It all started, I believe, with my intention of paying a late bill.
I remember logging onto the computer, figuring I'd best ensure my checking account wasn't once again in the red. Lo and behold, I spied an email from Ticketmaster, announcing an absolutely MUST-SEE concert which, deficit funds be damned, I could conveniently put on my credit card.
So I hurried to the kitchen to check my desk calendar, which was buried beneath a week's pile of unread newspapers. As I scooped them up, I caught an interesting headline. Whoa, what's up with Toyota, well, aren't they screwed? Halfway through reading the article, I remembered tomorrow was recycling and trash day. I tossed the entire heap of papers in the garage (figuring an ignorance of current events never hurt George W.), and decided I should take a moment to clean out the molding leftovers from the refrigerator too.
I threw some days-old chicken bits to the cats and lobbed four indistinguishable food items, plastic containers and all, into the garbage. Before I closed the fridge, my eyes lit at the sight of a hardly-touched bottle of Bloody Mary mix in the back. Might as well finish that up before it went bad, so I could recycle it, too. Plus the soon-to-be emptied vodka bottle. First, however, I should clean up that steaming pile of cat-puked chicken bits from the carpet.
But cat puke on carpet is best left to harden, I deduced, so it can simply and quickly be peeled off the next day. (I'm all about time management.) Which led me to recall that I hadn't yet checked with the pet-sitter about the date of my impending vacation. So I rummaged through my purse for my cell phone, and broke a friggin' fingernail.
The second broken nail in two days, which TOTALLY pissed me off, because it undermined the aesthetics of an otherwise unflawed, candy apple set of eight. The others, sadly, would have to be filed down to a more uniform length. I headed down the hall to the bathroom for the nail polish remover which, I astutely reasoned, would be the next step.
Holy Mother of God, do I live in the desert or what? Giant, threatening tumbleweeds in the hallway!!! Clearly I needed to brush the dog more often. Which I decided I must do, immediately. But as I reached for the brush, I chuckled. Tumbleweeds of dog hair? Haha! Terrific concept for a blog post in that.
So I sat down at my computer. With broken fingernails, an insanely potent Bloody Mary, and a nearby pile of drying cat vomit. Oh! But look who's on Facebook right now!
Call me ADD or diagnose me with early senility, if you'd like. I choose to label myself a busy overachiever. But it's a good guess I'll find myself too occupied tomorrow to talk on the phone, when the collection agency calls.
Thursday, March 11, 2010
Thursday, March 4, 2010
The Getaway
On my way to work last week, I passed a tree fort.
Its wooden beams were nailed crookedly across the barren, winter branches of a massive oak. I slowed my car, with a sudden impulse to stop and climb the splintered steps. I could huddle inside, read a book, perhaps listen to my iPod or simply sit in solitude. But reality reared its mortgage-paying, responsible-adult ugly head, and so I sighed, continuing my drive to the office.
I spent the earliest years of my life in a tiny, red-shingled house, smaller in its entirety than the first floor of my current home. One bathroom. One television. Four boisterous females and a quiet, tolerant father whose inclination for drinking I now more clearly understand.
I came in second, after my father, as the quiet one. (Pause for snorts of laughter from readers who know me.) Perhaps surprisingly, even now I am prone to needing blocks of solitude and silence. In my childhood home, mere moments of silent solitude were elusive.
At those times of need, I retreated down to our unfinished basement, climbed upon a chair and crawled into the wooden hamper that hung below our clothes chute. I sat there in my private little cage, my indoor tree fort, often for hours. I read Nancy Drew books, wrote poems, rehearsed what I might say the next day at school to that cute boy in my class.
I needed that cage. It was my getaway.
Many years later, after Son #2 was born, I took a year off from full-time work to stay home with my children and to test the waters for my freelance writing career. My emotions while caring for a new baby and a two-year-old fluctuated between exhilarated, content and nearly suicidal.
I took to taking afternoon drives from my home in northwest Ohio, up State Route 23, to Dundee, Michigan. Exactly a one-hour, round-trip drive, with both young boys invariably falling asleep in the back seat within the first five minutes. A mindless drive, a blissfully silent hour. It kept my sanity and rejuvenated me for the rest of my day. It was my getaway.
As a new empty-nester, I live alone in a large house which now echoes only with the infrequent sound of a barking dog and memories of more chaotic times. I finally have plenty of quiet solitude.
Even so, I still feel the need for an occasional escape--from reality, if nothing else. At any given point in our lives, it appears we still need a getaway. A trip to the beach may feed that hunger. For me, even a three-minute drive down to the river, parking to watch the rapids, works in a pinch.
But sometimes, still, I find myself gazing wistfully at tree forts.
Where do you go to escape?
Its wooden beams were nailed crookedly across the barren, winter branches of a massive oak. I slowed my car, with a sudden impulse to stop and climb the splintered steps. I could huddle inside, read a book, perhaps listen to my iPod or simply sit in solitude. But reality reared its mortgage-paying, responsible-adult ugly head, and so I sighed, continuing my drive to the office.
I spent the earliest years of my life in a tiny, red-shingled house, smaller in its entirety than the first floor of my current home. One bathroom. One television. Four boisterous females and a quiet, tolerant father whose inclination for drinking I now more clearly understand.
I came in second, after my father, as the quiet one. (Pause for snorts of laughter from readers who know me.) Perhaps surprisingly, even now I am prone to needing blocks of solitude and silence. In my childhood home, mere moments of silent solitude were elusive.
At those times of need, I retreated down to our unfinished basement, climbed upon a chair and crawled into the wooden hamper that hung below our clothes chute. I sat there in my private little cage, my indoor tree fort, often for hours. I read Nancy Drew books, wrote poems, rehearsed what I might say the next day at school to that cute boy in my class.
I needed that cage. It was my getaway.
Many years later, after Son #2 was born, I took a year off from full-time work to stay home with my children and to test the waters for my freelance writing career. My emotions while caring for a new baby and a two-year-old fluctuated between exhilarated, content and nearly suicidal.
I took to taking afternoon drives from my home in northwest Ohio, up State Route 23, to Dundee, Michigan. Exactly a one-hour, round-trip drive, with both young boys invariably falling asleep in the back seat within the first five minutes. A mindless drive, a blissfully silent hour. It kept my sanity and rejuvenated me for the rest of my day. It was my getaway.
As a new empty-nester, I live alone in a large house which now echoes only with the infrequent sound of a barking dog and memories of more chaotic times. I finally have plenty of quiet solitude.
Even so, I still feel the need for an occasional escape--from reality, if nothing else. At any given point in our lives, it appears we still need a getaway. A trip to the beach may feed that hunger. For me, even a three-minute drive down to the river, parking to watch the rapids, works in a pinch.
But sometimes, still, I find myself gazing wistfully at tree forts.
Where do you go to escape?
Friday, February 26, 2010
Top Ten Things to Give Up for Lent
10) Your once girlish figure
9) $450 bottles of Dom Perignon
8) Lima beans
7) Trying to adjust to the new Facebook format before they come out with a newer version
6) Triathlons
5) Financial security for your retirement
4) Scrubbing toilets
3) Chia pets
2) Taking any more phone calls from that relentless George Clooney
1) Any hope for spring
Any other foolproof suggestions?
9) $450 bottles of Dom Perignon
8) Lima beans
7) Trying to adjust to the new Facebook format before they come out with a newer version
6) Triathlons
5) Financial security for your retirement
4) Scrubbing toilets
3) Chia pets
2) Taking any more phone calls from that relentless George Clooney
1) Any hope for spring
Any other foolproof suggestions?
Sunday, February 21, 2010
Letting Them Know or Letting Them Go
She'd like to say she's excited about the engagement. That she has visions of a joyous and hope-filled wedding. That she anticipates a long and loving marriage. That her most troubling thought is finding the perfect mother-of-the-groom dress and a fabulous pair of matching shoes.
But her son is a college freshman struggling with a chronic, life-threatening illness. And his fiance is 17.
Pretending to be happy for them? It might be easier if she could pretend her concerns weren't real.
Are they committed to making their education a priority, amidst the giddy preoccupation of young love? If not, are they responsible enough to find and keep full-time employment, as few and low-paying as those jobs might be? Are they ready for the very real possibility of unplanned parenthood? Do they realize the words "in sickness and in health" carry extra weight when one spouse has a serious, lifelong disease?
Can they comprehend the possibility that the person they now think they can't live without might, someday, become the person they can't live with?
We cannot make every decision for our children, especially as they become young adults. If the desired outcome of raising children is that they become intelligent and independent adults, we must learn to let them feel their own way. As they grow, we inevitably loosen our grasp on their lives.
And even as they make what we conceive as mistakes, we hope their decisions or actions are somehow for the best--or at the least, are a learning experience.
Some of their choices make us cringe; others bring us to tears. Many mistakes are recoverable. Others carry lifelong implications, and lead to lifelong regrets.
As a middle-aged woman, I still dismiss much of my mother's advice. Yet I've come to accept pieces of it more easily than I did at 19. I'd like to think I have some significant impact on my own two young adult children. Even so, I know I'm not as strong an influence as I hope. I have to believe I've done the bulk of my job, and any advice I now offer--and surprisingly find accepted--is merely a bonus.
Still, a fine line exists between acknowledging our children's independent thinking and allowing them to set themselves up for a lifetime of regret.
When should we let them hear our words of caution and concern?
And when should we simply let go?
But her son is a college freshman struggling with a chronic, life-threatening illness. And his fiance is 17.
Pretending to be happy for them? It might be easier if she could pretend her concerns weren't real.
Are they committed to making their education a priority, amidst the giddy preoccupation of young love? If not, are they responsible enough to find and keep full-time employment, as few and low-paying as those jobs might be? Are they ready for the very real possibility of unplanned parenthood? Do they realize the words "in sickness and in health" carry extra weight when one spouse has a serious, lifelong disease?
Can they comprehend the possibility that the person they now think they can't live without might, someday, become the person they can't live with?
We cannot make every decision for our children, especially as they become young adults. If the desired outcome of raising children is that they become intelligent and independent adults, we must learn to let them feel their own way. As they grow, we inevitably loosen our grasp on their lives.
And even as they make what we conceive as mistakes, we hope their decisions or actions are somehow for the best--or at the least, are a learning experience.
Some of their choices make us cringe; others bring us to tears. Many mistakes are recoverable. Others carry lifelong implications, and lead to lifelong regrets.
As a middle-aged woman, I still dismiss much of my mother's advice. Yet I've come to accept pieces of it more easily than I did at 19. I'd like to think I have some significant impact on my own two young adult children. Even so, I know I'm not as strong an influence as I hope. I have to believe I've done the bulk of my job, and any advice I now offer--and surprisingly find accepted--is merely a bonus.
Still, a fine line exists between acknowledging our children's independent thinking and allowing them to set themselves up for a lifetime of regret.
When should we let them hear our words of caution and concern?
And when should we simply let go?
Monday, February 15, 2010
The Incident of the Drunken Wench in the Night
"When you write the story," she begged, "do you promise to be discreet?"
I agreed, knowing of course that "discreet" is a vague enough term and that verbal contracts basically mean shit. But I am feeling benevolent tonight, with yesterday being Valentine's Day and all, so I'll acquiesce and not use her real name. Hereforth, I will simply refer to her as the Drunken Wench.
A nor'easter on the shores of Lake Erie, with a promised dump of snow, is nothing to reckon with. But we were four strong women, willing to sacrifice our well-being to venture out to Port Clinton. We were attending a fund-raiser to help with the medical expenses for a family friend. Surely the God of Insufferable Winter Weather would acknowledge the goodness of our hearts. Besides, the evening promised great food and many drinks, and that is always OK by us. We're charitable that way.
So, much fun followed, even amidst, as promised, all hell breaking loose outside. I don't know what time it was when I realized we had a Drunken Wench on our hands. It was unexpected, really, considering she'd had a full dinner and only three glasses of wine. But sometimes the God of Liquor just looks down and laughs and claims you as his own. And after witnessing her gleeful conversations with less-than-gleeful strangers, and her Jello moves on the dance floor, I deduced it was time we left.
I was the designated driver. I'd only indulged in a few bottles of Miller 64--"pisswater"--Lori calls it. So, I pushed my way through the knee-deep snowdrifts, cleaned off the SUV, and pulled up to the bar's entrance.
Lori and Lisa climbed aboard. I peered into the rear view mirror, eying the sole empty seat. The Drunken Wench was not following protocol.
"Hurry up and get in," I yelled. "And shut the door. It's cold!" I wasn't certain she realized this.
No answer. Just a giggle.
"What's the problem?"
"I can't get in. My legs are a little... rubbery." Giggle, giggle.
Lisa climbed out to help. Over the howl of the nor'easter, we heard sounds of a more relentless force of nature. Let this be a lesson to you students of physics: Nothing is as unbudgable as a Drunken Wench with Rubbery Legs.
Lori sighed and climbed out. I hunkered down in the driver's seat. I was already serving as designated driver. How selfless must I be?
Oh, the pleas that ensued. "Grab my hand," "Just one more step," and "No, don't sit down in the snow, you might suffocate."
By now, the Drunken Wench had intoxicated her assistants with her laughter. (Their own consumed cocktails might have played a minor part.) I hadn't heard this much giggling since a sixth-grade slumber party. I knew futility when faced with it. "Leave her here," I shouted. "We'll come back and get her tomorrow." My sympathetic nature was frost-bitten. Did I mention it was cold?
Ten minutes passed. In late night winter storm time, this equates to roughly six hours. My frozen hands managed to pry open my door, and I took several giant steps through the snow. "Move aside," I growled at Lori.
Lori was happy to oblige. She had laughed so hard she'd peed her pants. They were already frozen to her legs. She'd have to peel them off later.
I stood on one side of the car and pushed. Lisa stood on the other side and pulled. We pushed. We pulled. The dead weight that was the Drunken Wench didn't appear to understand the law of physics. Still, we finally managed to get her half-sprawled across the back seat.
"OK, stop, stop, I'm good now. Let go," she slurred.
We hesitated, pulled our hands away, and she slid off the seat into the snow.
This was followed by much swearing. Interspersed with much giggling. We tried to keep straight faces, fearing peed-pants might be an epidemic.
But we heaved and we hoed again, and managed to get her entire torso back on the seat. Only her legs remained sticking out of the car. I had a suggestion for that, but no one was in possession of a chainsaw.
Lisa cried out in alarm when I decided to simply shut the door on the legs, cramming the Drunken Wench inside like one might sit on an overstuffed suitcase to close it.
I took, instead, to bending her legs. This way and that way. I frowned as I looked at her legs. That one didn't seem to be bent in a natural position. But, she was in! I slammed the door, the howl of the wind masking the whimpering which was emitting from the back seat.
Sure, she'd be bruised the next day, the Drunken Wench. But she'd wake up in the comfort of a warm bed, not a blanket of snow in front of a downtown bar. Dislocated limbs aside, I figured she'd thank us for that.
And you can bet I'll think twice, before I ever again go out drinking with my mother.
I agreed, knowing of course that "discreet" is a vague enough term and that verbal contracts basically mean shit. But I am feeling benevolent tonight, with yesterday being Valentine's Day and all, so I'll acquiesce and not use her real name. Hereforth, I will simply refer to her as the Drunken Wench.
A nor'easter on the shores of Lake Erie, with a promised dump of snow, is nothing to reckon with. But we were four strong women, willing to sacrifice our well-being to venture out to Port Clinton. We were attending a fund-raiser to help with the medical expenses for a family friend. Surely the God of Insufferable Winter Weather would acknowledge the goodness of our hearts. Besides, the evening promised great food and many drinks, and that is always OK by us. We're charitable that way.
So, much fun followed, even amidst, as promised, all hell breaking loose outside. I don't know what time it was when I realized we had a Drunken Wench on our hands. It was unexpected, really, considering she'd had a full dinner and only three glasses of wine. But sometimes the God of Liquor just looks down and laughs and claims you as his own. And after witnessing her gleeful conversations with less-than-gleeful strangers, and her Jello moves on the dance floor, I deduced it was time we left.
I was the designated driver. I'd only indulged in a few bottles of Miller 64--"pisswater"--Lori calls it. So, I pushed my way through the knee-deep snowdrifts, cleaned off the SUV, and pulled up to the bar's entrance.
Lori and Lisa climbed aboard. I peered into the rear view mirror, eying the sole empty seat. The Drunken Wench was not following protocol.
"Hurry up and get in," I yelled. "And shut the door. It's cold!" I wasn't certain she realized this.
No answer. Just a giggle.
"What's the problem?"
"I can't get in. My legs are a little... rubbery." Giggle, giggle.
Lisa climbed out to help. Over the howl of the nor'easter, we heard sounds of a more relentless force of nature. Let this be a lesson to you students of physics: Nothing is as unbudgable as a Drunken Wench with Rubbery Legs.
Lori sighed and climbed out. I hunkered down in the driver's seat. I was already serving as designated driver. How selfless must I be?
Oh, the pleas that ensued. "Grab my hand," "Just one more step," and "No, don't sit down in the snow, you might suffocate."
By now, the Drunken Wench had intoxicated her assistants with her laughter. (Their own consumed cocktails might have played a minor part.) I hadn't heard this much giggling since a sixth-grade slumber party. I knew futility when faced with it. "Leave her here," I shouted. "We'll come back and get her tomorrow." My sympathetic nature was frost-bitten. Did I mention it was cold?
Ten minutes passed. In late night winter storm time, this equates to roughly six hours. My frozen hands managed to pry open my door, and I took several giant steps through the snow. "Move aside," I growled at Lori.
Lori was happy to oblige. She had laughed so hard she'd peed her pants. They were already frozen to her legs. She'd have to peel them off later.
I stood on one side of the car and pushed. Lisa stood on the other side and pulled. We pushed. We pulled. The dead weight that was the Drunken Wench didn't appear to understand the law of physics. Still, we finally managed to get her half-sprawled across the back seat.
"OK, stop, stop, I'm good now. Let go," she slurred.
We hesitated, pulled our hands away, and she slid off the seat into the snow.
This was followed by much swearing. Interspersed with much giggling. We tried to keep straight faces, fearing peed-pants might be an epidemic.
But we heaved and we hoed again, and managed to get her entire torso back on the seat. Only her legs remained sticking out of the car. I had a suggestion for that, but no one was in possession of a chainsaw.
Lisa cried out in alarm when I decided to simply shut the door on the legs, cramming the Drunken Wench inside like one might sit on an overstuffed suitcase to close it.
I took, instead, to bending her legs. This way and that way. I frowned as I looked at her legs. That one didn't seem to be bent in a natural position. But, she was in! I slammed the door, the howl of the wind masking the whimpering which was emitting from the back seat.
Sure, she'd be bruised the next day, the Drunken Wench. But she'd wake up in the comfort of a warm bed, not a blanket of snow in front of a downtown bar. Dislocated limbs aside, I figured she'd thank us for that.
And you can bet I'll think twice, before I ever again go out drinking with my mother.
Sunday, February 7, 2010
Of Fish and Flowers
The goldfish is floating sideways. I lean in closer to study him, my nose pressed against the glass. Is he breathing? (Do fish breathe?) His back fin sways. I take this as a promising sign.
Six leaves remained on my Christmas poinsettia last Monday. One more dropped off as I watered the plant. By Thursday, three brown-edged stragglers clung to the branches. I blew out a sigh, acknowledging the inevitable. I tried to make light of it, joking about the dying plant with my co-workers as I dropped it in the trash. But I shot forlorn glances toward the garbage can all afternoon. I had failed as a plant parent.
The fish, I believe it is Dewey II, now lies belly-up. I frown and tap the glass. He does a slow flip and rises to the top of the tank, clearly anticipating feeding time. (All three of our fish do this on a daily basis, discounting that old "three-second memory" which fish are alleged to have.) I sprinkle a pinchful of food in the tank, and Dewey II pecks at it. I give him a proud thumbs-up.
Nature infuses us with some basic maternal (or paternal) instinct. This natural proclivity for nurturing our young has kept the earth populated for centuries. It proves especially beneficial when our children are teenagers. If not for that natural inclination to care for our offspring, we might boot them out of the house when they turn sixteen, sullen and surly. Animal lovers have an extra "S" chromosome. It stands for sympathetic sucker.
Dewey II has returned to his backstroke. He is not, however, engaged in any actual swimming. I tap twice at the glass. He cranes his tiny fish head toward the noise and dutifully turns upright, rising once again. His mouth gapes open, in search of more food. I want to reward him for this valiant rallying effort. But overfeeding is one of the major causes of death in fish. (That and charter fishing boats, a fate from which Dewey II, Clifford and Confucius have been spared.) If he is still moving in the morning, perhaps I will call the vet for advice. It would be best if the doctor contains his laughter until after he hangs up.
I would like to simply call myself "compassionate." But the fact is, my nurturing instinct is probably a bit out of whack. Few people I know spend weeks researching the care of hermit crabs or suffer a mourning period after the removal of a dead tree from their yard. I have issues. I acknowledge them, and I vow to overcome them.
Right after I call my vet in the morning. And start a poinsettia grief support group.
Six leaves remained on my Christmas poinsettia last Monday. One more dropped off as I watered the plant. By Thursday, three brown-edged stragglers clung to the branches. I blew out a sigh, acknowledging the inevitable. I tried to make light of it, joking about the dying plant with my co-workers as I dropped it in the trash. But I shot forlorn glances toward the garbage can all afternoon. I had failed as a plant parent.
The fish, I believe it is Dewey II, now lies belly-up. I frown and tap the glass. He does a slow flip and rises to the top of the tank, clearly anticipating feeding time. (All three of our fish do this on a daily basis, discounting that old "three-second memory" which fish are alleged to have.) I sprinkle a pinchful of food in the tank, and Dewey II pecks at it. I give him a proud thumbs-up.
Nature infuses us with some basic maternal (or paternal) instinct. This natural proclivity for nurturing our young has kept the earth populated for centuries. It proves especially beneficial when our children are teenagers. If not for that natural inclination to care for our offspring, we might boot them out of the house when they turn sixteen, sullen and surly. Animal lovers have an extra "S" chromosome. It stands for sympathetic sucker.
Dewey II has returned to his backstroke. He is not, however, engaged in any actual swimming. I tap twice at the glass. He cranes his tiny fish head toward the noise and dutifully turns upright, rising once again. His mouth gapes open, in search of more food. I want to reward him for this valiant rallying effort. But overfeeding is one of the major causes of death in fish. (That and charter fishing boats, a fate from which Dewey II, Clifford and Confucius have been spared.) If he is still moving in the morning, perhaps I will call the vet for advice. It would be best if the doctor contains his laughter until after he hangs up.
I would like to simply call myself "compassionate." But the fact is, my nurturing instinct is probably a bit out of whack. Few people I know spend weeks researching the care of hermit crabs or suffer a mourning period after the removal of a dead tree from their yard. I have issues. I acknowledge them, and I vow to overcome them.
Right after I call my vet in the morning. And start a poinsettia grief support group.
Monday, February 1, 2010
For Keeps
I've recently caught wind of a reality TV show that has me shaking in my boots (one of many pairs in our coat closet, including some that haven't fit my sons since they were eight or nine). It's got me so unnerved that not only do I refuse to view a single episode, but I'm inclined to unplug the television set and bury it back in its original carton, which has been stored in the basement since we bought the TV in 2001.
See, I'm afraid I'm one of them.
A Hoarder.
Oh, it's not so bad that I've collected piles of empty pizza boxes. I can toss those. Gladly, in fact, because who needs a measurable count of how many times we've fallen off the diet wagon?
It's severe enough, however, that I'm fairly certain a TV crew is on its way right now, ready to broadcast my story to all those TV voyeurs in places like North Dakota. And then I'll be just another sicko whose "inability to part with their belongings is so out of control that they are on the verge of a personal crisis." (Description courtesy of the show's website.)
The crew will start in my kitchen, where the show's hostess will seize upon my drawers filled with Tupperware. "And do you have the bowls for any of these lids?" she'll ask with a sneer. I'll frantically sort through the mismatched lids and bowls, none of which fit each other but which can't, simply CANNOT be discarded, because someday the matching pieces, I'm certain, will magically appear.
The TV crew will exchange knowing glances before they move on to my bedroom.
My closet will elicit snorts of thinly disguised laughter. "So, these dusty clothes, crammed together on hangers, some with the tags still attached," they'll ask. "You need these?"
"Yes," I will shout. "I couldn't be bothered to try them on in the fitting room. And then I got home to find out they were apparently mis-sized. But they'll fit SOMEDAY, when I lose 20 pounds!" I will plead my case, though the tsk-tsking and bulimic hostess clearly doesn't understand the unpredictability of weight-loss goals and misleading clothing sizes. So what if one of the articles in question is a gauze jumpsuit? Someday, damn it, I WILL wear it. With pride.
They'll want to look in my sock drawer, and I will let them do so. I will tilt my chin with defiance when they comment on the lack of matching pairs. Because I know that every household in America has a drawer of unmatched socks. This is not the sign of a Hoarder. It is simply the universal lost battle with a greedy washer and dryer.
But then, sadly, they will descend the stairs into the depths of my basement. I will cower in the corner as they make their way through the maze of forgotten furniture and empty cartons. That old aluminum kitchen set? "But it still has one matching chair," I'll cry. The Epson computer, circa 1986? "A keepsake! An antique," I'll whimper, my sense of defeat growing. "Those 5-1/4-inch floppy disks are sure to be in demand again some day!"
The TV cameraman will nudge the hostess, and they'll alternately chuckle and sigh as the camera pans across the overflowing basement.
The last shot will settle on me, sobbing as I clutch a cardboard box of old record albums. I will pull out a copy of Saturday Night Fever.
"But, I got an LP digital converter for Christmas! And someday, I will transfer all of these," I will scream, waving the album in their faces. "Onto my iPod," I will add, for certain justification.
Oh, yes, there it is. A method for my madness. Some semblance of rationale for my hoarding behavior.
And someday, I'll find a magic converter for all those Tupperware lids too.
See, I'm afraid I'm one of them.
A Hoarder.
Oh, it's not so bad that I've collected piles of empty pizza boxes. I can toss those. Gladly, in fact, because who needs a measurable count of how many times we've fallen off the diet wagon?
It's severe enough, however, that I'm fairly certain a TV crew is on its way right now, ready to broadcast my story to all those TV voyeurs in places like North Dakota. And then I'll be just another sicko whose "inability to part with their belongings is so out of control that they are on the verge of a personal crisis." (Description courtesy of the show's website.)
The crew will start in my kitchen, where the show's hostess will seize upon my drawers filled with Tupperware. "And do you have the bowls for any of these lids?" she'll ask with a sneer. I'll frantically sort through the mismatched lids and bowls, none of which fit each other but which can't, simply CANNOT be discarded, because someday the matching pieces, I'm certain, will magically appear.
The TV crew will exchange knowing glances before they move on to my bedroom.
My closet will elicit snorts of thinly disguised laughter. "So, these dusty clothes, crammed together on hangers, some with the tags still attached," they'll ask. "You need these?"
"Yes," I will shout. "I couldn't be bothered to try them on in the fitting room. And then I got home to find out they were apparently mis-sized. But they'll fit SOMEDAY, when I lose 20 pounds!" I will plead my case, though the tsk-tsking and bulimic hostess clearly doesn't understand the unpredictability of weight-loss goals and misleading clothing sizes. So what if one of the articles in question is a gauze jumpsuit? Someday, damn it, I WILL wear it. With pride.
They'll want to look in my sock drawer, and I will let them do so. I will tilt my chin with defiance when they comment on the lack of matching pairs. Because I know that every household in America has a drawer of unmatched socks. This is not the sign of a Hoarder. It is simply the universal lost battle with a greedy washer and dryer.
But then, sadly, they will descend the stairs into the depths of my basement. I will cower in the corner as they make their way through the maze of forgotten furniture and empty cartons. That old aluminum kitchen set? "But it still has one matching chair," I'll cry. The Epson computer, circa 1986? "A keepsake! An antique," I'll whimper, my sense of defeat growing. "Those 5-1/4-inch floppy disks are sure to be in demand again some day!"
The TV cameraman will nudge the hostess, and they'll alternately chuckle and sigh as the camera pans across the overflowing basement.
The last shot will settle on me, sobbing as I clutch a cardboard box of old record albums. I will pull out a copy of Saturday Night Fever.
"But, I got an LP digital converter for Christmas! And someday, I will transfer all of these," I will scream, waving the album in their faces. "Onto my iPod," I will add, for certain justification.
Oh, yes, there it is. A method for my madness. Some semblance of rationale for my hoarding behavior.
And someday, I'll find a magic converter for all those Tupperware lids too.
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Out of Order
When we can't find anything else to blame for our behavior or our idiosyncrasies, my two sisters and I naturally blame our parents. When that's a bit of a stretch, we like to at least give them peripheral blame, as the producers and directors of our family birth order.
Being members of a three-sibling family (although we are now, at least theoretically, mature adults), the simple Oldest/Middle/Youngest Child birth order has been our easy scapegoat for an array of characteristics.
See, we grew up in the sixties and seventies, when the average family size consisted of 2.5 children.
I, apparently, was the .5, making me not fully qualify as a complete human being. As the Youngest, I allowed this diminished existence to roll off my shoulders, because Youngests are easygoing "peacekeepers." (In retrospect, that trait is likely developed as a result of being tortured by older siblings.) Youngests are also said to be "spoiled." Yes, I got away with loads more than did my older sisters, but I tend to differ with the idea that I was pampered. If I was truly the center of my parents' universe, would my mother have left me behind at the beauty salon when I was six, with her reflecting on my absence only after someone questioned my whereabouts?
No, she had no opportunity to pamper me. She was too busy dealing with my sister DC who, as a Middle Child, was occupied with "trying to be unique." The Middle Child tends to feel attention-starved. In DC's case, she found ways of distinguishing herself. She learned to ride a unicycle and to juggle, and when these activities didn't seem to do the trick, she took to sticking voodoo pins in all my dolls. An example of unique or of deranged? Regardless, it was an attention-getter. (She grabbed more attention with her memoir: http://dcstanfa.com/.)
And however my parents might have decided to treat either of us, it didn't really matter. Because most of the decisions in our house were made by Lori. It did us little good to argue with Lori. Lori was the Oldest Child. Destined to be an attorney long before she got her law degree, her first-born leadership trait (read: bossiness) could sometimes work to our benefit. (Oh, she negotiated a BIG CASE for me, after my dad found my contraband when I was 16.) It could also work against us. (Our principal, Sister Ann, labeled her a "ringleader" at our Catholic grade school, and the reputation carried down, however undeserved or not.)
Birth order, in our family and in most families of our generation, meant something. It's why many presidents have been Oldest Children, many entrepreneurs are Middle Children, and many comedians are Youngest Children. We do what we what is expected of us, thanks to our parents' birth control practices (or lack thereof).
Sadly, the Blame of the Birth Order doesn't carry the same weight now as it once did. The average family currently consists of only 1.8 children. Parents with one or two children can't easily pinpoint these birth order traits. Of my two sons, my oldest has called his brother the bossy one, and my youngest has said his older brother was spoiled.
And where does all this leave my niece and my nephew, who are each an Only Child? In family-dynamic chaos perhaps. A bit of the Oldest and the Youngest, wrapped into one, and altogether neglecting--not without irony there--the Middle?
Bring me back the predictability, the semblance of understood order of the 2.5-children families. We knew who we were. We knew what was expected of us. We knew whom and what to blame.
Bring it back.
I'm the youngest, after all. So I should get what I want.
Being members of a three-sibling family (although we are now, at least theoretically, mature adults), the simple Oldest/Middle/Youngest Child birth order has been our easy scapegoat for an array of characteristics.
See, we grew up in the sixties and seventies, when the average family size consisted of 2.5 children.
I, apparently, was the .5, making me not fully qualify as a complete human being. As the Youngest, I allowed this diminished existence to roll off my shoulders, because Youngests are easygoing "peacekeepers." (In retrospect, that trait is likely developed as a result of being tortured by older siblings.) Youngests are also said to be "spoiled." Yes, I got away with loads more than did my older sisters, but I tend to differ with the idea that I was pampered. If I was truly the center of my parents' universe, would my mother have left me behind at the beauty salon when I was six, with her reflecting on my absence only after someone questioned my whereabouts?
No, she had no opportunity to pamper me. She was too busy dealing with my sister DC who, as a Middle Child, was occupied with "trying to be unique." The Middle Child tends to feel attention-starved. In DC's case, she found ways of distinguishing herself. She learned to ride a unicycle and to juggle, and when these activities didn't seem to do the trick, she took to sticking voodoo pins in all my dolls. An example of unique or of deranged? Regardless, it was an attention-getter. (She grabbed more attention with her memoir: http://dcstanfa.com/.)
And however my parents might have decided to treat either of us, it didn't really matter. Because most of the decisions in our house were made by Lori. It did us little good to argue with Lori. Lori was the Oldest Child. Destined to be an attorney long before she got her law degree, her first-born leadership trait (read: bossiness) could sometimes work to our benefit. (Oh, she negotiated a BIG CASE for me, after my dad found my contraband when I was 16.) It could also work against us. (Our principal, Sister Ann, labeled her a "ringleader" at our Catholic grade school, and the reputation carried down, however undeserved or not.)
Birth order, in our family and in most families of our generation, meant something. It's why many presidents have been Oldest Children, many entrepreneurs are Middle Children, and many comedians are Youngest Children. We do what we what is expected of us, thanks to our parents' birth control practices (or lack thereof).
Sadly, the Blame of the Birth Order doesn't carry the same weight now as it once did. The average family currently consists of only 1.8 children. Parents with one or two children can't easily pinpoint these birth order traits. Of my two sons, my oldest has called his brother the bossy one, and my youngest has said his older brother was spoiled.
And where does all this leave my niece and my nephew, who are each an Only Child? In family-dynamic chaos perhaps. A bit of the Oldest and the Youngest, wrapped into one, and altogether neglecting--not without irony there--the Middle?
Bring me back the predictability, the semblance of understood order of the 2.5-children families. We knew who we were. We knew what was expected of us. We knew whom and what to blame.
Bring it back.
I'm the youngest, after all. So I should get what I want.
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