Inside girl

I planted some flowers yesterday in two big pots out in front of my house. It was about 400 degrees and I was reminded yet again why I'm an inside girl. I also wondered, as I got dirty and sweaty in mere moments, why there wasn't a gardener in my employ, or at least someone who could fan me and pour me some iced tea for goodness sakes. I was born a priss and will die a priss, a fact that continues to surprise my husband. He's an only child and his mom is the no makeup, no perfume, minimal jewelry, no beauty products of any kind really ( the horror!) kind of woman so he wasn't used to a glittery, lip glossed obsessed girl like myself. My mom told me just the other day that as a little girl, starting as soon as I could walk, I'd walk holding my hands up (think scrubbed in surgeon style but palms out) as to not get dirty. And whoa nelly if I did get dirty I'd stop in my tracks and scream "Diiiiirrrrttttyyy!!!" and wait until someone came to clean me off and preferably pick me up so I wouldn't have to be further traumatized by the filth. I feel a wee bit sorry for Jon, for if my girls follow in my footsteps he will be surrounded by high maintenance women until the day he dies.