For the past few months, I've been on an organization kick. I'm making my way from room to room throughout my house and analyzing the use or necessity of every stinking thing. Throughout the process, I'm following two rules in a take-no-hostages, vigilante fashion - the first of which is that any item not having been used for more than two years is automatically sentenced to death by trash or Salvation Army bin. The second rule: if it's to be spared, it must have an assigned location and be efficiently organized. Oh, there is a third rule: don't buy any bins or containers that are cruelly sold as organizers: they're a waste of money and no more helpful than a shoe box. Unless they're really pretty. And on sale. Or maybe just pretty...
You may not know this about me, but I suffer from pomfretphobia. In layman's terms, I fear monkeys. Although I've had it since childhood, the origin of this phobia eludes me. It may likely be rooted in The Wizard of Oz since, even in my adult years, I need to fast-forward through those flying-monkey scenes. Which means that I also suffer from aeropomfretphobia, or a fear of flying monkeys.
One year to the date, we sit in a restaurant, celebrating. Paying homage to the very day, exactly 365 prior to this one, when her mammogram revealed the cancer in her left breast. I’d brought balloons tonight, bearing messages appropriate to the occasion... CONGRATULATIONS! and WAY TO GO! We catch up over pints of Guinness, although there's not much to catch up on, as we’d been together only a few weeks before.
I have long maintained that the level of my creativity is directly proportional to the number of cocktails I consume. Not that I intentionally drink to think (hey, that saying would make a great bumper sticker...), but my aptitude for solving a problem, my capacity for unleashing a keen idea, my wit in conjuring humorous rhetoric all dramatically increase with each libation I ingest. It's amazing! I used to call this a superpower, but have recently learned that research confirms this as fact for many humans. And you sure can't argue with science (unless, of course, they were drinking while having made this discovery...)
I had the telly tuned in to Guy Fierri’s Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives last night for some background noise while finishing up a deadline, when my ears caught hold of a recipe from a joint he was visiting called Funk-N-Waffles. I looked up to see the restaurant's owner prepping a specialty of their house, a complete turkey dinner perched atop a ginormous waffle that's made of stuffing. Yup. Everything that comprises holiday stuffing - breadcrumbs, celery, onion, eggs, savory - is blended and shoved into a waffle iron and, five minutes later, it's the base for a massive feast of turkey, mashed potatoes and cranberry sauce that's drowned in a ridiculous amount of gravy. No shit, I think I actually heard the sound of my own arteries hardening. But sinful and excessive as this spectacle was, I drooled the entire time I watched it.
Umberto Eco once wrote, 'we like to make lists because we don't want to die.' I don't really know who Umberto Eco is, but I do believe he's right. I love making lists. And like scores of other folks, I maintain several of them. A HOUSE list, a WORK list, a GARDEN list, a WRITING list... The process of creating a list fills me with purpose, and the act of crossing off each item delights me with a sense of accomplishment. I love hitting the pillow every night having seen proof of my achievements that day, and knowing what needs to be done when I awake. It makes me feel that I matter.
Last week, my husband did something so unthinkable, so mind-boggling, so utterly shocking and so unlike him that, initially, I wondered if it was one of those end-of-world signs like locusts and famines and dogs doing the naughty thing with cats: he purchased a GPS. (Insert scary da-duh-DUM! music here.)
This past year when I turned 50, I started saving for a Lifestyle Lift. Not that I need one - not right now, at least... but somewhere down the road I just know I'll want one. The first time I watched that infomercial, I was hooked. Those women look freaking fanTAStic! I'll bet they have great AFTER stories, but since I always have my TV muted (I can't tolerate the horrifying, paint-peeling, nails-across-a-chalkboard sound that is Debbie Boone singing You Light Up My Life), I've never heard them.
Last night, I dreamt an amazing dream. I was in a sparse, quiet room not unfamiliar to me, when someone I had never before met handed me two wooden boxes. Both simple in shape and bare of ornament, one was about the size of a clothes basket, while the other was no larger than a fingernail. In a gentle, kind voice, the stranger instructed me to fill the large box with a list of everything for which I was grateful. The small box was also to be filled, but with a list of all my prayers. His final instruction to me was to remain in the room until I’d completed this task. Then he left.
Not too long ago, Cottonelle offered a coupon for a decorative toilet paper holder inside specially marked packages of its (you guessed it) toilet paper. Now, I could completely derail this entire post before it even starts by ranting about how freaking absurd it is that toilet paper manufacturers choose to name their product clean care paper or personal wipes or even bathroom tissue and not what everyone else calls it: TOILET PAPER. But I won’t. Other than the previous sentence. And that one before it.