Library books, a garage sale box, a panic attack and a revelation

Over the last week, I have been focusing on areas of the living room that have like items.  I hoped that by addressing the multiple problem areas, one or two at a time that I might be able to reduce the piles AND find an appropriate place to display or store the items that I wanted to keep.  I did very well with the library books, reducing the number of books in the house to 9 (the count has drifted back up to 23, something to work on over the weekend).

The garage sale box was much more of a challenge.  Joel had commented that I should just “take it to goodwill. break the cycle.”  It’s easy for him but an oversimplification of the process.  I’m trying to find the reason that I cling to objects.  In my case, I don’t believe there’s one common thread linking all my clutter but that instead a combination of factors buried in my subconscious that interfere with my ability to purge.  It would explain why I become confused and unsettled when dealing with large projects like….well, pick any room.  It’s not black and white, I can’t just separate everything into two piles and say “Keep! Purge!”.  It’s much more complex, some items have memories attached and some have an unfulfilled purpose and some were gifts and so on and on.  The longer I sort, my confidence fades, my judgment becomes clouded and I begin to suffer from information overload.  A process that is effortless to others, takes an incredible amount of energy.  Knowing and understanding my own limitations increases the possibility of success.

With this in mind, I reviewed that contents of the garage sale box and realized that I had no recollection as to how most of the items came to be in my possession.  I removed those items and packed them up in a smaller box to send to the thrift store.  All I had left to do was drop them off the next time I headed in that direction.  Easy, right?  Ahhhh, not so fast.  Later the same day, I picked up the box and headed for the front door, when suddenly I stopped at the threshold and a wave of panic enveloped me.  All forward momentum stopped.  It was like I was trying to pass through an invisible force field.  How could a box of inanimate objects control my motor functions?  I had to wrestle the beast.

I took the box and spilled the contents over the couch.  I reexamined each item throughly.  There was nothing in the pile that I had a need for at the present time.  And then I realized that the dread that I was experiencing was due to the fact that I felt that I might be making a mistake.  What if these items were my sister’s or what if I need these objects someday.  A huge step, one fear identified.  I felt a sense of relief knowing why I was so anxious.  I reviewed the items one by one and knew that there was nothing there that could not be replaced.  Back into the box they went.  And then I took a deep breath, grabbed the box and headed out the door and straight to St. Vincent’s.  The guys on the dock teased me, “You don’t usually drop off, do you?”  “Not often enough”, I replied.  Hopefully, I will become a regular at the donation dock.

Recent acquisition #2

Over the last few months, I have been avoiding garage/estate/church sales in the hope that I will refrain from bringing additional items home.  I miss these events terribly.  More often than not, I have maintained this self imposed exile.  But every so often, temptation challenges my ability to control this vice.

Last week, I noticed estate sale signs had been posted in my neighborhood.  And of course, the sale had to be at a house just down the block.  Rumor had it that the contents of the home were fabulous.  It was a no brainer.  I had to go to the sale, nothing was going to stop me.  But to provide a voice of reason, I asked my sister Kat to go with me.

Although we arrived early Saturday morning, it took 30 minutes before we could enter the home.  There were so many people inside that you couldn’t move.  I made my way to the basement where I found the real bounty.  It was arranged as a small antique store.  I found 2 sewing machines, wrought iron outdoor furniture and lamps, all the things I love and priced reasonably.  I resigned myself to the fact that they were not meant to be mine.  Suddenly, I saw something that stopped me in my tracks.  It was a Victorian era wicker and iron carriage.  It looked fantastic.  But there were too many people milling around for me to properly examine the carriage so I chose to leave.  With nothing.  It was a huge milestone for me but it wasn’t time to celebrate yet.

Since it was a two day sale, I decided to return for the ½ off sale on Sunday afternoon.  I arrived around 1pm and found the upper level of the house was almost completely empty.  In the basement, everything that I had been admiring was gone except….the large Victorian era baby carriage.  It sat alone dwarfing the few odds and ends that remained.  And it beckoned to me, “Come check me out, I’m magnificent.”  So I decided to inspect it thoroughly, scrutinizing every flaw.  Everything was original including the company sticker on the bottom.  The only thing it was missing was the original lining.  The few flaws were minor.  And as I rolled it around the basement for a test drive, the man running the sale approached me.  He was ready to make a deal.  The carriage was discounted 50% but I could not justify the purchase no matter how much I loved it.  The man instinctively knew that he was dealing with a weak willed woman.  We discussed the attributes of the stroller as I made my way to the exit.  As I was leaving, he offered a ridiculously low price that caused me to pause.  I turned to him, pointed and said “I live right there and I need to discuss this with my husband.”  “You know where to find me”, he replied.

I hurried home to tell Mike what I had found.  He didn’t understand my interest in the carriage.  Finally, he asked why I would want to waste money on such a ludicrous purchase.  I told him that it was my birthday and my sisters had given me money to spend on some thing extravagant not practical.  Surprisingly, Mike decided not to argue with me.  “Do what you wish, but I think you are being simple”, he moaned, “Just take the tape measure to make sure it will fit in the house.”  Please? Measure it?  As if its robust size would stop me now.  So I returned to finalize the sale and proudly strolled my new carriage home.

The carriage is currently on display in my living room occupying the space where the bassinet once sat.  It is hard to understand how I could rationalize this purchase.  Simply put, I do not have the room for it.  I could wax poetic about the artistry and craftsmanship of the carriage and why it is beautiful to me.  But instead, I will focus on the lesson I’ve learned.  I am passionate about the carriage in a way that transcends most of the clutter that I surround myself with.  I should feel this way about everything I collect but I don’t.  There are things I keep because they were gifts.  There are things that I keep out of habit.  There are things that I keep because I might need them one day.  There are things that I keep because I feel that they are worth something.  It goes on and on.  These reasons do not promote the reduction of clutter.  They are excuses.  It’s no wonder I struggle.

As I write, I stare admiringly at my carriage and I smile and that smile develops into a long chuckle.  What was I thinking?!?  I laugh some more, imagining that if I can’t make room for a Christmas tree, I could substitute the carriage.  It’s green and composed of cellulose.  I could hang stockings from the handle and because it’s mobile, I could roll it around the living room to distribute gifts.  No, no, that won’t work.  I can’t roll it around for the same reason I can’t have a tree yet, too much clutter.  But I haven’t yet lost my sense of humor and I’ll be damned if I will crumble in despair.  There can be no more large acquistions as there are 37 days until Christmas and I am determined to make the most of them.

Recent acquisition #1

One part of my strategy to declutter my home is to use FreeCycle.  It is a local group/network where the participants post requests for items they want or offer items that they no longer need.  Everything must be free, no strings attached.  Like most members of the group, you give away much more than you will ever receive and in my case, that’s the whole idea.  But for the most part, I have received some really nice things from some really nice people.  The only problem with the system is that people do not always post pictures so what you think you are getting and what you end up with are two different things entirely.

For example, I answered an ad that read:

Offer:bistro set – Pittsburgh

This is a small wooden table with two wooden stools. It is meant for indoor use. The wood is dark in color and in good shape. The table is round with two tiny drop leaves. I need to get this out of our house, so I will give preference to anyone who can take it today. Thanks

pub/bistro set

I have a small 1950’s red and gray tile kitchen with metal cabinetry.  I have been searching for a small vintage wooden drop leaf table with 2 chairs for the kitchen.  This ad seemed perfect so I quickly submitted a request and minutes later, I received an email with an address and a request to pick up the bistro set immediately.  When I arrived to pick up the table and stools, I found that the table was not round and the stools had a curve to their seats which gave the set more of an Asian influence that I had not expected.  Not something that would complement my kitchen decor.  But as it was a very nice set (the same set is on sale for $119.99 at Kmart this week), I took it home and stored it in the garage until I could make room for it in the kitchen.  That was on April 6th.  Where is the bistro set now?  Why still in the garage of course, causing my husband great anguish.

Mike reminds me constantly that the bistro set is “in his way” and he prefers that I do not bring any more FreeCycle items home.  To placate him, I have only answered ads on FreeCycle for items that are very small and useful.  I have received a Sony 64MB memory card, a yogurt cheese maker, a Burpee seed sprouter and even a pass for a free hour of kayaking.  All these items have been used, not stored in the garage.  It is a compromise that Mike accepts.

Last week, a new posting caught my eye on FreeCycle.  Something that I could not resist:

[Pgh_Freecycle] offer Antique Sewing Machine Stand Pleasant Hills

I have a “Standard” sewing machine stand with a tredle. Let me know if you want it.

Did I want it?  Yes siree, I wanted it.  Bad, real bad.  But due to the sheer weight and size of the stand, it would require 2 people to pick it up.  There was no way that I could convince Mike to help me and asking him would trigger a day long diatribe questioning my sanity.  Then I realized that it was Wednesday and my sister Sue would be at my house around 5pm.  Sue would help me pick up the stand, I was sure of it.  So I fired off a request for the stand and a few hours later received the following message:

Hi  Yes this is still available.  My address is ___________, Pleasant Hills.

You can come at any time this evening.

Woohoo!  I was ecstatic.  But I had a huge problem…..Mike.  He had noticed that I was “clickity-clacking” on the laptop and acting suspiciously.  Mike feared the worst.  So when Sue arrived, I asked her privately if she would help me pick something up in Pleasant Hills and she agreed.  And Mike, without my knowledge, had privately enlisted our nieces and nephews to foil my plans, whatever they might be.  As Sue and I prepared to sneak out of the house, my nephews and nieces started following me around and delaying my exit.  They were glued to me, I couldn’t shake them.  Finally, I had my chance to flee and ran out the front door, promising Doritos when I returned.

It was a good plan that went wrong.  The home we were traveling to was in a neighborhood without street lights and we lost our way.  When we finally arrived, the stand was not what I had anticipated.  And I had to haul it from behind the house and UP her long driveway.  And as it was larger than I hoped, it took forever to stuff it into the back seat of my car.  When we finished loading the beast, Sue and I sped back home.

Back at home, the kids had expected us back in 15 minutes.  Two hours later, we arrived sans Doritos and no reasonable explanation of how we could have forgotten the only item that we had left the house for.  I was busted.

Later in the evening, Sue and I snuck the cast iron sewing machine base into the garage.  Mike avoided the garage until he needed the lawn mower.  Then he saw the stand in all it’s glory.  He wants it gone.  And this time, I think I agree with him.  It wasn’t exactly what I wanted.  I was looking for a replacement stand for a sewing machine that I had unexpectedly found in my possession.  This stand was not a comparable match.  I could refurbish it.  I have a piece of marble in the basement that would make a great top and a few spare sewing machine drawers that might fit the stand.  Finished, it would make a great side table.  But it would take more time and effort than I can currently commit to.  And the woman who gave it to me told me that she had an overwhelming response to the post.  If I repost it on FreeCycle, I have an opportunity to bring great joy to both my husband and some fellow Pittsburgher and clear space in the garage that was never intended for a large heavy cast iron stand.  Definitely a scenario worth contemplating.

I is for Intervention

My sister Kat and I ran errands together on Saturday.  Kat was in a particularly fine mood.  Giddy, in fact.  She was bubbling away as she drove, making  random, nonsensical comments that puzzled me.  And when I was unable to string her clues together, I should have realized that she had a secret.

“I KNOW something you don’t know”, Kat purred.

“Really?”, I responded flatly.

“I know what you’re getting for your birthday!”, she replied in a singsong voice.

“Don’t tell me, I don’t want to know”, I singsonged back, as if that would stop her.

“You’re getting an INTERVENTION!”, she gushed.

Cheese and crackers!  I could only stare blankly at Kat as we barreled down the highway.  And Kat grinned from ear to ear.  She looked so satisfied with herself.

“What are you talking about?”, I asked completely stunned.

“You are getting an intervention for your birthday”, She repeated, raising her voice and enunciating slowly.

HUH?!?  I was mortified.  It would be bad enough to have an intervention any other day of the year but on my birthday????  Why not just wrestle me to the ground and take turns kicking me in the head?  I didn’t know what to say.  And Kat just kept on grinning as she watched me stare catatonically out the window.

“Who?  Why?  What?  I don’t understand.  I don’t need intervention.”, I stuttered.

“Well, someone thinks you do!”, Kat countered.

I paused and thought quietly for a few seconds.  I had been doing well decluttering recently.  But over the past week, I had fallen off the proverbial wagon, big time.  My latest acquisitions were real doozies (see next post), completely inexplicable to my sisters and husband.  And now all I could think about was what I could say to a room full of people when they would be able to point and say “If you’re doing so well, how can you explain that?”  I felt so defeated.  Since I knew Kat was not capable of withholding the details so I decided that I might as well know the how and when of the upcoming event.

“For my birthday?  Whose idea was this?”, I asked.

“Well, Lynne called Sue and I the other day and she can’t take it anymore.  So instead of giving each other birthday and Christmas presents, we are pooling our funds to have an intervention.”, she responded.

Money for an intervention??????  Were my sisters catering the event, complete with a buffet so as they could eat while I provided the entertainment by having a complete emotional meltdown?  Or did they find a therapist who was willing to make a house call because of my extreme condition?  How big was this party anyway?  And most importantly, did Mike know about this?  I was hoping that he wasn’t involved as he was about to descend into an even deeper level of physiological Hell than my clutter had ever caused.  I was completely befuddled.  And Kat just kept chattering away about everyone getting together like it was just like any other day.

“Kat!  Focus and tell me what’s going on?  Why would everyone need to pool their Christmas money together for an intervention?”, I implored.

“Lynne can’t take it anymore”, she repeated as if English was my second language, “The glasses have got to go!  She’s organizing an intervention.”

Now, no one reading this could be more lost than I was at that moment.  Glasses?  What glasses?  And then it suddenly dawned on me.  She was talking about my eyeglasses.  Hell’s bells!

“Lynne is upset about my eyeglasses?”, I replied incredulously.

“What else would I be talking about?”, Kat demanded, “Those glasses have got to go!  And since you won’t take care of it, Lynne’s in charge now.”

Suddenly the clutter intervention didn’t seem like such a bad idea.  Lynne and my sisters were right, the eyeglasses needed to go.  Long story short, due to a severe infection from a lens cleaning solution that was recalled nationally, I had to wear eyeglasses again.  I never went to the doctor for a follow up appointment and to obtain a new contact lens prescription.  Thus, the eyeglasses that I am wearing to correct my vision are:

• at least 15 years old
• huge and dated
• unable to resolve images in the distance because my vision has gradually deteriorated over the years
• have two different length temples (when I broke one, I begged a LensCrafters employee to fix them, since I didn’t purchase them there, he improvised)
• crooked, they have a slight diagonal slant (because the arms are not the same length)
• cracked at one end piece which causes the lens to fall out of the frame randomly

So in these glasses, I can’t see, look 20 years older and at inopportune moments a lens drops from the frames to the floor.  Suddenly, I felt like a complete idiot.  I reminded Kat that I had new frames at the house (she had given me one pair as a gift) and promised that I would make an appointment for the eye doctor the next week.  So Kat agreed to call Lynne and cancel the intervention.  Problem solved, right?  Not a chance.

Sunday morning, the phone started ringing at 8am.  I was still half asleep as I stumbled to the phone.

“Hello?”, I mumbled.

“Karen, it me, Lynne.  Get dressed.  We are going to Costco to get you glasses for your birthday!”, she announced.

Kat strikes again.  Perhaps she really did forget to call Lynne but I’m not buying it.  Kat is the consummate practical jokester.  After assuring Lynne that I would replace my glasses, we decided that my sisters and I would meet for lunch to celebrate my birthday.  And instead of glasses, Lynne gave me a planter full of chocolate candy.  So much better than an intervention.  And for fun, I found the most recent pictures that I have of me with and without the horrid glasses.  Enjoy!

Chic-fil-a cow and I

at mini golf

Lucy Lips

My sister Kat has a nickname for me, Lucy Lips.  It doesn’t make sense until you hear her say it, long and drawn out, “Loooooooooosy Lips”.  This is because she accuses me of not being able to keep any secret.  Kat warns anyone who will listen to be careful what they say to me because “If you tell Lucy, the whole world will know.”  In all fairness, she’s partially right.  I talk a lot, to anyone.  To family, friends, neighbors and most disturbingly to Kat, complete strangers.  And I often, repeat the stories I have heard unless I am told not to.  Admittedly, I have accidentally let confidential information slip out but it rarely happens.  It usually occurs when the person telling me the information forgets to remind me, “don’t tell ______”.

In reality, Kat is the one who can not keep a secret.  Everyone knows it but her.  If you are stupid enough to confide in Kat, it is practically guaranteed that in addition to telling everyone your secret, she will publicly humiliate you at the same time, usually at family gatherings and holidays.  She starts with clever puns that seem innocuous and silly.  They don’t make sense and she is the only person laughing at them.  Then you notice that she’s looking right at you as she talks and giggles.  Suddenly, the horror of it all begins to sink in and you realize exactly what she’s doing and start to squirm uncomfortably.  Finally, just in case anyone in the room hasn’t figured out what she was suggesting, she blurts out the secret and finishes with a “What?!?  Did I say something wrong?!?   What?!?”  She can be pure evil.

The last time that I was a victim of Kat’s special brand of torture was a year ago.  I suspected that my husband had started smoking again.  Actually, I was ABSOLUTELY POSITIVE that he had been smoking.  He began to do things that were completely out of character.  He started spending more time in the basement.  He took the garbage outside more often and this chore seemed to take forever.  He would offer to return my library books or recycle the newspaper, ALONE.  He started going to bed after me and set the alarm so that he would rise before me.  He brushed his teeth every hour.  But the biggest clue was that he smelled like smoke.  His hair, his clothing, his breath, his fingers, they all smelled of tobacco.  I was not pleased.  In fact, I was livid.  I knew I would have to catch him red-handed and I was not looking forward to the huge argument that would ensue.  So I continued to ignore the evidence, knowing that feigning ignorance would cause Mike to become careless.  Of course that moment had to happen while I was with Kat.

Kat stopped by one sunny morning and asked me to stop at the thrift store with her.  We had only driven the length of the block when I realized that I had left my purse at home.  We returned to the house and I ran inside.

I called out, “Mike, it’s just me.  I forgot my purse.”

No answer.  Funny I wasn’t even gone more than 2 minutes.  Then I heard it.  The rumbling of our insanely loud ventilation fan over the stove.

“Mike?”, I called again as I neared the kitchen.

I found Mike leaning awkwardly over the stove and looking over at me in shock.  He said nothing, probably because his mouth was full of smoke.

“Whatcha doing?”, I asked not really wanting to know.

“Cooking”, was his one word answer.

“Oh”, I replied uncomfortably, “I forgot my purse.  I guess I’ll be going.”

“See ya”, was all Mike replied.

It was horrible.  I returned to the car and Kat asked if something was wrong.  All the anger that I had been repressing while avoiding the smoking issue erupted.  For the next 15 minutes, I vented, telling my tale of woe to Kat.  When I realized it was a mistake, I turned to Kat, apologized for my outburst and asked her NOT to tell anyone.  NO, I begged her not to.

“Kat, please, please, please, please!  Do not mention this to anyone.  I need to handle it myself.  Please.”, I implored.

“No problem.  I won’t say anything”, she replied.

I wanted to believe her.  This was important to me but I must have rocks in my head.  Just a few days later, I had company over at the house.  Kat was there also.  My guard was down and I did not notice anything strange at first.  Then, I heard her talking nonsense to Mike in the dining room, heavily emphasizing certain words and laughing to herself.  Noooooooooo!

“Did you see the fog this morning?  It was really SMOKEY outside.”, Kat giggled.

“No, I hadn’t noticed.”, Mike replied absent-mindedly.

“Were you cooking earlier?”, she continued snickering, “It smells like something was burning, like SMOKE.”

“No, I wasn’t cooking today”, Mike answered innocently.

I rushed towards the dining room, “No, Kat!  Don’t!”

“What?  Is something wrong?”, she said with an evil grin.

“I don’t know.  Is there?”, I replied nervously.

“Karen, did you notice that Mike is SMOKIN’ hot, today?”, she chuckled.

Boom!  Message received!  Loud and clear!  Mike glared at me.  I glared at Kat.  Kat just smiled waiting for the fireworks to begin.  But Mike would not allow Kat to have the upper hand.

“Yes, Kat.  I have been smoking.  Is that what you were alluding to?”, Mike demanded.

“Oh, Karen mentioned to me that she was wondering if you were smoking”, she replied.

“Well, she can wonder no more.  Just so everyone knows, I have started smoking again”, he stated flatly.

It was awkward and uncomfortable.  But I hate secrets and I was relieved that it was over.  And Kat….well you can’t be angry with her.  Birds gotta fly, fish gotta swim and Kat can’t keep a secret.  And why tell this story now?  Because someone has told Kat a secret and she is broadcasting it everyone, except the person who confided in her.  Let the fireworks begin!

Progress weeks 29, 30 & 31 – Slowly but surely

The last few weeks, I have been digging through the clutter piece but piece.  It seems that I am at the point that I am just moving around the same objects over and over in an attempt to place like items into piles to sort.  This means that it is time to start making the hard decisions.  I’ll have to cull some of the items that I collect in mind-boggling quantity.  Or at least find a way to store them elsewhere.

Trick or Meat

I have mentioned in at least one of my previous posts that my sisters favor my husband Mike.  Without a doubt, they would claim him if we would ever divorce.  They each have their own individual reasons why they like him so much but they all agree that I do not treat him well.  Poor, poor Mike, such a nice guy and he has to live with Karen.  Why ‘o why can’t she ever cut the dear man a break?  And Mike, of course, agrees with them and enjoys watching me squirm as I try to defend my “cruel and excessive” behavior.

Mike has learned to play my sisters against me.  He doesn’t tell them why he is in trouble with me but has learned to leave hints.  And since I have been challenging his eating habits lately and have been unresponsive to his food needs, he started leaving really big obvious hints for my sisters.

It all started when I banned chips from the house unless they were for company.  I told Mike that they were unhealthy, expensive and were a source of excess caloric intake.  Mike loves chips and didn’t take the new rule very well and grumbled for days.  A few days later, he offered to make dinner for my sister Sue and my nephews.  Chicken and potatoes.  He was in the kitchen all afternoon.  And when they arrived and sat down in the living room, Mike walked in with a glass pyrex casserole dish full of brown strips.

Mike:  “You guys have to try these.  I made them myself and I’d like your honest opinion.”

Sue and the nephews:  “What are they?”

Mike:  “I’m glad you asked.  While peeling potatoes for dinner, I had a thought.  What if I baked the skins and added Old Bay seasoning to them to make chips?  I think they taste really good.  What do you guys think?”

Sue and the nephews loved his chips.  I admired his ingenuity but braced myself for what was going to happen next.

Sue:  “These are great but isn’t it a lot of work for just a few chips?”

Mike:  “Well Karen, really doesn’t want chips in the house.”

Sue:  “Chips!  No chips!  Why can’t Mike have chips?”

Just take a moment and think how to answer the question diplomatically.  Especially when you are defending your actions against a saint.  A humble and hungry man, who was willing to make dinner and even thrifty enough to use what a lesser man may have discarded to create an appetizer.  What a LOSER I am.  Sue and the nephews scolded me the rest of the night and even offered to bring Mike a bag of chips next time they were over.  Score, Mike: 1, Karen: 0.

A few weeks later, I banned sweets from the house except for special occasions.  Mike has absolutely NO self-control when it comes to sugar.  His grandfather had worked for MARS candy and when Mike was young, he had access to all the candy he could eat.  To this day, he has an insatiable sweet tooth.  Mike did not like the new rule.  And so when Sue stopped by with not 1 but 2 partial cakes left over from birthday parties at work, Mike was so happy.  So happy, that it somehow slipped out that I didn’t allow sweets in the house.

Sue:  “Karen!  Why can’t Mike have any sweets?”

Me:  “Did Mike tell you that?”

Sue:  “Is it true?”

Of course it was true.  What could I say?  She wouldn’t listen to me anyway.  She told my sisters about it.  Lucky me, my sisters called to lecture me about my behavior.  Score, Mike: 2, Karen: 0.  And the worse was yet to come.

So my sisters have been bringing Mike treats and chips.  And I have continued my campaign to have Mike eat less.  It’s not working.  He calls eating only 3 meals a day “starvation”.  To compromise, I decided that he could eat as much as he wanted as long as it was healthier food.  To me, this meant less meat but all the fruits, vegetables and grains that he could eat.  I suggested that he eat more cheese.  Maybe that would help him feel full.  Mike was not happy.  Then one day, while looking at the food ads (dreaming about the food he wasn’t allowed to eat), he had a revelation.

Mike:  “Karen!  Check this out.  You can buy boneless chicken breasts for $1.33 a pound.  It’s cheaper than cheese.”

Me:  “I feel better if you eat the cheese.”

Mike:  “Seriously Karen, it’s a $1.33 a pound.”

Me:  “Doesn’t it make you wonder how they can sell it for so little?  It bothers me.  Eat cheese.”

So again, Mike was unhappy.  I took him to Super Kmart where they were having a huge sale on cheese.  He bought pounds of muenster, cheddar, swiss, mozzarella and colby.  When we returned home, he loaded all the cheese into the refrigerator.  And as fate would have it, my sister Kat arrived a few moments later and walked right to the refrigerator to pour herself a soft drink.

Kat:  “Holy CHEESE, Batman!  What’s going on in here?”

Mike:  “Super Kmart was having a sale on cheese.”

Kat:  “Is there any left at the store or did you buy it all?”

Mike:  “Well, Karen would like me to eat less meat.”

Kat:  “FOR CRYING OUT LOUD!  KAREN!  WHY CAN”T MIKE HAVE MEAT!”

Then Kat lectured me about being unreasonable and called my sisters to let them know what a JERK I really am.  The nephews heard about the meat ban and asked Mike to go out on Halloween with them.

The nephews:  “Uncle Mike, you can trick or treat with us.  You can just say trick or meat!”

I can’t win.  Believe me, Mike is NOT starving and withering away.  Despite my claims that my actions are in Mike’s best interest and not because I am methodically plotting against him, my sisters are taking action.  One of my sisters stopped by at 8pm and brought the leftovers from her dinner.  Hot sausage and meatballs.  She joked nervously, “Oops, I made too much.  There is no way my family can eat all this food.  I thought Mike might enjoy it.”  One of my sisters brought leftovers from the high school cafeteria.  Chicken sandwiches and cookies.  “Oh my, there were so many leftovers today.  And they were just going to throw them away.  And then I thought, Mike might like these.”  My favorite story is from the sister who cleaned out her freezer and brought all the frozen meat she had in it over to my house.  She was just cleaning out the freezer and had more than she needed.  More than she needed included a package of chicken legs with a best if used by date of August 28, 2007.

Me:  “Those chicken legs go in the trash, Mike.”

Mike:  “Are you sure?  They were in the freezer.  Nothing can happen to them.”

Me:  “Listen to me.  They go in the trash.”

Mike:  “I think you’re wrong.  I’ll make soup.”

Needless to say, Mike demanded that we check the internet to prove the legs were still edible.  I was sure that I would find page after page confirming my assertion that chicken legs that have been frozen for over 2 years should not be eaten.  It wasn’t as easy as I assumed.  Mike will only believe they are bad if he sees in bold red print, DANGER!  Chicken frozen for over 2 years is bad for you!  Do not eat!  This means you, Mike! Instead we found page after page recommending using frozen chicken within 9 – 12 months or its structural integrity will be compromised.  To Mike that means, “Perfect for soup” and to me it means, “There is no way in Hell that you are going to eat that meat!”

In all seriousness, I did not think Mike was going to cook the chicken legs.  But there is always a chance that he will surprise me.  So the next time I ventured out to the store, I snuck into the kitchen, placed the chicken into a bag, walked down to the car and drove towards the nearest public trash can.  Problem solved.  Of course, my sisters will still send Mike gifts of chips, sweets and meat and he will thank them wholeheartedly.  And Mike will end up with more food than we ever had in the house before.  And I have to admit that Saint Mike is a very clever man.

Moving on

Mike placed a piece of white cardboard over the hole in the ceiling as a temporary fix.  It makes the hole a little less obvious (well, maybe).  And he has assembled the materials to fix the hole.  In the meantime, I didn’t say a word about the ceiling to anyone.  Instead, I waited for people to notice and believe me, everyone noticed.  The responses over the last week kept me laughing.

Mike:  “I KNOW I live like a hoopie but did I have to prove it by having a hole in my ceiling?”

Gabe:  “Best use of a photo in a post.”

Kristi:  “Oh, oh, oh, I have the funniest story ever to tell you guys…”, her voice trails off as she points to the ceiling, “Forget it, I think your story’s better.”

Zack:  “Why does Uncle Mike have cardboard on the ceiling?  You mean there’s a hole under there? Ha, ha, ha!”

My neighbor:  Looking up, “I would be so MAD.”

The rest of the family:  Convulsive laughter.

Mike’s laughing along with everyone now.  His accident has prompted my son to suggest that I blog about the hole in my mother’s ceiling.  It’s a family favorite but it is a long story.  So Gabe , be patient, it will take some time to get it together but it will be worth it.

Blogging with good intent

When I first started blogging, many people told me I was making a mistake.  I didn’t foresee any problems.  To me, blogging is like a diary that I choose to share publicly.  I have no hidden agenda, no ax to grind and I surely do not wish to ridicule or embarrass anyone.  It’s all about real events with real people written from my own unique perspective.  It’s supposed to be fun not confrontational.  But the truth is, no matter how innocuous and benign that I feel the subject matter is, misunderstandings can occur.

My last post is a great example of what can go wrong, will go wrong.  I found out through comments (and emails) that the subject matter of a story I wrote had serious repercussions that I was not aware of.  I felt directly responsible for someone’s ostracization at work, that I implied responsibility for an accident and had lost a valuable resource, all in one 1100+ word entry.   All completely unintended.  I was crushed and seriously doubted that I would write again.  Who knew bubble wrap could cause such a momentous misunderstanding.

But 24 hours later, everything began shifting back to normal.  I like to think that my sense of humor and idiosyncrasies (the anal retentiveness, faulty logic and such) are apparent in my writing but it is not necessarily obvious.  While typing, my speech patterns, inflections and mannerisms are lost.  Unless one knows me personally (and sometimes even when they do), I may be misinterpreted.  But most importantly, I can misinterpret things also.  It’s all about perception.  I have to trust, that in the end, it will all work out.  And I need to develop a thicker skin.

When in doubt, blame Joel

Last Saturday morning started like any other, the sun was shining, the birds were singing, all was right in the universe.  Then Joel arrived with enough bubble wrap protect my home from a wrecking ball.  Bag after bag of garbage bags full of bubble wrap.  When Joel finished his delivery on Saturday…

My porch looked like this:

My son’s room looked like this:

A bazillion bags.  Later in the day, Mike looked at the huge pile and said to me, “Do you think those bags will keep until morning?”  I took one look at the mountain of bags and said “Whatever you wish”.

Sunday morning started like any other, except there were garbage bags full of bubble wrap everywhere.  And in these bags of bubble wrap were copious amounts of small bubble wrap, large bubble wrap and air pockets.  And Mike did not have the energy to sort the bags just yet.  So Mike surveyed the situation and made a decision to store the bags for a few days.  But where ‘o where in a house full of clutter would one be able to store the bags?  Leave them on the porch?  In Gabe’s room?  In the crawl space in the garage?  No, no, no, those ideas wouldn’t do.  Mike realized there was only one spot in the house where he could squeeze all the bags.  The attic.

I can’t stress enough how much I dread hearing Mike say the word “attic”.  It scares the bejesus out of me.  Why?

1)  The only way to access the attic is through an opening in the hall ceiling.  Mike uses an old rickety ladder with one split tread that in mint condition would hold someone half his weight.

2)  Mike is accident prone.  And he can’t handle that truth.

Because of these extenuating factors there are 2 rules that I beg him constantly to strictly adhere to.

1)  Do not go into the attic unless someone else is in the house.

2)  Make sure that someone holds the ladder.

And of course, Mike does not agree with my assessment of the situation and ignores my rules and does EXACTLY AS HE DAMN WELL PLEASES.  Why?  Because he believes that I am exaggerating the potential consequences.

So on Sunday, when Mike decided to venture into the attic, I knew I should oversee the operation.  But since Mike was already in a grumpy mood because he knew that he had to navigate around all my clutter in the attic, I left him alone with his mountain of bubble wrap and headed into the kitchen to do the dishes.  From there, I could spy from a safe but respectable distance.

I watched him from the corner of my eye as he set up the ladder.  I cringed as I listened to the sound of him lifting the access panel to the attic.  I held my breath as heard the sound of the ladder creaking from the stress of his weight on the treads as he ascended.  And finally, I breathed a sigh of relief when I heard his heavy footsteps crossing the beams above my head.  All was good.  I returned to my dishes and calmly listened to the sound of Mike reorganizing the clutter to make room for the bubble wrap.

Suddenly, I heard the sound of a loud gravity driven thump, followed by a whoosh.  And then nothing, absolute silence.  “Miiiikkkeeee”, I yelled, rushing across the house toward the attic opening.  “Mike, answer me!”, I yelled again as I neared the opening.  Then, from behind me, I heard his voice.  He was swearing like a drunken sailor.  I stopped, turned around and looked……up.

I had run right past him.  His leg was hanging through the ceiling between the living and dining room.  And he was mad as Hell.  And I was even angrier.  He may have been in pain and stringing together profanities in a nonsensical order but I could form sentences.

Me:  “What the hell?  What do you think you’re doing?  I told you to be careful?  What happened?  You ruined the ceiling!”

I looked down.  There was debris everywhere.  On the rug, on the shelves, in the potted plants, everywhere I looked.  Deep down, I knew something like this would happen.  I took a deep breath and regained my composure.

Me:  “Are you alright?”

Mike:  “Well…….yes.”

Me:  “Hold still.  I’m going to take a picture.”

Mike:  “#&%*@…………….”

As I tried to take the picture, I couldn’t stop laughing.  Mike was complaining and asking me to hurry.  When I finished, he extracted himself from the ceiling.  He made his way out of the attic to survey the damage in the living room.  And when he saw it, he was angry again.  I reminded him that he was not seriously hurt and I did not have to call 911, as I have no idea how the paramedics and firemen would have pried him from the attic.  Most certainly, they would had to cut a Mike sized hole in the ceiling to rescue him and that would have been a major repair job.  Mike grumbled at my suggestion that it could have worse.  He moped about the rest of the day.

It’s a week later and Mike still feels that I am partially responsible for the hole in the ceiling.  Yeah, yeah, yeah, it’s my fault.  You see 10 years ago, Mike had found some thick large wood panels that I had stored in the garage that he wanted to use as flooring in the attic.  I wouldn’t let him use them (assembled together, they are a 10′ x 10′ mosiac art installation from my very first workplace).  And since Mike wouldn’t buy wood if we had wood, we reached a stalemate.  Oh, and we can’t forget that Mike insists that it’s all my clutter in the attic.  No clutter, no hole in ceiling.

livingroom

He’s wrong, of course.  And Karma’s a bitch.  You see many years ago, Mike banned me from the attic because he told me that I was careless and if I was left to my own devices, I would fall through the ceiling.  Since I didn’t want to argue, I agreed to stay out of the attic.  A few hours later, I heard a loud crash and found that Mike had placed his foot through the ceiling.  And it had nothing to do with wood stored in the garage or clutter.  Luckily that time, it happened in a closet.  Many years later, that hole awaits repair.

closet

In the end, I have a house that looks like landmines have detonated in the ceiling. And photographic evidence of Mike’s blunder.  And I can’t forget to thank Joel for the bubble wrap.  It’s all a reminder that life with Mike is never boring.