Why I Believe OCD is an OCDo

OCD- the word (name? description? behavior?) (way of life?)  brings to mind vacuuming your rugs three times a day or turning off and on the light switch exactly seven times before you can leave a room (remember that True Life: I have OCD?!! MTV did have some fine quality programming to redeem itself from some of the current excuses that pass for shows. Or is that me being old again?).  I take the position that a little OCD isn’t necessarily a bad thing. How many OCD people have messy houses? Or pass germs around? That’s right, NONE.

I am a tidy person.  Granted, I was more tidy prior to the arrival of my bundle of joy, but I am still tidy, none the less. I don’t think it’s abnormal to lint roll my lampshades and curtains.  I love sorting and organizing and purging things, like sock drawers.  Refolding all my shirts? Love it! Matching all of my socks? Yes, please! Cleaning out the medicine cabinet? My pleasure! As a child, it was not punishment to send me to my room to clean it (now, as a teenager, maybe… I remember packing my room when we moved my freshman year of high school. My preferred method was to scoop piles up off the floor and dump them into boxes… which made unpacking sort of like a mini Christmas- I had no idea what was in each box.) My favorite store is The Container Store- ooh the possibilities! That store makes me want to start hobbies just so that I can organize them.

Even at my untidiest, I have been a purger.  I get it from my father.  He used to throw away anything and everything that wasn’t nailed down. Oddly enough though, this doesn’t extend to food.  My father is Captain Just-Cut-The-Mold-Off-The-Rest-Of-It-Is-Fine.  (To be fair, he possibly got it from his parents who remembered the Great Depression. When we cleaned out their house after their deaths, the stash was impressive.  The freezer was an advanced work of the art of packing. We could have eaten for a month, all three of us, on the reserves from that small freezer. Also, they had a habit of stashing packs of peanut butter crackers around the house. They were both diabetic so the crackers were an answer to the threat of hypoglycemia.  We found 64½ packs of crackers…in a house that was 1000 sq feet! ) It doesn’t matter to my Dad what food it is, either…cheese, bread, hummus, salsa… It has gotten so bad that my mother will wait until he is out of the house on trash day to throw things away (Sorry for outing you, Mom!)   I can remember many a night, armed with a flashlight, going through trash bags to rescue math homework. It had been thrown away because I had neglected to put it where it belonged, or, more importantly, out of the way of the garage express. (My father, after I told him about this post, informed me that the trash is where he puts all important documents that he wants to make sure my mother sees. So, I guess I didn’t have a chance either way- thanks Mom and Daddy!) I belong to the party of Throw It Away.  If you don’t use something within two weeks, it’s gone.  Extra buttons on shirts? Gone. Instruction manuals (once item is fully functional) Buh-bye!  (I do understand that some of my items-to-be-tossed are a bit excessive; however, my husband has a penchant to hang on to an item’s packaging. Yes, the empty card board boxes (and the packing materials) would be piled up in our attic, and closets, and spare room, and office, and work room if he had his way. I have seen him do it! When we first lived together, I would wait until he left for a trip and I would purge the boxes o’ crap with militaristic efficiency.  When he got home, I would tell him that I was able to combine the boxes. I would leave out the part that I junked almost everything. Before you get all shouty at me, I ask you—does one really need: a broken alarm clock (no radio), a broken blue desk lamp, dried up highlighters, unsticky post-its, and carbon checks from a checking account that has been closed for more than five years? No, one does not.)

To my husband’s credit, he has seen the light and is now a very tidy person.  On a few occasions, he has returned from his parents’ house armed with old crap that his mother dug out of the basement… and he puts it directly into the trash can outside of the house! It never even enters our home! That, my friends, is progress! I am not sure if he is really a tidy man at heart, or if it is just easier to do it my way. Either way, I am happy. Also to my husband’s great credit, he is usually willing to do things the right way (the

Julia Way

).  However, the few times he has stuck to his guns, he is usually right.  You think I would remember this, and yet, I have found myself donning a hazmat suit to recover items from the trash that I thought he was finished with (i.e., that I was sick of looking at).  I don’t know if I should be very proud, or very ashamed, but my daughter is a card carrying member of the OCD Clean and Organize Club.  She is two and a half… At daycare, she routinely helps (yells) at other children who throw things on the floor, suggesting (chastising) that they throw whatever it is away. She thinks the bottles of 409 and Windex mean game time. I have found her emptying her drawers, only to be able to put everything back, neat and tidy.  The only behavior that I find a little troubling is the constant hand washing (I do attribute this to the newly found skill of using the potty and washing hands afterwards. Also, she got to pick out her own pink Cherry Blossom soap. Who wouldn’t want to use it all day?!)

In the future, I will continue to embrace my OCD, as I do believe it makes my world a better, cleaner, less cluttered place.  Although it might not be that socially acceptable, you do it, too. And you know it. (Whether you disinfect every square inch around yourself and your children in public, or you re-sort all food items into matching Tupperware before you put them away in your cabinets, or you have a special good luck routine prior to flying on a airplane that may have up to 18 steps and include multiple family members, or wearing the same underpants and socks for game day to ensure your team’s victory even though you don’t play on the team, your life (and everyone else around you) is better.) Carry on friend, carry on.  And know that the world would be a better, safer, cleaner place if there were more like you.

Happy Hallmark Overpriced Day, or, a Valentine's Day Wrap up

Ahh Valentine’s Day... What a stupid holiday.  (And before you start judging, I have had a Valentine every year on Valentine’s Day since I was 15- you know, since I have been all grown up and mature and shit.)  Valentine’s Day sucks.  I am not going to give you the standard, PC (I am not so PC, perhaps you have noticed?) of ‘people should love each other every day’ and ‘I don’t want flowers because Hallmarks says I should have them, I should get flowers just because’ or even ‘I don’t need a special day to tell my partner how much I love them because every day is Valentine’s Day at our house’ (I just threw up at this one.) I hate Valentine’s Day because the bar is too high- no matter what, you are going to lose. Someone is going to have a better day than you.  Did you get a dozen roses?  Suzy got two dozen.  Did you go out to dinner at nice restaurant?  Katie went to a nicer restaurant and the chef created a special menu just for her and her Valentine.  Did you get engaged?  Jen got a bigger diamond and a more elaborate proposal. I mean, really, why even bother?

I went to Nerinx Hall, an all girls Catholic high school. (Yes, we wore uniform plaid skirts. Yes, all the stereotypes are true- except for the one that we all danced around like Britney Spears in ‘Baby One More Time’. The Nerinx girls were much bigger fans of Mary Katherine Gallagher’s lunge with spirit fingers as a signature move). Valentine’s Day was something out of a Lifetime movie. Seriously, you would have to see it to believe it.  Valentine's Day became a study in the ‘have’s’ vs. the ‘have not’s’… a political ad could have been shot to graphically demonstrate whatever tax hike/tax cut was the flavor du jour.  To accommodate the impending flower deliveries, several large tables from the cafeteria (the Nerinx girls called it the ‘cafe’) were moved to the front hallway/entrance of the school. The tables made that hallway look like a make shift dead rock star grave- minus the candles- but including the stuffed animals. As flowers were delivered during the day, the lucky recipient was announced over the PA system and told to come to the front office- it was the only time one wanted to go to the front office, and we wanted it oh so badly!  (I had the same boyfriend all four years at Nerinx. And he never got it right.  He was always too cheap to send actual roses from a florist.  The first year, I did get roses.  He hand delivered during his lunch break. Sounds sweet, except that he misspelled my name and so no one knew whose flowers they were for almost the entire day.  On subsequent years, he visited the hospital gift shop next to his house for some lovely carnations -dropped off at the front office; he knew the drill by then-because “they don’t jack up the price on Valentine’s day”.  Can you believe I let him slip away to marry my ex best friend/college roommate?!)  The girls who received flowers (especially those who were surprised and had not expressly ordered their boyfriends to send flowers) were thrilled, and those who didn’t, well, weren’t.  Every year I was there, and every year my youngest sister Laura was there the I Hate Boys Club was established. I was so glad the tradition had continued during her time at Nerinx, and I sincerely hope that it was alive and well this year.  Members were easily spotted by their paper signs (I Hate Boys), had a really bad attitude, and went through the lunch line more than once for ice cream sandwiches and candy bars. Can’t you feel the love?

In college, I also had a boyfriend every year.  And yet, this did not change my attitude about Valentine’s Day (possibly because he was such a jerk).  My bestie at the time (see ex best friend, married ex boyfriend) didn’t have a boyfriend sophomore year.  We decided to launch a full out attack on all the ‘loving happiness’ around us… by making t shirts.  (We were sorority girls. We made t shirts for everything.  We almost made a sheet sign and hung it from the sorority house, but decided that would be overkill.  Such mature examples of self control we were.)  The shirts proclaimed “Happy Fucking V-day” and had a red heart with a large black X through it.  (I searched everywhere for the picture, and sadly, I cannot find it... My words here are not conveying the genius of the shirt.) We thought about licensing, but really, we weren’t in it for the money.  And possibly, (probably) no one would have found them quite as funny as we did.

When I started dating my husband, my feelings surrounding Valentine’s Day were clear:- I-hate-it-it’s-stupid- whatever-and-please-for-goodness-sake-do-not waste-your-money-and-buy-me-some-overpriced-thing-just-because-you-are-supposed-to.  Inevitably, the dreaded day rolls around, and true to my wishes he didn’t get me anything….not even a card.  Around nine o’clock that night, I casually mentioned (loudly demanded) to know where my card was.  He went ashen, then red.  He told me he didn’t have a card for me; that I had said not to get me anything.  He told me that I was changing the rules which was unfair; and how could he have possibly known the rules were going to change SO he wasn’t going to feel badly.  I calmly explained (yeah right) that a card was in fact, NOTHING.  We agreed to disagree… and the following year I got a funny card, a sweet card, and a card from the cat.

This year, Valentine’s Day came and went.  My husband was on a trip on Valentine’s Day, so we couldn’t spend it together. (I’m sure it broke his heart almost as much as it did mine. However, I was able to bravely carry on. I assume he did too as I did not receive any hysterical, sobbing calls from him.)  He totally came through for me though, and I had a card under my pillow waiting for me.  So, my Valentine’s Day was great… I am sure yours was better.

Low Rise Jeans, And Why They Are Never A Good Idea

I was on the phone with my little sister earlier this week (another perk of getting older is that you actually enjoy and seek out your siblings and really don’t care if they borrow your sweater!) and she suggested a topic on which for me to write. Sort of like English class, (is it even called “English” anymore? I cannot imagine that in this politically correct, let’s- not-hurt-anyone’s-feelings-and-everyone-gets-a-trophy environment that it is. Don’t tell me what it’s called; I don’t want to know.)  when your teacher gave you a topic and then forty five minutes to write it and suddenly you blanked and instead spent the time writing letters to your friends and then folding them into origami?  (I can’t imagine that kids today know any origami, or how to make that folded up paper fortune game. I am sure there is an app for that.) Only, I am not blanking (good news for you!).

She didn’t so much “suggest “but rather “loudly express her distaste”.  Laura, it turns out, is so over- WAIT FOR IT- low rise pants, especially jeans.  And frankly, I agree with her. (She rectified her situation by going on a shopping spree at Ann Taylor Loft. Oh, to be young and not paying for daycare again!)  Things I am also so over include wearing white after Labor Day, and wearing sandals in the winter (a recent trip to Miami was so exhausting for me. I mean really- it was JANUARY.) I don’t care what the thermometer says, the calendar trumps. 

But, back to low rise pants. They are awful, and unless one is under 18, impossible to pull off.  And, no one under 18 needs to be wearing them. (Have you seen what passes for “clothes” these days?! Here is another sign I. Am. Old. (and still not caring!)) For years, I have battled the inner Julia on a variety of topics. Interestingly enough, most of my material comes from ignoring her.  She is sort of boring.  However, in this case, she was right. Let’s start with the low rise part.  If one is to wear them, one cannot eat or drink anything lest your tummy puff out (also known as ‘muffin top’).  This should be a mutually exclusive event, as the pants are designed among other things (I cannot imagine anything else but I am giving the benefit of the doubt here) to entice your date, and what does one do on a date? (Keep it clean folks, my daughter might one day read this and as far as she is concerned, dates happen at Church. In separate pews.) As many dates take place in restaurants, eating and drinking are required. Strike One.

No shirt ever, ever comes close to covering that strip of skin on one’s back that is exposed anytime one moves when wearing low rise Jeans.  This makes for a very uncomfortable, chilly draft.  If you are constantly rearranging your clothes, both you and the clothes look stupid.  Strike Two.

The lower back is not the only thing that gets exposed. (Have you ever noticed that tramp stamps and low rise jeans are a match made in heaven? And the tighter the pants, the larger the tat? This would be a great idea for a government research grant.) One’s underpants are also out for God and country to see.  Unless you are a Victoria’s Secret model, no one wants to see your underpants. (And frankly, I don’t want to see theirs either.) Strike Three. 

Low Rise Jeans- You’re Outta Here!

I had my own excommunication of Low Rise Jeans last winter.  Despite the fact that I am A) over 18 (and over 30, but that’s neither here nor there), B) a mother (unless you are either a freak or a fitness instructor, I‘m sorry, that shit doesn’t go back. I do not want to hear about sit-ups, kegel exercises, or any other stupid idea that clearly was that of a male who has never had a child; They don’t work.), C) always cold (that chilly draft mentioned in strike two was really annoying, as was the constant pulling of clothes), and D) my underpants hung out, I persevered.  I was flat stomached (sort of, especially when I sucked it in), young (enough), and so fashionable (riiight). Also cheap. I had several “good” (expensive) pairs, and I didn’t want to buy more.  I ignored inner Julia (and my husband).  My final breaking moment: When my daughter, who had just learned to walk, snuck up behind me and SNAPPED MY THONG UNDERPANTS.  Oh, the HORROR! Also- terrible role model behavior.In retrospect, I was scared of the dreaded “Mom Jeans”. For good reason- they are dreadful!  All acid washed, high waisted, and big in the hips.  Oh, and tapered.  My other sister, who I also really like came to visit me and braved the shopping for new jeans trip to the mall with me.  Bloomingdale’s, I totally heart you. If I wasn’t already married and wasn’t going to marry a chiropractor next (I could get adjusted every day!), I would marry you. You have always come through for me, especially when the pressure is on.  In fact, I would give you one half of a BFF necklace if I thought you would wear it (I never got one of those. And I wanted one so badly!)

After a very painless shopping trip, I have cute jeans, that are appropriately waisted (not too high, not too low), are cute, and, most importantly, have zero strikes! I just love a happy ending! (I wish my happy ending included more shopping at Bloomingdale’s…)

Airport Security, Or, How I Learned to Stop Judging Others

We have some wonderful neighbors, who have taught us several important lessons, among them being that it is never too late to drop in for a cup of sugar; when making dinner, make enough for leftovers; never buy furniture without prior approval (our neighbor’s decorating skills make HG TV look like amateur hour) (also you will hear about it if you don’t follow said advice), and don’t judge others. During one of our first interactions with them, this piece of wisdom was delivered as follows:

Jeff: We don’t judge others, we don’t feel like its our place.

John:  But don’t think we don’t talk about you when we get home!! (Said with attitude and possibly a head swing)

Unfortunately, I didn’t always take this to heart… so, to every mother of a screaming child in A) a restaurant, B) Target, and C) an airport security line, I’m Sorry!  (However, D) church- not so much.  Take your child to the nursery or go outside.)  (Also- laptops and shoes have been required to be removed for over ten years now. Get with the program, fellow travelers. No apology is due to you. HURRY UP!)

As anyone who has traveled with a small child (whether or not its yours isn’t the point- everyone has been on a plane with a little one) knows, it can be compared to the Ironman triathlon, with the traveling being less enjoyable.  There is a point on every trip where one would volunteer to go compete in the Ironman RIGHT NOW RIGHT THIS VERY SECOND rather than the current reality (which is you, your child, a very small space, and angry, angry people attempting to kill you with their eyes).  As all parents know, that journey begins way before you even pull into the parking lot (of course it’s the furthest parking lot. It is the furthest parking lot known to man. And it is, of course, raining). Once you get everything, and everyone, rounded up and inside, the real fun begins.

Post 9/11, the airlines are rather strict about who is allowed past security. I doubt that Jesus Christ himself could get through security without the correct documentation. Thankfully, there is something called a “gate pass”. This pass allows someone to assist the passenger(s) through security and to the gate.  What a wonderful idea! Genius! The gate pass was my “Jesus Christ” of documentation! It really was a shame (devastating category five catastrophe) that my husband didn’t take advantage of the gate pass…

When my daughter was about nine months old, she and I went to visit Grandma and Poppa. As they live 600 miles away, flying is the preferred way to travel (I’ll spare the horror film that is the ten hour drive.  Did you know that eardrums can bleed? We found out that if one listens to Titanic level screams for a long period of time, it can happen.  It was suggested to my husband  to drive into overpasses just to make it stop.) Because of the amount of stuff we had, my husband came inside to the ticket counter with us.  I had the following: diaper bag stuffed to the gills, my purse, laptop, portable DVD player, stroller, carseat, sippy cup (must be sent through security separately), and a baby.  The carseat is one of those combo deals- the carseat fits into the stroller through a series of ridiculously complex plastic switches/knobs.  The ticket agent surveyed the traveling circus that was us, and offered my husband a gate pass.  “Oh no”,  he said, “She’s fine.”  “Really?”, the agent asked again.    “Yeah, REALLY?”, I echoed, as I glanced back at the mountain of things that could easily be more things than the average villager has in their hut at any given time.  “Yes, she’s fine. You’re fine”, he said one more time.  (Um, WOW- how did all of this stuff suddenly shrink? He helped me into the airport itself! Was it the rolly bag? Because, seriously? That bag was the least of my problems.)

So, with a very dubious glance from the gate agent, Emma and I put on our game faces and went off into the great unknown.  One perk (possibly the only perk as near as I can tell) to traveling with a stroller is that you get to use the “Special Assistance” (rock star) line at security.  Since we qualified, we zipped on through. That was the only “zippy” part of the day.  As we neared the x-ray machine, like a General readying the troops, I took action.  I needed (count them) 5 bins (diaper bag, purse, laptop, portable DVD and general-shoes, etc).  I worked like Charlie Sheen on a high and had everything unloaded and reloaded. My plan was to push the stroller through the x-ray machine (common sense would say that if anything explosive was suspected, the scan would catch it. Also, they could use a wand. Sadly, like all things TSA, common sense did not rule the day.)  One of the helpful (hateful) agents politely (so f-ing rude) informed me that I would have to collapse the stroller, which also meant that I had to dismantle the carseat from the plastic (iron) clutches of the stroller, which ultimately meant that I had to get the kid out of the carseat.  I weighed my options (which didn’t take long as I didn’t have any), and put Emma on the floor. The floor of the busiest airport in the world, at the security checkpoint (so that floor had the most shoeless feet of any airport in the world), I set my crawling baby down. Emma’s favorite activities at that point in her life were 1) crawling and 2) putting whatever she could get her hands on in her mouth, and 3) screaming.  She wasn’t impressed with the offerings of things-to-put-in-her-mouth that the floor had, so she settled for option three… she screamed and cried. That was not only helpful, it provided a nice soundtrack for the other passengers waiting in line. I almost joined her in screaming and crying a minute later because I couldn’t get the carseat out of the jaws of the stroller.  No amount of turning knobs, pushing buttons, or just praying was working.  As Emma could sense that something was upsetting Mommy, she decided to stop screaming, and start crawling.  Away from Mommy.  At lightning speed. Here is a brief recap of what was going down:  four orphaned bins through security (did you catch the ‘four’? Remember, I needed five), an escaping baby, an incompetent Mommy, and some really annoyed fellow passengers.  It was great.  A nice man (guardian angel) came to my rescue and got the carseat out of the clutches of the evil stroller.  As I placed the carseat on the conveyer belt, I was helpfully reminded that the carseat had to go through upside down and backwards.  I flipped the carseat, and rescued Emma from two lines over.  Now, we were ready to go through security ourselves! The end was in sight! The polite (so hateful and mean) TSA agents reminded me that the stroller had to be collapsed and then sent through backwards and upside down.  Fine. (At no point did TSA offer to help me. Glad to see my taxpayer dollars are employing the best of the best.)  I collapsed the stroller, totally forgetting that the DVD player (which, as any parent knows, is key to keeping the kid quiet during travel. It is the holy grail of carryon bags) was in the basket under the seat. Emma, the TSA agents, our fellow passengers, and I  watched as the DVD player sailed through the air (someone shouted ‘FORE’) and landed in several pieces five lines away.  We made the hard decision to leave the wounded on the battlefield. We said a silent goodbye, and took a step to go through security.   The stroller was collapsed; everything else was waiting for us on the other side (Promised Land).  The nice (HATE HATE HATE) TSA agent then informed me that the sippy cup couldn’t go; it would have to be checked separately. Emma was especially pleased to hear about this, and voiced her opinion rather loudly.

We made it through the x-ray, collected all of our things, including our now broken DVD player and headed for the gate. As we made our way down the aisle on the plane, we encountered more death stares.  Perhaps our reputation had preceded us? (There is nothing more powerful than the stares of other passengers WILLING YOU NOT TO SIT NEXT TO THEM PLEASE GOD NO as you walk to your seat.)

We settled into our seat, and I had a moment to think about how much trouble my husband was in. And how many things he was going to have to do make it up to me.  I called Grandma to let her know we had survived the urban jungle that was the airport.  She was glad to hear it, and passed along a message to me, my husband had called her to let her know that he had dropped us off at the airport, that he had “messed up” by not taking the ticket agent up on her gate pass offer, and that he was “sorry”.  Sorry?! As I buckled us in, (and said a quick prayer that Emma didn’t contract the Ebola virus from her time on the floor at security), I thought of how many ways he could make it up to me…

After having some time reflect on this experience, I realized that it actually taught me a few more important things than just the obvious lessons.  Traveling with children will always be, um, difficult, to say the least.  (Benadryl does make travel a whole lot less painful, FYI). But, as parents, we don’t have room to judge others.  We are all doing the best we can, and in fact, remembering, some other “incidents” I have witnessed over the years, I am actually impressed with a lot of the moms (and dads) I have seen.  And, lastly, always, always, always, take the gate pass. 

Who Wants to Get Old? I DO!!

Everyone bemoans getting old.  And, from what I hear, it’s really not that much fun. According to my father, getting old ‘isn’t for wussies’.  If the minor aches and pains (and way, way worse hangovers) are any indication, that is probably true.  My question is—When Did I Stop Caring That I Am Getting Old? Getting old seems to require a certain amount of looking stupid, i.e., comfy shoes vs. cute; protective gear for recreational activities, and looking like a tourist while being a tourist (guidebook, tennis shoes, big bag of supplies).

 I remember one of the first indications that I was nearing the end of my ‘prime.’ I was having my floors refinished (you really take a look at the amount of furniture you think you need when you have to cramp an entire house’s collection into two rooms), so I had to find another place to spend a couple of days.  One of my friends was super sweet and came to the rescue.  As an added bonus, she had an actual guestroom (and bathroom!) I should say that my husband and I discovered the value of having an actual guest bed during a trip to Paris. As proud college graduates of fine, fine state schools, we have done our share of couch/ floor/ bathtub crashing.  We have been out of school so long that we no longer have student loans (because we paid them unlike today’s kids but Not Going There). After the usual long travel day—I  have said it before and I will say again (and actually mean it this time), Charles De Gaulle Airport is THE TWELVETH CIRLCE OF HELL AND WILL SUCK THE LIFE OUT  OF YOU and I will never ever set foot in that hellhole again—we arrive at our hotel. This particular hotel can best be described as a set for a snuff film.  Words cannot do it justice. Let your imagination run (and I’m talking marathon run…not ironman run) with this one…bugs, hair, holes in the wall, stained bedspread, broken furniture, unflushed toilet. Yes, it truly was that horrible.  Luckily, we had a friend who offered her “guest bed”.  Parisian real estate is like New York, only more expensive.  Her 800 sq ft apartment did have a guest bed—a flippy couch (more commonly called a ‘flip n fuck’, but I’m attempting to keep this blog classy)—complete with metal bars that bisected the “mattress”…conveniently digging into our backs. So you can understand my excitement at an entire guest suite.  After we arrived at our friend’s house, they took us upstairs to show us said guestroom, etc. It was gorgeous with a custom bedspread, shiny cherry furniture, matching nightstands with lamps that coordinated with the bedspread, and beautiful custom made drapes! The thing that most caught my attention, though, was the drapes. Or more specifically, what the drapes surrounded—CUSTOM MADE WOODEN BLINDS! SWOON!! During the next few days, my friend showed me all kinds of treasures: Beautiful jewelry, designer jeans, Ridel wineglasses… you can imagine the rest.  Confronted with all of those riches, the blinds stayed with me the longest. It was the blinds that caused me to say to her that we ‘might be in fight’ because of my green eyed jealousy.  It was the blinds that gave me that catch in the throat, and the blinds that kept me up at night, dreaming of my house with custom blinds…

A popular topic after the holidays is what Santa brought (this is not a politically correct blog.  We are Catholic and Santa visits our house. If you do not have Santa as a visitor, please substitute appropriately).  Sometimes, ‘Santa’ means ‘husband’, and I found myself in a conversation of “If My Husband Got Me ‘X’ For Christmas I Would Kill Him.”  The usual gifts were mentioned—vacuums, lawn mowers, any sort of electric tool, hammers, and screw drivers.  Oddly, I found myself thinking, “Hey! some of those things might not be so bad!” I mean, I would LOVE a new vacuum! And, if my husband got more tools he could finally knock a few things off the ol’ Honeydo List! (My husband is a wonderful man who does check things off the list. However, we sometimes have a timing discrepancy) I sensed that I was alone in this line of thinking, so I nodded agreeably (yes, it is possible for me nod agreeably and not to open my mouth, even though I might not have a tremendous amount of practice at it).  As the conversation progressed, the ladies were getting more and more worked up.  Finally, the straw that broke the camel’s back: One woman exclaimed that her husband had the gall to suggest that Santa could leave a new washer and dryer! Everyone gasped indignantly—except for me.  I was busy daydreaming about a brand new, shiny, front loading washer and its matching dryer in my laundry room (which is the corner of my kitchen sort of behind the fridge, cordoned off by the baby gate, which is necessary to keep the kid out of the cat’s litter box, which is also in said ‘room’). The ladies looked at me, waiting for my (classic Julia) snarky comment.  And they got a comment alright… I demanded to know if this lady was crazy! I mean—a new washer AND dryer!! WOW!!  The ladies were, um, dismayed at my lack of fight for their cause.

The most interesting part of this getting old business that I have experienced so far is that, as I mentioned, I don’t care. AT ALL.  I always figured that when the time came, I would so mad at myself for picking comfy instead of cute shoes… but I’m not (and the people within five miles of me are so thankful as well.  Especially my husband.)  I look forward to the “oldies” weekends on the radio station! I still choose restaurants based on the atmosphere, as I did in the past. Only now, I want quiet and not busy/crowded/loud music/drinks, etc. 

I don’t know what the future holds, but I’m betting it will include more comfy shoes, yelling at young people, telling the same story like a broken record (no hope in this department as my father has taken this trait to new levels), and, hopefully, custom blinds. Oh, and a new, top front loading washer and dryer.