I have an obsession with using things up. It gives me incredible joy to use all of something. It may be the meiser in me, but I feel like I get my money’s worth and that makes me so fucking proud. Screw you world; I got what I paid for!
I use the same item like a pen, a notebook, a lipstick, a bottle of lotion exclusively until it is all used up. There is no pen hopping for me. I am a one pen at a time kind of lady. I stick with that pen until the bitter end. Should I lose it or find someone else using it all hell breaks lose!
My habit is neurotic because even if I discover I fucking hate the lipstick shade after a couple of uses I refuse to quit it. I will use that shitty lipstick color up wether it’s ugly or not.
I have gone through entire bottles of lotion scented with the most disgusting blend of juniper and ode de car exhaust because I am not a quitter! Semi-orgasmic joy envelopes me when I hit bottom. Then when an item has been fully consumed I have a ceremonial throwing away of the blessed container and an anointing of the next in line. It’s my own freaky little “use-it up” cult. And I love it!
I feel like maybe I need to get out of the house more because I’m becoming a hypochondriac. I’ve always had hypochondriatic tendencies, but now without a real job to be annoyed with I have too much time to marinate of wether or not the twinge I felt in my finger means I will have imminent joint collapse in my old age.
I did get out of the house one evening in July to see one of my favorite authors, Neil Gaiman, speak at the opera house downtown. He didn’t sing operatic arias, which was a bit of false advertising given the venue, but he was English as fuck and told the most spectacular stories. It made me jealous of his children. How I would have loved to listen to the bedtime stories they must have grown up being told.
Neil was great, but the best part was getting to the show. On the way downtown my mom and I stopped at a jewish deli, which is hard to find in Texas, and gorged on cured meats and strudel. Then we got stuck in traffic and the most wondrous thing happened. Mom points out the car window and starts laughing the snorty kind of laugh she does when something really tickles her. I look over and see:
I mean really, that’s just ancillary signage. You have to respect the land lord that allowed his building to be turned into a giant phallus. I also adore my mother for being the first person in the car to point and laugh at it. She’s my hero.
So yeah, I should probably get out more. I would worry less and perhaps find more X-rated architecture, if I’m lucky.
Yesterday as I pulled up to the house I realized if I let the grass in the yard grow any higher, I was likely to receive more hate mail from the homeowners association. They are not fans of our yard, generally speaking. I seem to have inadequate weed control skills as well as a poor edging ability in their eyes.
I waited until eight o’clock to mow. That seems to be the sweet spot between avoiding heat stoke and not waking the neighbor’s children. So braless, as bra’s generally suck, and suck even more when causing unnecessary additional boob sweat during vigorous yard based activities, I began to mow. And poison myself.
I knew my husband had thrown poison granules over the ant hills. I could see it. But I was on a mission to be done and ain’t nobody got time for careful navigation around every anthill in the yard. So I mowed right over one that was bigger than I had realized. It poofed up a massive cloud of dirt, ants, and poison. I am fairly certain I inhaled all three foreign bodies. Shit. It didn’t stop me from finishing the job. But I spent the rest of the time contemplating wether or not to call poison control, as well as meticulously circumnavigating the other hills. I guess there was time for that after all.
This morning I woke up with a headache and an ant bite on my elbow. At least the poison hasn’t managed to kill me. My brain feels slightly maimed, but I’m sure that’s just temporary.
The Great De-Clutter of 2017 has made its way to my office. I avoided this room for some time because it is my neatness nemesis, a “catch all” room.
I’ve got my own personal sweat shop in here complete with multiple sewing machines and all the notions needed to sew anything you could dream of as a Halloween costume. There is enough loose fabric to clothe a small village. And beware office intruders as a few straight pins are always lying in wait in the carpet.
Then there is my fiber problem, sheep run from me in fear of shearing. I have yarn ferreted away in my drawers and closet in copious quantities. So much so that should I perish and someone find my stash, they would think me a hoarder. But the special kind of hoarder who covets wool not the kind that lets trash and cat shit pile up.
The office also accumulates a bunch of other miscellaneous stuff. Stuff that had no where else to go. While organizing my desk I uncolored the following pile:
Yes, those are indeed a packet of wisdom teeth pulled from my head. (I would have fought back but they drugged me. At least they had the decency to let me keep the teeth.) Then a there are a few badges from old jobs, an old passport, a calculator for the hard of math-ing, and a receipt from my book buying habit.
It is pretty much a pile of trash. These things should probably be shredded and/or unceremoniously tossed in the garbage. But I just can’t. I may need them someday if I become a spy posing as a teacher (clearly not a math teacher) hopping from one county to the next to thwart evil. Or I might have to convince someone I am a member of an undercover, jaw shattering fight club by displaying the teeth of my enemies. You never know.
I have a sorry problem. Recently a friend pointed out to me that I say sorry entirely too much. It’s bad. Really bad. I know because I even hear myself saying sorry constantly, and I realize it sounds crazy, but I can’t help myself. It’s a tic. I am compelled to spout out the word sorry. I feel like I can’t breathe again until is say it. I am to the word sorry as Sheldon on The Big Bang Theory is to knocking on the door three times.
The worst part is how inappropriately I use sorry. Someone will point out how they screwed up and I say sorry. As if it is my fault they fucked up. I apologize to them despite having nothing to do with the situation. People find this offensive, but I can’t help it. I genuinely feel sorry they screwed up, so of course I say sorry.
It gets worse too. If someone physically runs into me with their cart at the grocery store, I say sorry. Yup. That’s right. They run into me and I apologize for it. As if I am sorry for my mere existence, for if I didn’t exist they wouldn’t have had the misfortune to run into me.
I even apologize when I do something commendable. Sorry, but I went ahead and finished that paperwork for you. Dear god it makes no sense. I am obliged to always say sorry.
I’m sure some psychologist somewhere would tell me it is because I don’t value myself as a human, and I do not feel worthy to walk the earth so I must constantly apologize for being alive. This is true occasionally for sure. Who doesn’t struggle with self esteem? However I believe the real reason, or at least the slightly less depressing one, is that I must clearly be secretly Canadian. Ohh gee, sorry to break it to ya, but it’s the truth. I bet I was actually adopted from a nice Canadian family, and all those stories about the day I was born are actually fabricated for my protection…sorry.
Welp, it is almost Memorial Day, which officially ushers in the summer here in the south. This morning I opened my e-mail to receive this message from the neighborhood property manager:
(If you can’t read micro-sized writing it says, “We will be closing the pool due to fecal contamination. It will be closed for the next 24 hours. Thank you for your cooperation!”
Summer is all fun an games until someone poops in your pool. And do they really need to ask for my cooperation? I mean seriously, who the hell would be like, “This is bull shit, you can’t keep my from my communal pool rights. I’m getting all up in that cesspool. Try an stop me!” I just can’t even imagine.
Here’s hoping the pool incident is the last shitty thing that happens this season!
Recently my husband and I have turned our house into a construction site. It has been well worth it. I have a new kick-ass library, but that is not really what this post is about. This post is about boobs.
When taking apart light fixtures I realized that our home is full of boobs. I guess I just hadn’t been looking up frequently enough to realize that our ceilings were so well endowed. But as soon as we took down that first light fixture and I had to screw back on its nipple I figured it out.
We started with just a nice pair.
But then we went full on Total Recall.
Yeah! So as we renovate we are also performing ceiling mastectomies one boob light at a time.
I recently read an article that suggested you come up with ten crappy ideas a day. The premise was that if you do this every day you will begin to be better at coming up with ideas by working out and enhancing your “idea muscles”. Apparently then when you really need a good idea you will be more apt to come up with one.
It sounded like decent advice to me so today I tried flexing my idea muscles. It turns out my muscles have apparently atrophied as the task was much harder than I ever could have imagined. At first I tried to come up with ten ideas for titles of movies I would want to watch.
Apparently I can’t get my mind off the gutter because most of them involved seeing Chris Pratt scantily clad.
Then I thought I might try instead to come up with a list of names for future cats. That just seemed pitiful. It hits too close to “turning into the crazy cat lady” home, but I made the list anyway.
So I definitely have the “crappy” part of this ideation exercise down. I’m not sure if it will actually help me in the future, but it sure as hell is fun.
I have been trying to teach myself calligraphy. It is not going well. Everything I write looks like a glob of paint someone tried to mush around to vaguely resemble a squiggle. The letters look like a left handed alien wrote them while blindfolded.
I have tried books and You Tube videos, but I seem to require more remediation than they can provide. Lest you be concerned I might give up, fear not for I am stubborn as hell. I am going to poke away until I can write something legible, I promise.
Throughout the process it has occurred to me that our forefathers must have been patient beyond belief! It really slows down your train of thought when you have to re-dip your pen every few letters. Not to mention that the first letter often turns into a blob of ink (even if your use a blotting pad) and the last letters with that dip are so faint you rely on paper indentations to read them. I cannot imagine trying to write a play, novel, or even the freaking constitution this way. You would get a great idea for a sentence and forget it half way through because you had already had to dip and blot your pen twelve times before completing the first five words.
People must have thought slower back then. Half the time my fingers can’t even type as fast as my brain works and I forget the thought before I can get it onto the computer screen. If I had to use a freaking quill to try to record my ideas I would be in deep shit. Or perhaps that is my problem. Maybe I should slow down a little. Take my time and process each word before writing it down. Ehh, who has the patience.
I live a kamikaze lifestyle as it is, no point in changing it now. I’ll just be grateful for computers and the delete key, but I have much more respect for Shakespeare and Jane Austen.
Does anyone else miss catalogs? Growing up I loved it when that giant Sears catalog would fill up our mailbox. It was more than just toilet paper for my grandpa; inside one glossy tome you could peruse anything from a mail order house to toys.
Personally I spent most of my time looking at the jewelry section. Even as a young girl I still preferred shiny bobbles to anything else. I spent hours staring at pages littered with glorious gemstones. One page would show off tens of different offerings. I loved it.
I went page by page and picked out my dream piece on each one. Time melted away as glittering daydreams kept me occupied. Then I learned that if you cut carefully you could make paper jewelry. I meticulously trimmed out all my favorite piece and cut slits in the backs of the rings, necklaces, and bracelets. Then I could wear them. A little tape on the back of the earrings and voila, you had yourself a brand new pair of stunners. It turns out all those little jewelry pieces were printed fairly life size if you are an industrious enough eight year old and are willing to power through a few paper cuts around your neck.
Now the days of those mammoth books delivered straight to your mailbox are gone. Instead web pages display wears, but somehow it is just not the same. I miss the smell of the fresh ink and the crinkle of the pages as I flipped through them. And I really miss being able to try on my favorites.