like a ninja

Working from home, can be a doozy.

One day, I am just totally amazed by how much I can accomplish. The laundry is done and the house is clean, I leave the house to meet with amazing clients, I pull off a fun photoshoot… and some-other-vaguely-borderline-humble-brag inserted here because yay work. And I kind of feel like superwoman. I have found the mythical balance between work and home life.

Those days come once every one hundred year solstice combined with the red moon and Hayley’s comet. The dead walk the earth.

Most days, I’ve spent a morning nursing a baby rabbit with a syringe of distilled water per the wildlife website I found to help him. Our dogs spied a cute little furry squeaky toy in the back yard, and picked him up with their mouths. We screamed at them. They dropped him. I have to hide said baby rabbit from the children who will become emotionally attached because the mother didn’t take the baby back that night per instructions… while I call the local wildlife rescue people. And then about twenty other people, desperate to find a competent rehabber who can sincerely help the poor soul. Before long, I realize my hormones must be out of whack because I am actually crying over said baby rabbit when it’s time to hand it over to someone better at this than me, without two rabid rescue pups and three equally emotional children. Clearly, we’re not quite fit for fostering because I have animal attachment issues that I blame on monthly hormones. That’s when I discover that the coffee maker has overflowed onto the floor, after sitting on our marble countertops for about oh, two hours, and when I go to drop the towels in the wash from cleaning up, there’s a running stream with live bass running through our garage floor, because our basement has flooded. It’s like the seven year flood right now in Nashville.

And that was just yesterday.

{Silver lining myself: Never have we been so glad to have not finished that basement redo until this issue is resolved.}

But I think it’s time for a legit office. Because baby rabbits and floods. And laundry.

The above ramble is addressing the delicate balance of accomplishments in a day. And feeling like I’ve had a productive morning in the daily struggle that is all humanity and earning a living. {I’m still waiting to win the lottery just so I can be on that ridic home design show where the couple who has just scored the jackpot gets to pick a big ugly house. Because money.}

But all ramblings aside, usually I’m not leaving the house, and that means one thing: I can’t be bothered to make myself presentable.

Let’s step back and take a moment, because presentable means different things for different people. My non-presentable self means pajama pants and raggedy tee, with hair pulled back into a slightly psychotic-would-be-messy bun. It has a flop to it, and some unattractively lose sprigs, so there’s no turning back. Usually, I have a little eyeliner left over from the day before if I did leave the house, so this adds to the entire aura that is my face.

I am the clown in the crawlspace.

Probably more that crawly demon lady from The Ring.

I have eight blissful uninterrupted hours to work… sans children. After homeschooling for three fantastically amazing years, I shall never take that for granted, again. Who has time to get dressed when they don’t have to leave the house until that night? Priorities, y’all.

Which brings me to: Bras? Not happening. What kind of a psychopath wears bras at home? If you wear a bra with legit underwire at your place of residence, it’s time to start really evaluating your life choices.

You’re doing it wrong.

JK. I know some people actually have some lady bits and those take maintenance. Mine withered away circa 2009 with the third babe. But digression in the form of TMI. Because I’ll be the first to tell you, sometimes… and by sometimes I mean most of the time… this doesn’t really work out so well for me. {Not the small lady bits part… the no bra part.}

Because we live in freakin’ Mayberry.

No lie. Aunt Bea brought us a pie the other day to welcome us to the neighborhood. I’m pretty sure Otis is on the head of the neighborhood committee because he stops by often to give us updates. And Goober Pyle works at our fave local diner, always ready for a convo. We’ve had neighbor after neighbor knock on our door to leave us well wishes. The sweetest people just stopping by, to say hello. Some just want to know why we still have a dumpster in our driveway since we’re still mid-rehab. We respond with #septic, and they nod, knowingly.

We leave out the hashtag because that would be weird.

They’re neighbors straight out of a 1960’s sitcom: Sugary and southern as can be. The kind you want to shrink down, and collect in a little box to bring out for show-and-tell on a flannel board. A little story time for all for your friends that don’t live near you, all to prove such goodness still exists.

I am not the coifed wife, waiting in her perky skirt and pearls for said visitors to arrive. I should at least be wearing the appropriate lady bit garments. But I’m a ninja. An inappropriately dressed one from 20017. With a knock at the door, I hit the floor. After swatting away at the dogs who have taken a break from spring rabbit watch to see why I’ve dropped to my belly in complete silence, I do a bit of an army crawl worthy of Die Hard, fling myself against the wall next to the door, and get to my hands and knees. These workouts are totally paying off, I say to myself. I’m only mostly out of breath this time. I slowly peer up over the windowsill, and there’s a friend. Looking right at me.

She patiently waits for me to come to my senses and open the door.

She’s here to return a pyrex dish.

Fine. I’m more of a mix between a 2017 ninja and perky pearls wife. Because pyrex. I mean, we do live in Mayberry, after all… and if you can’t beat ’em… Jamin can have the best of both worlds where my weird anxiety seems to mix at hazardous levels whenever I start on my second cup of coffee of the morning. Maybe I’ll start coifing more. Because he always answers the door while I sprint {and then usually fall awkwardly up the stairs} to make myself more presentable with oh, a bra.

Did I mention it’s his pyrex dish? It is 2017, after all.

I’m working on the presentable part. And getting a little more acquainted with the ways of Mayberry.

Because who wants to miss out on sugary sweet neighbors and pyrex dishes?

Like a ninja.