, extra motivation. Off when I realize that only counting points one day a week does not make for an effective weight-loss regimen or a very loyal “Weight Watcher” for that matter. And, lately I’ve beenin the off pattern. Until now.

I’ve been revamped with some new motivation. Here goes.

1. Everyone around me is getting skinny, ‘cept me.

2. My “fat pants” are starting to pinch. Crap.

3. I’ve slowly crept past my “will never weigh that amount again” amount. Super-crap.

4. My boobs are getting too big.

So, I have decided to fire off on a new quest…a quest to lose weight. Again. For like the forty-hundredth time. But I think this time will be a teensy bit different than the others. Why, you ask?

Because I have subjected myself to something I swore I would never do. I have broken the unspoken code of our kind…I have breached the most agreed-upon rule I have learned since becoming a “woman.” I told my husband how much I weigh.

Allow me a moment to collect myself…it seems so much worse now that I’ve put it out there for the web-world to read. Find your happy place, Mindy. No, not Krispy Kreme! That’s what got you in trouble in the first place! Channel Denise Austin, Jane Fonda, the Buns of Steel folks…hell, at this point channel Richard Simmons!

Okay, I’m back. And I’m okay.

So, the story goes…

Me: Um, hey, Jer. I have something to ask you and it makes me feel a teensy bit uncomfortable.

Him: What?

Me: I don’t know how to put this…

Him: What’s up? Let me guess…you want to become swingers! (He starts snickering.)

Me: Yes.

Him: Wh-wh-what? Seriously? (Men are so simple, bless their hearts.)

Me: No. I want you to start weighing me. Like, be my Weight Watchers coach.

Him: (Confused and slightly bewildered) So you’re saying you don’t want to be swingers?

Me: Focus, Jer. That was a joke. Seriously, get a grip. Did you hear what I said about weighing me?

Him: (I can tell he’s coming back from the ‘swinging’ reference.) Okay, yes. I heard you. Are you sure you want me to?

Me: Yes. I do. I think it will really help me if I know I have to be accountable to someone. And not a friend. It’s pretty easy to convince a friend to skip weigh-in and hit the Rooty Tooty Fresh’n Fruity for breakfast instead. You will keep me focused.

Him: Um, I don’t know if this is a good idea. You’re going to get all mad at me and stuff.

Me: No, I’m not. I’m going to be a total grown-up about it and you’re not a judgmental person so we should have no problem.

Him: Okay, give it to me. What’s your weight?

Okay, so here’s where it got a little ugly. After about 15 minutes I was able to write down my weight on a piece of paper and slip it to him. He looked down at it, looked at me, smiled and then slipped it into his desk drawer.

Me: What was that smirk about?

Him: I didn’t smirk.

Me: Yes, you did. You smirked right after you looked at the paper. What was that about?

Him: Mindy, I didn’t smirk. I simply looked at the paper. And if you’re going to act like this each week then I’m not doing this. You can’t be mean to me.

Me: Humph.

And…that was this morning. First weigh-in. I can’t say it went too well but I’m holding out hopes that next week is much smoother. I can say this much though…Jer is one brave muchacho.

Love to all, Mindy