Packrat papers, part 1

Considering that clearing out my clutter will be a project of epic proportions, I expect this will be an ongoing theme around here. I'm happy to say I have made some progress.

I figured out where to start: old shoes. Specifically, high heels. I have a lot of them, left over from the days of the aforementioned size-six business suits. While there may be some shred of hope that the suits could fit again one day, and maybe even come back in style, there is no way I can physically wear these shoes again. Ever. I wrecked my feet doing aerobics in bad athletic shoes, and heels higher than an inch or so are just not an option any more. So out they go -- along with the bad athletic shoes which, yes, are also still here.

Right behind them in the outta-here pile are five of the six identical pairs of comfy-but-worn-out sneakers I use for gardening and all the shoes my kids have outgrown. And some really dorky ones my husband bought himself. (He got loose alone in the mall once.)

I'm really getting into this. I can see carpet in the closets already.

Next up: magazines. I don't think year-old Business Weeks are really gonna do me any good, do you?

Confessions of a packrat

Day three of unemployment, and already the thrill is gone. Yesterday was a big zero -- a negative, actually, if you count the poonchkie pigout -- so today I was determined to be productive. I thought I'd spend the morning doing some serious cleaning, since I haven't done that in oh, say, years. Problem is, I can't figure out where to start.

Here's the thing: I am a world-class packrat. If collecting was an Olympic event, I'd take home the gold -- and I'd store that gold forever. I love my stuff, I really do. Old stuff, new stuff, junk, heirlooms, you name it. I mean, why have a basement, garage and attic at all, if you aren't going to fill them up? Why throw away perfectly good things, just because you don't need them right this moment? Why would God even PUT space under our beds if we weren't meant to use it? The clutter has been an issue for my husband along the way, but never for me. Until now.

Today, suddenly, really looking at it, it's all too much. WAY too much. And the weird thing is, the deeper I poke into closets and corners, the more I feel as if I'm in somebody else's house. The place is packed with relics of my former lives, buried remains of identities lost or forsaken, all covered in dust. This is not like cleaning house, this is like excavating Pompeii -- and all the frozen, mummified bodies are younger versions of me.

Omigod ...  I just realized something: That's why I'm holding on to everything. The detritus and castoffs from my childhood home, class notes from college, the potter's wheel and kiln, the 22-year-old size-six business suits, the kids' baby clothes, all of it ... they represent parts of me, phases of my life that I loved and lost. Throwing it out would be to call it all garbage. To throw away my life.

But that's nuts, isn't it? I am not this stuff, after all. Hanging on to these things didn't make time stop. It all moved on anyway, and will keep right on doing so, and that is as it should be. These things don't belong here anymore. 

I think I can start letting go now. But I still don't know where to start.

Fat, Fat Tuesday

It's Mardis Gras! This is one of the Things I Want to Do Before I Die. I want it all -- the chaos, the costumes, masks, beads, wretched excess... gimme gimme gimme!

I may be missing out on the parades again, but I am gettin' me some of  that wretched excess: Poonchkies. The idea behind the poonchkie was to use up all the fat and sugar in the house before Lent. The result is like a Krispy Kreme on steroids, a Polish pastry from hell, and you can buy them only on Fat Tuesday... Today.

Like, NOW, before they're all gone.

Kickin' down the cobblestones

"I got no deeds to do, no promises to keep
I'm dappled and drowsy and ready to sleep
Let the morningtime drop all its petals on me
Life, I love you
All is groovy!"

Well, I am finally, officially unemployed. It's been two solid months of shock, depression and anguish, but I've put things in order, said the good-byes and handed in the keys. Today is the proverbial first day of the rest of my life, and so far I am loving it. 

This morning I had breakfast with my kid, poured a second cuppa, got comfy on the sofa and listened to C-Span2 Book TV  -- a whole, fascinating program, all the way through (Sam Harris, 'The End of Faith: Religion, Terror, and the Future of Reason'). Laundry is running, I've handled the Superbowl aftermath, and I'm in here playing with my Journal. Life is so good.

I want to apologize to those who posted comments here on my entries about getting laid off. I decided to remove those entries for professional reasons, and I do hope you'll forgive me and come back in to play. I'll certainly be spending more time here and stopping by to read all your wonderful entries.

And with that, I'm off to the gym. Toodles!

Wow!

Oh my goodness... I have comments! TWO of them, and from REAL bloggers!  

It's been ages since I've checked on this journal, and I sincerely apologize to you, Theresa, for not seeing your reply sooner. (Frankly, it never occurred to me to look for any; I didn't think anyone knew this thing existed.) Thanks so much for your supportive post. I have added your link to my blogroll, and I'll be by to return the visit.  

Musenla, I've been lurking around your journals since you started them, and I'm a big admirer of your work. Your kind encouragement means a great deal to me -- enough to get me writing here again, which is more of a feat than you know. It's been a long, dark year for me, and I've been writing only in a private journal with no readers. Maybe it's time to come back out into the light.  

Thank you both for stopping by.

Suburban blues

Where is it written that houses have to float on a green shag carpet of grass? Aside from homeowners' covenants, that is?

I live in an old neighborhood with lots of big, shady oak trees. They're impressive, dignified -- and dark.  Grass won't grow underneath them. On the other hand, violets and moss love it there. Being a path-of-least-resistance sort of gardener, I tend to make peace with whatever actually wants to live in my yard and call it a day. So I have a back-yard "lawn" that blooms blue in the spring. What is the big deal? 

To hear my neighbors talk, you'd think I was harboring terrorists back there instead of  wildflowers. OK, the little rascals do tend to be a bit ... exuberant. But how far can they get, really, considering their borders are manned night and day by poison-wielding, hoe-toting Defenders of the Turf?

I think the world would be a better place all around if it had more shade, more violets and less poison. But apparently, that's just me.

Bastards!

The Yankees are dumping Cracker Jacks. Their COO Lonn Trost--the yutz--says, "Cracker Jack is just a brand name. We're selling a caramel crunch that's the same thing." Can you believe it? The same thing? I guess the Yankees and the Mets are the same freakin' thing too. After all, they're both BASEBALL TEAMS, right?

Jesus T. Christ. I never got over metal bats, and now this. A hit should go "Crack!" not "tink." Peanuts go with CRACKER JACKS. And while we're at it, I don't want to see Spiderman ads on the bases.

This is not pingpong, people. This is not synchronized swimming. This is baseball, and in baseball you do not mess with tradition. Let me hear you say Amen, brothers and sisters. Let me ya say AMEN.

Estrogen's lament

Five days ago I stopped taking hormone replacement therapy. Things are getting ugly.

I was on it for about ten years, and everything was going fine. But my gyno moved out of town, and now it's a trek through traffic to get there. Added to that, she's not in my insurance plan, so seeing her for an annual is several hundred bucks I don't really want to spend. And anyway, all the news about HRT is about how it's going to kill me. So, when the last prescription ran out I just gave it up.

For the first few days, nothing happened. I thought I was home free, that all this menopause nonsense was behind me. Then the hot flashes kicked in, followed closely by night sweats, insomnia, and the urge to smack people who annoy me. (OK, OK that urge was already there. But now I can barely control it.) I'm bursting into tears for no reason, which is really hard to explain to astonished onlookers. I'm taking some nice gentle herbals, but they're no match for the slavering demons that have possessed my body.

Here's the kicker: I have a big business deal next month, and I'm terrified that I'll break out in a flopsweat--or worse, tears--during a tense meeting. That would be the stony end, my friend, I guarantee it. I'm thinking I need to just suck up the expense and risk and get those damn patches back. Being female really bites sometimes.

And yes, I know this entry isn't entertaining you. Tough luck, bubba.

The speed of flight

You gotta check this out: It's the Chrysler 2005 Crossfire Roadster Ltd. convertible. I do believe this is the coolest little car I have ever seen.

I can picture myself behind the wheel, cruisin' down the coast with salt spray in my face, wind in my hair, and bugs in my teeth. One day, one golden day, I am trading in my Dodge minivan for this. Oh yeah, baby. Oh yeah.

I learned to drive in a Chrysler--my grandfather's 1951 New Yorker Imperial. God, that car was something. Massive and brick-solid and blue, with real leather and heavy chrome. It had a pearl steering wheel, and a hood ornament with wings that begged to be caressed. Front fenders like big, beefy shoulders that could muscle aside anything in its path. I had to have wooden blocks strapped to the pedals just to reach them. And oh, the voice it had, deep and mysterious and powerful as my grandfather himself. I wonder what ever became of it. I hope it's still out there, somewhere, with someone who loves it.

I believe I can fry

Turns out, there IS a "Scotty" when you need one. By day, he's an accountant named Jeff, and I think I love him. He took one look at the bale of paper I brought him and filed an extension for me. I had to pacify the IRS with a big bundle of protection money, which I may or may not owe them, but it was worth it. Now I get to let Jeff fuss and worry over the whole mess until August.

It used to be so simple: "Here's my W-2. Please don't hurt me." Now there are three family members with lots of jobs between us, one of which (thanks to corporate layoffs) now involves self-employment taxes. There are investments; college loans; stuff that depreciates... it isn't pretty. Next year will be even worse, with a partnership thrown in. Between the IRS horror stories and my own cynical bent, I live in perpetual fear of the simple, innocent error that wipes out a lifetime of hard work and saving. I think that's why I put it off every year.

I ask you. Is this any way to fund a country?

Tax hell

O my god o my god o my god. Tomorrow is April the freakin' 15th. Yet again, I have managed to put off the whole tax thing until the absolute last minute. WHY do I do this, WHY? It's not like it gets any easier, or disappears if I don't look at it or anything. It's not even like I can bat my eyelashes and con the hubby into it, because that would not be a good thing. He is nowhere near cynical enough to take on the IRS. He actually thinks the kind folks there will understand if he makes a mistake, bless his optimistic little heart. He also still thinks people are basically good, the police are our friends, and the government can be trusted to do the right thing. It's a lovely planet he lives on. I hear there are Oompahloompahs on the sunny side.

Meanwhile, back on Earth, it's crunch time. The Ferengis are at the gate, and they've got Klingon backup. Where is Scotty when you realllllly need him?

I'm BAAaack!

Didja miss me?

I didn't think so.

Well, the guys have backed off my bathroom, now that it's a veritable shrine to the froufrou gods. It's like being trapped inside a wedding cake. But it's MY wedding cake, and that's all that matters. I guess.

I love my guys, don't get me wrong. But I have this recurring fantasy where I have a secret apartment somewhere chic, with a great view. It's cozy, in a minimal sort of way, and very, very clean.

I make some excuse about something I know they won't want to come along for, and instead I slip off to my hideaway. It's orderly and quiet when I walk in. I put on some music ... classical if it's daytime, jazz if it's night. I settle into a deep, soft chair or a hot bath and read, completely uninterrupted, until I'm so mellow I could melt. Late at night, I'll make myself some salmon and asparagus, with good French bread and a nice white wine.

I get the bed all to myself. The sheets are soft, heavy white cotton and vaguely fragrant with lavender. I sleep without waking until dawn, when the spell is broken and it's time to go home.

Nobody knows about this place but me. Shhh. Don't tell.

Space invaders

The guys are using my bathroom. Up until now, the French Country thing I've got going on in there has been an effective repellent, but they seem to have developed a resistance to it. This is not good.

It was little things at first; they'd sneak in to use the mirror when the other bathroom was occupied. Fast, furtive little forays I could live with. Then it was the quick pee -- and they did not aim. Now they're parking their keesters and taking showers in there. They're leaving motor oil on the cream-colored towels and leaving the towels on the floor. There are whiskers in the sink. This means war. I hope I don't have to go all the way to froufrou. But I've got lace, and I'm not afraid to use it.

A girl's best friend

I want diamonds. Big ones, and lots of little ones too. Maybe an emerald or two, while we're at it. This is another new thing for me. I've never been big on jewelry, and I don't often wear what little I have. I have friends who flaunt their flash, but really ... it seems a bit much for grocery shopping and the PTA. Still. For reasons I can't define, I wish I had a spectacular piece or two. Maybe it's the leftover cheap chocolate and wilted carnations from Valentine's Day talking. Maybe I've flipped past the home shopping network once too often. (What exactly IS "Diamonique" anyway?) Maybe I've just flipped, period.

No point here. Just sharing.

I'll tell you a secret

I collect books. Not first editions or fancy ones, no. I collect books the way some people take in cats, rescuing them from bargain bins and library sales. I don't need any more, and the ones I already have are crowding me out. But I can't resist. I'm a sucker for a catchy title, is what it is. I like to put them up on the shelf and read the spines and wonder what's inside. They're like Christmas presents before they're unwrapped: promising and pleasant, mysterious and satisfying in their possibilities.

 

Often, though, the title is the best part. When curiosity finally gets the better of me I take one down to read, always with a sense of unease, even dread. What if there's only an ugly sweater inside? What if ALL those books on all those shelves are just endless disappointments? So many. I couldn't survive them all. Lately, I've taken to rereading old favorites rather than take the chance. This is a new thing for me. I'm not sure what it means, but I suspect it isn't good.

No nuke for you.

Man. Oh man Oh man Oh man.

I did like the Top Ten thing they did for spin control. But the toothpaste is definitely out of the tube here.

*Cartoon from Cagle.

Dissident Episcopalians

I don't really know what-all they're up to. I just couldn't pass up the title.

Looks like an attempt to circle the wagons around their bigotry and keep all the heathens at bay. Hey, at least they didn't leave the church. What a loss that woulda been, eh?

Brain food

From AOL News: "EVANSVILLE, Ind. (Jan. 15) - Fear of mad cow disease hasn't kept Cecelia Coan from eating her beloved deep-fried cow brain sandwiches ... 'This is better than snail, better than sushi, better than a lot of different delicacies,'" she says. "'You're going to die anyway. Either die happy or you die miserable.'"

Hey, Cecelia, go for it. What's a few more holes in your head.

Have you seen the footage of infected cattle, Cece? That is not - repeat NOT - a happy death. On the other hand, if eating diseased brains gives you that much pleasure, knock yourself out. Your call.

(These journals need way more choices for Mood. Grossed Out, Nauseated, Repulsed, and Oh-Sweet-Mother-of-Pearl spring to mind.)

Speaking of marketing…

 

How about those black-and-white-only M&Ms? I don’t want to eat those. And for me to say that is something, since I consider M&Ms to be a basic food group.

 

I hear whoever finds a bag of colored M&Ms wins a VW Bug. I don’t want that either. Which is good, since the odds of winning are about one in 18 million. 

 

All I have to say is, there better be some pink and yellow ones by Easter, or I’m really gonna be pissed.

101 uses for Tampax

I just saw the damndest commercial.

 

Picture it: Romantic couple in a rowboat. Idyllic scenery. Perfect, lazy afternoon -- until the boat springs a leak. While Boatdude panics, the chick whips out a big honkin’ box of Tampax, which she has apparently been lugging around like a purse. She peels a tampon and stuffs it into the hole. Boatdude is impressed. Hands are clasped. Woo is pitched. 

 

OK, here's what's wrong with this picture:

A. Every woman I know would rather go down with the ship than do this.
B. Every man I know would rather drown than see a woman do this.
C. Anyone who has ever used a Tampax knows these people are doomed.

Jeeze Louise. Imagine the damage these marketing guys could do with douche.