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