Simple Girl or Just Lazy?


So, I have a date on Saturday. It is with Young Gun, who I have been conversing with regularly for a couple of months now. Unfortunately, due to my schedule and his we don’t seem to find the time to enjoy one another’s company often. This weekend, however, we set aside the time to do just that. With that being said, I have a very first-world-problem situation happening. What do I wear?

I am a simple gal. Sweats, ball caps, bandanas, sneaks, GAP sweatshirts, and baggy tees are my thing. Sure I like to throw on the make-up and the heels Monday through Friday for the office show, but on the weekend I take dressing down to a whole new level. That makes me wonder though…is that being simple or is that just being lazy? Does it say I am confident enough to look like a truck driver on purpose or does it just lend a huge helping hand to me not caring about my appearance at all?

When I mumbled under my breath that I would have to find something to wear, YG replied: Honestly, just wear shoes that make you low to the ground, your hair in that cute little fro, jeans and a tee. No need to get dressed up or wear heels or anything. To this I responded: Excuse me sir, but I don’t do that. I dress up Monday through Friday, but the weekends are dedicated to baseball hats, workout clothes and sweatshirts. So…that’s what you’ll get.  According to Tobago and Emily, I am not allowed to do that.

When discussing with them what I should wear, they both adamantly said no to the compression pants and the GAP sweatshirt. Emily emphatically shot down the baseball cap. *sad face* “You’re going on a date!” she said. “Ok, if you have been married to him for 40 years, throw on a hat and sweats, but you haven’t. No hats of any kind.” Tobago said she would hunt me down if I wore workout clothes. *sigh*

When do you know which is which–laziness or simple? And what fashion caters to either one that doesn’t involve yoga pants and holey tee shirts? It is safe to say that I probably won’t rock the baseball hat (although I am highly tempted) and I probably won’t wear my running pants either (even though they suck in my stomach like Spanx). I will probably slip into something plain Jane simple–something where I can sit with my legs open–and enjoy the company all the while wondering if I am just a simple chick or a lazy one. Perhaps I will opt for being just a simple kinda gal who enjoys being comfy with a slight fashionably lazy potential.


Wits Meet The End

I am almost positive, when I was a teenager, my mother wanted to leave me on a far away street corner like some stray cat. I am almost positive that she, too, stood at the sink full of dishes I could have easily done and muttered under her breath about selfish kids. I am pretty secure in thinking that there were days on her way home from work she almost veered off the road to purposefully land in a ditch, hit her head on the steering wheel and fall into the (best) worst  coma only to wake up after I was moved out and grown (ok…maybe that is just me). I am sure of these things mainly because those are the thoughts in my mind on any given day. Wits….meet the end.

I love my children. The Girl has the spirit of a servant. Her heart is so big and so loving it could have only come from God. Her wisdom surpasses her 12 years.  The Boy, he’s pretty special too. He’s special from the inside–the place where only few people can see. His love is measured deeply and it is kept locked away in a tiny vault…secure within himself. He protects those he loves as if his life depended on it. Those are my kids. I love them. Lord knows I do, but I swear I wanna drop them off at the nearest fire station with a sign that says “Free & Potty Trained….Please Take One“.

I stood at the sink, washing a billion dirty dishes, complaining under my breath about my children being selfish, argumentative, rude and selfish (yes, I said it twice). I know what you’re thinking. You are saying to yourself one of two things: (1) I totally understand where she is coming from, or (2) That’s her fault. Unfortunately, you may be  correct on the latter.

After The Split, I checked out. I began picking my battles sparingly and literally throwing my hands in the air. Argue about washing the dishes? Nope. That would mean they would do a half ass job and I would have to re-wash them anyway. Get in between sibling arguments? No thank you. That would mean I would have to actually listen to both ridiculous sides. Repeat myself 900 times for them to either: (a) pick up their rooms/dirty clothes/wet towels/trash/dinner plates, (b) take a shower, (c) read a book, (d) all of the above? I’m good. Thanks.

I am a mom, so naturally, I do those things anyway. I repeat myself,  yell, punish, make them clean…I do those things. But sometimes it gets to be too much to–well–nag. His main concern is expensive shoes. Hers is anything apparel related. Neither one has any concern about real things like starving children or homeless people. Neither one has an interest in how the house is being magically run or how gas suddenly appears in the gas tank or how the dishes end up in the dish drainer ready for use. They. Just. Don’t. Care. So….I don’t either.

I stood at the sink, sloshing sudsy water all over, apologizing to my poor, poor mother. I stood there wanting to lock them in the garage only opening the door to slide in their meals. I stood there, hands submerged in boiling hot water, hating The He for only being responsible for himself. He has a dishwasher. He doesn’t have to listen to arguments or drown out the thundering sound of The Boy running from one end of the house to the other, pretending to be a running back–dipping and dodging. He never has to argue with The Girl (she will make a hell of a lawyer one day if nothing else) about why she can’t go to Rainbow and buy yet another pair of boots (that will end up under the couch no doubt). He doesn’t have that burden. I do. And I stood there, at the sink frustrated, annoyed, guilty, and in need of a break. After the last pot was clean, I stopped The Boy on his 500th run through the kitchen (invisible defenders in tow) and asked if they would like to get out of the house. Starbucks was as good a place as any to get out and gain some perspective.

I spent 25 driving minutes, probably two gallons of gas, and $11 on some peace. I suppose that’s better than a bag of heroin or a clepto-spree (neither of which I have ever participated in, let the record show). It allowed me some breathing room. I guess that’s all I really needed anyway. Some room to breathe, a little perspective and some quality quiet time with The Them. Wits met the end. They shook hands and reluctantly departed. I am pretty sure they will meet again…some day.


A New Pace: Smitten

Smitten: be strongly attracted to someone or something.

That’s the definition of smitten (well, smite actually but who’s splitting hairs). According to that particular definition, I suppose I am smitten at this juncture. Weird to say–even weirder to feel.

They say the best way to get over a man is to get under another one. Personally, I find that to be stupid advice. Luckily (even though it felt pretty unlucky at the time), I had the opportunity to get over a man the hard way–alone. And while I still hold gentleman callers waaaaaay far away, I must say this particular one has me…well…you know.

Recognizing the error of my ways previously, I am making no rush moves or quick judgements. I am still very much seeing other people. I do not change plans or make major attempts to make room. I also don’t make excuses nor do I hide who I am. He seems to be ok with it (well, except the seeing other people part) and the strangest thing keeps happening….he accepts me as is. It is a nice change of pace.

No egg shells. No dirty laundry. No pressure. When we talk, time flies. When we find ourselves together, smiles beam. We converse about nothing but everything: the importance of South Park, the heart of living life to the fullest, just letting go and doing, sports, hurt, love, and Family Guy. Nothing hard or harsh. No ridiculous expectations. What ever is just is. Stolen glances and shy smiles…it’s all so sweet. Such a delightful pace.

I keep reminding myself that it’s ok to be smitten. There is nothing wrong with it at all as long as all lines are drawn and no boundaries are crossed. I have to keep telling myself I deserve to smile (which is often because it appears I have been doing that quite a bit lately). It is funny, really. The smiles and the blushing and the giggles and the bubbly. He isn’t the reason for any of it. He is an addition to it. How’s that for growth? 😛