Scrubbing The Toilet Is My Cardio

I’m just wondering…

Does anyone else have timing issues with the gym?  I literally could motivate myself better to prepare for a colonoscopy than psych myself into going to the gym.  Every personal trainer hates my ass primarily because I hate theirs.   When I hear “WOOO you did it” in relevance to a work out I silently fantasize about making a shiv out of a cake tester and that crusty cemented toothpaste (the kind that appears when those peculiarly useless flip tops don’t shut properly) and viciously stabbing their taut fit muscular little physiques  (think opening scenes of Oz) in a fit of childish ire.

I enjoy being active, I truly do.  I love being outside.  I love swimming and yoga and hiking.  I love taking my dog to parks.  I love gardening and working on quirky projects that crop up in my mind and become an obsession until I complete them.  I love turning my house into a home.  It’s been a labor of love.  Truly – in every sense of the term.  My home isn’t the biggest.  It isn’t the most glamorous.  But it’s warm and inviting and cozy and comfortable and it’s ours.  We worked ourselves silly turning four walls into a physical embodiment of our family.  Magilla and I have very different philosophies on levels of clean.  I prefer to not be mortified when people walk into my house because it looks like a pack of sugar-rushed toddlers ran through it destroying all they see like a biblical plague and Magilla is just fine with said scenario.  He does the basics.  But here’s his philosophy on several things which drive me crazy.

If there is something that must be hand washed he will literally leave it on the counter until it becomes a petri dish citing that “he didn’t know”.

If he buys bulk paper towels (by the way we have enough paper towels to clean up China) he will kick them down into the hallway leading to the basement because “they’re out of the way” and call it a day.

If he does laundry, rather than fold it, he will cite that it’s damp and spread the laundry out all over the bedroom.  One cannot shut bathroom doors for privacy (yep I’m a closed door pee-er.  I don’t play well with others in the bathroom).  One cannot make the bed.  One cannot change the sheets.  The clothes could have been in the dryer for 4 hours straight but he will sense dampness like some of us sense danger in a darkened alley.  Mad damp sensing skills has he…

I’m going somewhere with this I promise.  Because of less than stellar pickingupafterourselvesgrownupskills on certain household members radar, most of my physical activity comes from cleaning.  I’d love to tell you that my home is spotless 24/7.  It’s not.  I’d love to tell you that I make my own pasta and bake everything from scratch.  I don’t.  I’d love to tell you that I my hair is styled daily and glimmers with the intensity of liquid platinum.  It doesn’t.  I would love to tell you that I remember to call my mother daily.  I don’t.  Magilla has his faults but they’re minor in comparison to the 85 I flaunt on a daily basis.  I’d love to tell you that I can quote the types of paint and techniques used in every painting silhouetted in the Louvre.  I can’t.  I’d love to tell you that I drive a Porsche.  I don’t.  I’d love to tell you that I don’t speak to my dog as if she’s a human.  I do.  I’d love to tell you that I think like a normal person.  I don’t.  And I don’t go to the gym.

So until such time that I can get off my duff/high horse?

Scrubbing the toilet is my cardio.



Conversations with a Neurotic Dog

HH:  Did you hear that?

Me: Hear what?

HH:  That!  That noise.

Me: What noise?

HH:  It sounded like a puff of air.

Me: Yes.  You farted.

HH: I did not.  That’s ridiculous.  Wait!  There it is again!

Me: Blank indifferent stare

Me: That was an entirely different noise.

Me: That was our neighbor shutting their car door.



HH:  Looks at me in full vindication that she has in fact saved my life


Me: You want to eat?

HH: Jumps off of chair in a huff

HH: We are off schedule here Mom.  Obviously, I need to keep my strength up.

HH: Protecting you is hard work.

HH: Glares at me as if I’m the root of all evil


This was the first five minutes of my day.






Stop Oversharing, I Was Only Being Polite

So today we came back to the office after a long holiday weekend.  I settled into my daily routine quickly, albeit begrudgingly.  I lamented not being independently wealthy and not being a princess.  I reviewed emails, worked on projects which I didn’t care about on Friday and otherwise made myself productive and useful.  They like that where I work!

Our mailman came scampering hurriedly into our office in his usual style which often reminds me of a frightened rabbit avoiding a predator.  I usually try to avoid contact and conversation with him but he made eye contact with me as he handed over a bundle of mail.  I reached my hand out and as we locked eyes…I couldn’t help myself.  I asked him how his weekend was.

“Terrible.  My wife left me.”

What the hell am I supposed to do with that?  High five him?  Ask if she was screwing a different mail man?  Buy him a drink?  Offer a four inch thick stack of dollar bills for his inevitable downward slide towards a strip bar so that his drunken marriage proposal to the first girl he sees will at least have some weight to it?  I’m pretty sure that Miss Manners doesn’t cover this type of thing and even if she did, public behavior leads me to conclude that not many people read her articles anyway.

For the sake of politeness I gave a weak sympathetic smile and stated that I was sorry.

I asked.  That’s where it started.  Out of a sense of civility, I asked.  It wasn’t because I particularly cared but I’d like to believe that my mama raised me right so I was polite and asked.  It’s obviously my fault.  But does a polite inquiry necessitate an emotional dumping on?  The malice and venom in his voice was beyond the pale.  I didn’t deserve that.  And honestly, I don’t take receipt of such a reaction.  I know what I did.  I made a normal inquiry.  I didn’t leave you dude.  She did.  Let’s park that hatred where it properly belongs shall we?  It’s got to be something with my character or personality that I attract certain responses without intending to.  It’s happened all of my life.  I might as well wear a t-shirt with a picture of the Statue of Liberty sniffing her armpit captioned with, “Bring me your tired, your poor, your emotionally overwrought, your delusional, your bitter and somewhat manufactured bullshit.  I can take it”. 

I also had an outgoing package that he forgot.  So on my lunch break I schlepped it over to the post office and said to the lady at the desk, “Hey, so sorry to bother you, but I think our postman is going through a tough time and forgot to take this.”  She pointed out that it technically had to go to UPS but that wasn’t easy to spot on the return label.  I smiled and apologized for the inconvenience.  Some person (allegedly – I thought he was more of a booger with legs) standing on the side blurted out, “Yeah because it’s her job to bring it there?  Stupid.”  I turned to face him.  “You work here?”


“Does this have anything to do with you?”

He shook his head.

“Is delivery your field of expertise?”

He shook his head again.

I smiled and leaned in towards him, “Then why would you care what I am or am not doing?  I made a mistake.  I apologized.  It has nothing to do with you.  And I really don’t want you directly or indirectly involved in this.  But somehow you think you helped?  By the way…your fly is open”.

It wasn’t but I’m a jerk and savored his reaction the way some would savor a truffle.

So here’s my question….

….do we have the right to runaway train our feelings and wreak emotional carnage on the innocent person who inquires as to our well being?  It’s like an emotional hit and run.  Do we need to insert ourselves in a scenario that clearly doesn’t belong to us?  Or should we all keep ourselves a little more in check?  Has social media led to oversharing to a toxic degree?  Do our relationship boundaries blur because there is relatively little to no privacy anymore?  Our lives are on constant display and up for anonymous interpretation and judgment yet we get offended when that happens.  Is this humanity?  I adopt a Teflon personality at certain times simply because I refuse to mantle the responsibility of someone else’s inability to control themselves.  I live with a five year old.  Your point is?

I ran into some old friends.  My oldest friends.  I’ve literally known them all of my life.  There is some history there which is tangible, going back to the pre cellphone/social media days.  Back then when you liked your friends, you had to put effort in.  You had to remember their phone numbers and call them (on a rotary phone no less).  You either invited them to your house or were invited to theirs (with parental permission granted which required anywhere from 1 to 10 extra steps of friendship commitment).  You spent time together without a phone or a tablet or a LIKE BUTTON.  And most times, even though as teenagers we had the emotional content of a turnip, we supported each other.  We genuinely loved each other and even if we were mad as hell at each other – God help the silly bastard that ever messed with one of our friends.  It.  Was.  On.  That was the only explanation required at my house.

Adulty Pants: “Why’d you get into a fight at school?”

Baby Mrs. Magilla:  “Because someone started with ___________.”

This led to the inevitable conference call with beer between my parents and the parents of whomever’s virtue/reputation (good or bad)/mother/father/brother/sister/dog/cat/address/church/hairstyle/bra-snapping outrage/ass size/clothing choice/intellect or dumb ass I was defending.  Now?  Everyone would get expelled from school.  Yes, I realize I am completely dating myself and no I don’t give a hoot.

Going back to my hometown and spending a precious few moments with my friends was a slice of a simpler time.  It made me happy.  It always does.  Though the town has changed and is now so full of itself that it’s actually comical we still make our pilgrimage to pay respect to that which molded us.  A love of family.  A love of community.  A love of country.  A love of each other.  I still love them as much today as I did back in the turnip days (actually it’s a little deeper now that we’ve grown).  We’ve been nice and rotten and everything in between.  Just like life and love and spouses and kids and work.  Nice and rotten and everything in between.  

It was nice to reaffirm what matters. 



Creative Monster

So recently I’ve gotten this wild hair that I need to repurpose everything.

We cleaned our garage recently and I found old louver doors that I plan to make into room dividers.  I started working with chalk paint (nod to you Annie Sloan) and spent the weekend dabbing and daubing various areas to get the general feel of how to work with said products.  My plan is to eventually weave fabric into the louvers to turn them into screens.  I’m not done yet so I’m not posting pictures.

What I have in my mind’s eye will inevitably turn into a laughable Pinterest fail, I’m sure.  And if not, then I had full faith in my artistic abilities.  Either way, it’s good for a laugh/lesson/ego boost.

Here is my tip to you, dear reader, for today.

Be very specific when you google “knob”.

Oh internet…you rascal.  I meant porcelain pretty painted knobs.  Not what you showed me.  You scamp.