Keeping Up With Mrs. Smith

When a perfectionist moves into a fixer-upper…

My So-Clyde Life

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Mrs. Smith Sucks at Keeping Score

Permission to be transparent today?

I was really good at tennis in high school.

Really, really good.

But I sucked at competition.

Really, really sucked.

I could happily slam a ball back and forth all day, but the minute someone would say “Hey, let’s keep score!” I’d turn into an emotional, anxious wreck.

Competition, it turns out, has never motivated me.  It kills the fun in the things I love to do and makes me want to give up.  

Competition anxiety is why I lost to a girl once with a twisted ankle and a sprained wrist who swatted at the ball like she was swatting a fly.  She beat me 6-2, 6-0.  In fact, I lost all but 2 games my entire high school career, and to be honest I’m not even sure how I managed to win those.

Still, I’ve always had a deep desire to accomplish something great.  Something Martha Stewart-great or,…

Pencil Dick

Did you know that today is National Honesty Day?

(Really, who comes up with all these days?)

This morning I was poking around Facebook and stumbled across a discussion on Moore Organized Mayhem about the delicate balance of having a sailor’s mouth and being a mom.

Poor sailor moms.  That must be tough.

Unfortunately, for those of you who are non-cussers,  I cuss a lot.

I think it’s because I live in west Texas where it’s windy and dusty and really windy with really hot and dusty wind.

That’s enough to stir up some choice words, right?

Growing up, we were a “shit” and “damn” kind of household meaning those were acceptable words for releasing frustration.  My sisters and I also liked calling each other “butthead” because every kid who watched The Wonder Years called their siblings “butthead.”

Now, had we been homeschooled or something, these three words would have been the entirety of our cussing repertoire.…

I Will Lovingly Clean Your Toilet

It was just another Thursday and I was draped over a toilet scrubbing away at the baseboards thinking to myself,

I am so happy right now.

For those of you who don’t know what I do, I run a small business called The Handywoman where I provide domestic services such a house cleaning, organization, meal preparation or whatever my clients need/want to make their house feel more like home.

Good ol’ blue collar work.

I was made for it.


Working with my hands has always brought me great pleasure and fulfillment, but for the longest time I felt like I could never make it my career.

Growing up, I got good grades and paid attention in class.  Doing this earned me the title of Most Likely to Succeed.  What people didn’t know, however, was that I hated going to school.  I enjoyed my friends and activities, but the only place I ever wanted to be was…

I Glove Yous Guys!

Since it’s Love Day, I cannot pass up the opportunity to share the love with all of you fantastic friends and readers.  I am so touched that you take the time to stop by my little corner of the internet.

[Please accept this virtual heart-shaped cupcake.]

Blogging is such a great invention.  It’s journaling I can stick to, and it’s always fun going back and looking at the memories Mr. Smith, the cats and I have made over the past 3 years.

Not only have my longtime friendships deepened, but I’ve gained new friendships with random but fabulous strangers from all over the world because of blogging.

Sometimes, though, I feel lost in the big crowd that is the Blogosphere and wonder if my time and efforts will ever pay off.  (I might have even used the words “give up” this week.  Shhhhhh.) 

It’s during these times that Baby Girl gives me the stink eye…

The Fire

At 4 am this morning, I awoke suddenly to the sound of scratching.  I lie there for a while trying to decipher what was making the noise, and eventually realized that cats had probably discovered the white rat I spotted last week in the exposed area of our porch ceiling.


But then I happened to noticed that both cats were in our bedroom.

The scratching and clawing sound continued so I flew out of bed and turned on the light in the stairwell, hoping to catch the intruder in the act.

But something was wrong.  There was a light on downstairs, and I remember turning all the lights off before bed.

Then the light began to dance and flicker and I knew.

Our house was on fire.

I raced down the stairs, looked around the corner and, sure enough, chest-high flames were licking the back porch screen door and windows. The fire looked strong enough to travel quickly,…

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