A Messy House. Okay, I admit it. A messy house stresses me out. I’ve had to let some of my clean- house fetish go since I live with four other people and a curious cat, but mostly I can only postpone it. It’s still a mess to be cleaned in my mind even if I’m not cleaning it that moment. I know where the spots on my kitchen floor are. I can sense where the dust bunnies routinely reside. I can’t sit on the couch with my spouse to watch television unless the sofa pillows are in their proper position. I can’t leave dishes in the dish drainer. I don’t even like it when I have trash in my trashcans. Yes, my clothes are grouped by color, style and sleeve length. Yes, my shoes are organized. Even my earrings are grouped by color. The items in my medicine cabinet face forward. And at the risk of alienating every mother I know, all my children’s baby books are current.
Pantry & Frig Organization. Whereas my linen closets are not always tidy, my pantry and refrigerator always are. The labels face forward. All the salad dressing bottles are huddled together. My spices are on a few lazy susans, grouped by type. All the salts are buddies. I have a gang of peppers: red, black, seasoned, garlic, lemon. The green spices have their own haunt. It’s one of my super powers. This is not a photo of my actual refrigerator or my kitchen, but they make me want to weep with joy and give me a total organizational woody. They. Are. So. Beautiful.
Clothes That No Longer Fit. Fuckers. I have had the good fortune of being mostly the same size my whole life. You may call bullshit on this, but it is no longer so. Welcome to mid-life. Welcome to muffin-top. Welcome to only fitting into one pair of jeans in my closet. Mom jeans, here I come. And since I’m so damn organized, I know exactly where all the clothes are that don’t fit. Clothes that no longer fit mock me. My entire closet is a big, tall, sneering, judgmental supermodel. I know that living life well is the best revenge. May I reclaim my revenge this year.
The Infamous Red Toaster. Since you are aware of my compulsion to send cards, you must also have gathered that I am usually very good about sending thank-you cards. This fact is why it was so gratifying to my friends when I received a toaster for a wedding gift with no card. I have no idea who sent us this damn toaster. All I know is that whoever gave me this red toaster, which I use each and every day, thinks I am an uncouth, lazy bastard who doesn’t send thank-you cards. I emailed everyone who attended the wedding. I asked everyone I saw. No one would confess. Someone is no doubt scoffing at me now. I will never be able to forget that this thoughtful gift will be forever unacknowledged. Will the world go on? I’m not sure…
Jokes That Bombed. You know that joke you told that was soooooo much funnier in your head than when you actually delivered it? It was so perfectly clever, and off-color just enough to really make it a doozie. It’s not really funny unless it skirts the edge, right? Or more likely, you wildly misjudged your audience. The joke I cringe to think about (which I blogged about in passing before) is one I told to my (former) boss, a co-worker and all of our spouses at a dinner party at my house. My (former) boss’ spouse made a delicious Alaskan smoked salmon. After the first bite, I proclaimed, “This salmon is so good, I could touch myself!” Uncomfortable smiles ensued. Geez. I was never really going to touch myself. It was a joke. Every time I think of it, I shudder and imagine I am Joaquin Phoenix after his 2009 David Letterman interview.