Category Archives: being lazy
Currently on the second day of marinating in my own filth, I have finally summoned the will to get out of the chair and head up to the shower. How does someone get to such a point? Actually, this is amateur hour compared to the down in the trenches battle hardened resolve I had when my kids were really small. I think I hold the world record for consecutive days without bathing. Two weeks, if I remember correctly. I knew when my husbands eyes started to water every time he came close to me that I might be pushing the envelope. Those were the times when night blurred into day and you never had any idea what day of the week it was much less gave a crap about what you looked like. Survival, stolen minutes of sleep and the occasional glimpse of sunlight and gasp of fresh air. That’s all you needed to make it.
Now I have no excuse. The stretched out terry cloth yoga pants that call to me daily from the dirty hamper to put them on instead of the stiff ill-fitting jeans that go SO much better with the Old Navy sweater I just purchased are clearly trying to tell me something. At what point did warm comfort trump fashion sense, common decency and looking respectable in public?
This past week we spent countless hours watching marathon jags of TLC (the only network where the prerequisite for snagging your own show is the ability to use your uterus as a clown car) and every time I looked down I noticed that at least two of us were wrapped in a Snuggie. That’s right, we have three. Laugh if you will (and I know you will) but we were really warm and happy.
That’s why things like the Snuggie are a very dangerous slippery slope for people like me. First you are all cozied up on your couch with your similarly attired family and then you find yourself unable to leave the comfort and warmth of your spot and you start sending for help to bring the Doritos bag and glass of iced tea.
It’s not as if I’ve totally thrown in the towel. There WAS that expensive trip to the salon a few weeks ago to vanquish grey roots and snip dead ends and I am planning to get myself a few post holiday sale items this week.
So my New Year’s promise to myself is to man up and start wearing clothes that qualify as “non-vagrant” wear. I will make an effort to spare the public scorched retinas and scrunched noses by showering and using all those fancy products that sit in my bathroom. And finally I vow to never don the Snuggie before nine in the evening with the understanding that it is never to be worn outside the house. (Sorry mailman)
Have you ever found yourself spinning the lazy susan full of spices around and around dreaming up new savory combinations to set your family’s taste buds ablaze with delight? Well, I sure haven’t. I loathe cooking and all things culinary related. Probably because it serves to remind me of just how lacking I actually am in this particular arena, but mostly because I am the complete opposite of my mother , who cooked three meals a day every day for her whole life. Chicken nuggets, french fries, rice & beans and the all too easy cous cous. These are the four super groups I adhere to when whipping up kids fare. I do toss in washed fruit (I will slice and peel) and the occasional grilled vegetable but that is as far as I’m able to stretch. I heard the groans of my children today as I managed to scald yet another tray of heavily processed chicken strips. Watching them snarl and gnash at the black shrunken rocks with their tiny teeth made me feel so very small and without the basic ability to feed my offspring ( or at least feed them anything GOOD). I sigh with envy when I see the talented cooks sashay across their newly installed travertine tile floors, effortlessly tossing together healthy ingredients on the shiny granite countertops. I so want to enjoy what looks like a great time, but when I step up to the plate , I just disappoint. All earlier efforts in this area have fallen flat so to suppose that all future endeavors would end in the same (literal) cloud of smoky failure is not such a stretch. When they were tiny and couldn’t complain due to lack of language skills and an immature pallet I was golden. The cold light of reality eventually shone bright on my shortcomings as even my children spat out my offerings deflating my sails in seconds flat. At any rate, this kind of undertaking is clearly beyond me. The skill set required includes, thinking and planning ahead, shopping for food, following basic directions and paying attention. No go.
Most nights the mess is salvageable, other evening it results in take out. The silent majority here lights up upon hearing the news that Dad is in the kitchen taking over duties and the house comes alive with the enticing aroma of properly mixed spices and marinades, grilling and frying. Suddenly, all seems right in the world as he chops, dices and juliennes his way to the perfect meal usually accompanied by the right wine. The man can cook.
Still, I do occasionally attempt lasagna and home-made meatballs which have a pre determined outcome due to a lingering fear of what may happen if a thousand angry Sicilian ancestors roll collectively in their graves. I don’t need some sort of crazy disgruntled spirit dogging me night and day hissing italian curse words in my ear while screaming that my gravy is not from scratch.
Clearly I’m having some sort of strange 80’s rewind that is affecting my life in several unforseen ways. My husband is quietly but inquisitively watching me from behind slightly arched eyebrows as I collect memorabilia from yesteryear, dust off my old LP’s and generally become way too enthused about defunct bands washed up actors and bad movies. I’d say the worst was the day I ran so fast to meet the UPS man delivering my autobiographies that I nearly concussed myself tripping over fourteen sets of discarded kid shoes. Now I’m wondering if there is something from this era I left unfinished (like my maturity?) so therefore deep down I have this unsatisfied need to return over and over to the same point in time to relive this era and fix whatever mistakes I made. Or perhaps it’s nothing more than the childish wish to go back to a time where music, movies and life in general packed so much punch?
Naturally, I imagine my enthusiasm will wane and I’ll find something more important to do with my time (my husband is hoping it’s laundry, cooking and cleaning) but what is it about these little raw moments from the past that give rise to such excitement? I’m a firm believer that there is something very revealing about what we connect to, either in the past or present, that shapes our lives in a strange way. Although seemingly frivolous one would do well to take a hard look at what made or makes us tick and why that spark of childlike excitement lights us up when we come in contact with these things marching down the path of life. Things that have passed us by sometimes still have the ability to get us going again. I may have ripped down the Police posters that adorned my bedroom walls and shelved the VHS tapes of blurry films but somewhere in a hollowed out pit in the back of my grey matter is that blindingly shiny slice of time where we jumped up and down at the park blasting a cassette tape of Regatta de Blanc out of the speakers of our massive gun-metal grey radio and tried to get our covergirl purple eyeshadow just right. I have a vivid memory of a summer night when I had just acquired the legal ability to drive ,of pulling up in front of the New City, New York Bradlees to gather party materials for later in the evening with “It’s Alright for You” blasting from the speakers.
Later on we would eat junk food, watch The Terminator and Sixteen Candles back to back and struggle valiantly with the Rubik’s Cube. God, those were the days.
Today I feel torn. Not only do I have to prepare for one of three Girl Scout meetings, this month, but I have to mentally brace my self to destroy Mt. Everest and Kilimanjaro (my nicknames for the clean and dirty laundry piles), find something to eat AND destroy the mutant arachnid that has taken up residency on my back porch. Because I can’t decide which to do first, I am choosing not to act on any of these options and have started typing on my computer instead. Since I arrested ,emotional development wise, at around fourteen years of age, I would be hard pressed to destroy the spider alone with out all sorts of screaming and theatrics going down, so that should wait until my husband returns. Lunch is looking less and less likely the longer I keep sitting at my makeshift desk and I’ve just decided that laundry can wait until tomorrow. Looks like the Girl Scout motto “be prepared!” has won. I’m off to find a worthwhile task for the girls.
You just wait spider, your time will come.