If You Belonged Here

Ouch, Oops, and Oh

This week I've burnt myself three times. Accidently, of course. I've scalded myself twice. Also accidently. And I bent a fingernail so far back that I may never recover.

I have walked into corners, stubbed toes, barked shins, poked thighs, and, once, took a counter-top corner in the whoopsy, which wasn't nearly as thrilling as it sounds. But it got my attention.

I forgot to wish my mother-in-law a happy birthday. I gave my niece a gift card for zero dollars. I made a lasagna for the Dol (while making one for myself), as a thank you for hosting us for Christmas, which was nice of me except I sent her my leftovers instead of the fresh one. Yup: nothing says thank you like a used lasagna.

So now, it is time to ask the universe a question:

Universe? Are you there? What am I missing?

Ever since I read that self-help book, you know one of the multitude that lulls me to sleep each night, I believe that when I hurt myself or have an accident or generally find my life resembling a Three Stooges episode, it is because I am either punishing myself, over-committed, or on the wrong end of karma.

Sure, sometimes an accident is just an accident. But a series of accidents, well, unless you're Bookgirl, that's life out of balance. Sorry, Bookgirl, I'm perpetuating the stereotype; but let's be honest, if I hadn't said it, you would have.

My house is clean, my closets are organized, and for the first time since Secret Lulu was born, there is no pile of papers, pictures, and debris on my desk. I am feeling centered. Well, I wish I were feeling centered. Instead, I'm feeling a little left of center.

What surprises me more than anything, and nothing really surprises me, is that I can't actually rest until Amvets comes to take the old stuff away. Forget the fact that my closets would pass a military white glove inspection and leave drill sergeants feeling a little afraid of me. What I want is complete and total closure, a clean break with the past, an irrevocable resolution to the stuff that was once truly mine and is now in castoff limbo in my garage.

Not that the stuff I'm donating isn't good stuff. I promise that it would shame most garage sales. I just don't want, use, or need it anymore. But this time last year, all of this stuff made the cut and got to stay so it's only just recently fallen out of favor here. My policy is to pass it along while it is still stylish. Or whatever.

But it's emotional and I don't like emotional. For instance, I am donating some baby stuff, and some old apartment stuff, and some first really cool leather coat stuff. At some point it was all new, useful, and wanted. At some point, it made sense in my life.

Only my life moved on.

I don't think I've got the brain power to think about it anymore tonight. I just hope I make it until donation day with all my fingers, eyebrows, and teeth intact.

Cleaning Out My Closet(s)

Well.

Some of you were a little horrified to hear that I began decorating for Christmas the day after Halloween, or thereabouts, as if I were Nordstroms. I understand it was early. I'm sure you were wondering if I didn't set a up a guy playing piano at the foot of my stairs.

I considered it for the party but then, not so much.

But early come, early go and, again, like Nordstroms, I have moved on from Christmas. The decorations were packed and put away before dinner on Wednesday. Because, hey, when it's over, it's over. I'm not going to put up Valentine's decorations, though, nor Easter (that's punny if you don't live in the North East and aren't post-holing it through snow up to your whoopsy), so you can all breathe easy for another year.

I wish I could say the same for me. A wild hair always gets stuck in my craw about this time of year. Maybe it's wrestling all the stuff back under the stairs, up to my whoopsy in vacuum hoses and discarded baby gear, but I just want to get rid of stuff. This year it started with the Christmas decorations that didn't make the cut when it came to decking the halls.

If only it had stopped there. Of course, it didn't. I cleaned out the entire closet, discarded baby gear and all. I'd have kept it if I were having any more children, but I'm not, so there it goes. And suddenly, I was on a roll.

I moved on to the pantry. Then the cabinets (all way-too-many of them), drawers, and cubbies. At which point, I marched upstairs and cleared Secret Lulu's closet, the guest room closet, my office closet, and the linen closet.

Was that enough fun for one day? No, it was enough fun for three days: Wednesday, Thursday, and (today) Friday. I've got so much stuff piled into the garage that it looks like maybe Mr. Poppins came to a tragic end and now I'm unloading all of his stuff. Only, he didn't and I'm not.

Seriously.

I'm getting re-organized now. Scooting plastic bins of ranging sizes, from shoebox to packing crate, up and down stairs until I achieve organizational nirvana.

I can feel it coming on now.

No. Wait. I think it's the stigmata.

I've been expecting the stigmata.

Any time now.

And I'm still waiting. So while we wait, let's continue this monologue about how organized I am and how I've just taken it to the tweaker level. You know the level: the one where I dig out and launder my original Cabbage Patch Kid. Twice.

So there it is, all kinds of crazy. But the really crazy part is where I unearth the Ghosts of Ambitions Past. INTJs are infamous for deciding that a thing must be learned, mastered, and perfected only to forget about said thing when the as soon as a new YOU book comes out. And they come out all the time, people.

If only I could let these ambitions go. Alas, I cannot. I will learn to sew like a professional seamstress. I will write at least one honest-to-goodness, break-out-the-fine-stationery letter a week. I will learn to jump rope like Muhammad Ali. I will, well, I don't know what I'll do but I'm sure there's a book for it and I probably already own that book.

Ooops. Mr. Poppins just informed me that it's past my bed time.

Goodnight, sweet friends. We'll continue this conversation later. Right after I learn to sew.

Deep Thinker

So I went to the Ladies' Luncheon at the Dol's house and met all of her commie-pinko liberal friends. I had no idea left-wing hippies came in so many shades of fabulous or were so likely to speak with British accents. They're classy, too, as wine was served and not one of them threw up on my shoes.

The Dol is a Secret Martha. You know the type, all practical and macaroni-n-cheese on your average day, and then whipping out the ornaments as place cards and vegetarian feast on special occasions. Now, I love the Dol's macaroni-n-cheese as much as, if not more than, the next person but her fancy aspargus-spinach-feta-walnut pasta was divine. I had a second helping that I really did not need--except I needed it--and then found out that she also made fudge and cheesecake.

Guess who's going on Santa's naughty list. No, not me, silly: the Dol. Friends don't lead friends into so much temptation in one day.

I was thrilled to partake in intelligent political discussion with new people. I got to whip out all my old stand-bys and have them sound fresh and only moderately nutty. Oh, how I love to expound on the virtues of birthcontrol for the teenage masses and have wise women nod knowingly in reply. Not a blush in the room.

Also, I got to see the Dol in political action for the first time ever. I always knew she was a taskmaster but she has never been more impressive to me than when she explained in patient detail the registration process for independents who wish to vote in the Democratic party primary.

But the real reason for this post is the asparagus. Now some of you will be grossed out and some of you might even play coy but I'm going there anyway. You see, the Dol served that Rolls-Royce of vegetables and, as I mentioned last post, wine, so it wasn't too long before I found my way to the little girls' room. When what to my wondering nose should appear but the bouquet d'something.

Now I understand about asparagus, people. I really do. But what I don't understand is how the chemical components are metabolized and distilled into the urine so quickly. You'd think it would take an hour or so, but no. Take a bite of asparagus, chew, swallow, and pee and you will smell it instantly.

Now occasionally, if I drink more than my fair share of coffee my pee will smell like a freshly roasted bean. That little bit of alchemy takes time, though, and quantity. And regardless of how much chocolate I eat, and believe me when I say I've tested the outer limits of this claim, my pee never smells like Godiva. So what is it with asparagus?

Just so you know, after two-and-a-half hours of intelligent discussion, asparagus pee is what was on my mind for the entire hour-long drive home. I chuckle a little because if Bookgirl had been with me, she would have surely thought I was thinking something deep and asked me what it was. I can just picture her perfect eyebrows lifting and the corners of her rosebud mouth twitching as she is startled for the umpteenth time by the huge chasm between her perception and my reality.