Confessions From the Edge of Hoardingtown

January 31, 2013

Are you a hoarder or a purger?

I pride myself on being a purger. I ruthlessly throw things away or donate them because clutter drives me batshit crazy.  I torture my husband over the things he likes to keep.  Like those roller blades I have never once seen him wear.  And the boxes of CDs that are pretty much obsolete.

Last year, when we cleared out our storage pod from the basement renovation, I came clean with my confession that I do have a soft spot for hoarding memorabilia and personal artifacts.  I showed you my Time Capsule of Random Crap.  I thought that was the end of the story and the true limits of my hoarding tendencies.  I remained, in my head, a Purger Extraordinaire in all other aspects of life.

Wellllll.   Maybe notsomuch.

In what can only be described as Early Nesting on Steroids, I recently started a massive room-by-room organizational sweep of my entire house.  In this process, I’ve had no choice but to stare my anti-hoarding policy in the eye and see where I’m failing.

It turns out there are a few other caveats to my purging mentality.  

1)  Dish towels and table linens.  I am as intrigued by this as you are.  What the hell?  Looking at the collection I’ve amassed, one might get the distinct impression that I adore doing dishes.  Or that drying my chaffing, soapy hands on a wide array of colored, festive towels is a big priority for me.  One need only spend half a day with me at home to realize this is not so.  Related — and equally mystifying — is the large array of placemats, tablecloths and cloth napkins I’ve uncovered.  You know, for the dinner parties I host about once a year.  Apparently I like to have options with how my formal table is set.  This is beyond comical for someone who serves 99% of the meals here on Disney character plates to people who think their hands make excellent utensils.

2)  Pantry food.  It seems I may have watched one too many apocalyptic movies and have subconsciously decided that my family can outlive any End of Days scenario in perpetuity — as long as we stay in our renovated basement, complete with a fucking mack daddy pantry.  Pasta.  Condiments.  Snack foods.  They exist in copious amounts — it’s like shopping at a mini Costco {without the free samples}.  If I had a therapist, I would clearly be told this all has something to do with optimizing the newly finished basement that nearly drove me to electric shock therapy.  If you or your family are in need of a cereal bar or some goldfish crackers — or even a spare ketchup, please do stop by anytime.  I’ll load you up — complete with a free commemorative dish towel.

3)  Again, memorabilia of any kind.  As previously discussed, this is where I have a borderline clinical hoarding problem.  I won’t spend more time today rehashing the passed notes in high school, the college ID cards or the concert ticket stubs I’ve saved.  Today, let’s cover a newly emergent problem area in the Nostalgia Junkie category: Kids’ art projects.  And by “art,” you know I mean unrecognizable scraps of yarn and cotton balls peppered with paint and some glitter from pre-school that are supposed to come together as a self-portrait of a two year-old.

So I need to discuss this.  Because I started throwing the art projects away yesterday and I was awash with guilt.  Where to draw the line between childhood memory preservation and Hoarders: The Next Generation?  

First, I decided to make some guidelines.  I would not save everything, damn it.  I would only hold onto projects with a handprint or other personalized details {versus the generic Happy Flag Day banner, for instance}.  The rest would go.  Because I’m a purger.

Well, that narrowed my stash down to about 6,000 pieces.  Because I underestimated how much pre-schools use a child’s handprints in their projects. It’s hard to be exact, but the unit of measurement is the shit-ton.

Having made little progress, I began to consider renting out a separate studio apartment to house the kids’ art.

At that point, I should have turned to Pinterest to learn how to turn all of this construction paper madness into a stand-alone Earth-friendly storage system or exquisite door mural.  Instead, I went to Facebook with my problem — where real people hang out — and with my plea not to call in a TLC reality show crew.

I got some great suggestions.  First, I was told to take photos of all the projects and collate them into a lovely commemorative photo book.  I’ve heard this suggestion before and it sounds perfect.  Unless you’re me — the slacker who is still trying to get her 2011 vacation photos into some form of keepsake.  Another Facebook friend jokingly suggested a massive collage — which, in my case, would equate to wallpaper throughout my house, and possibly seeping into my car and neighbor’s garage.  That seemed labor-intensive.

So here’s where I’m at:  The purger in me needs to take over and just start tossing most of it away.  If caught by my kids, I plan to blame Jingle, our Elf on the Shelf.  That little pain in the ass needs to take accountability for something around here.

And this is where you guys come in.  I need two things from you.

  • Do not suggest any “creative and fun ways” to store this stuff.  Listen, I know some of you are crafters.  I respect that.  But I’m not.  I don’t own a glue gun and I don’t have the crafting gene — it’s totally missing from my DNA.  So, please, resist any urge you have to guide me into a life of crafting.  That would make you a hoarding enabler.  And you don’t want that on your conscious, do you?
  • What I really want is this:  Collective, moral, parent-to-parent permission to throw this stuff away.  Not all of it. But, yes, a lot.  I hope you guys will be here for me in my hour of need.  Tell me you threw it away.  Tell me I’m not leaving the precious memories of my kids’ childhoods out in a garbage dump to languish.

I know I said I needed two things from you but I lied.  I need three.

  • Tell me what illogical things you hold on to.  Unless it’s finger nails or cat hair in a jar.  I can’t handle that and I might have to call the local authorities on you.  But if you have a little hoarding secret that’s not pathological, spill it here.  Please.

Because, after a good look at my tendencies, here’s what I think:  I’m still willing to call myself a purger.  Damn right I am.  If I see something and it’s clutter on a surface within my house, it stands no chance.  It’s out the door before you can say “intensive therapy.”  But clearly I should re-examine what I box up and keep in the guest bedroom closet.

Or, ignore it and live by a very wise saying:  Out of sight, out of mind.

{Not to be confused with, “If you know someone with a hoarding problem, please call TLC.”}

_______________

On a separate note, did you see my post over on Scary Mommy last week?  No?!  Please check it out.  Bring your passport, credit card and a diaper bag — I’ll explain when you get there.

 

 

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Filed Under: Borderline Neuroses, That Which Drives Me Crazy 26 Comments

Disney World Planning Fail

January 23, 2013

Every December 26, I get the Post-Christmas Blues and, to combat them, I begin to plan our family trip to Walt Disney World in March.

I followed the same timetable this year and got my flights/hotel squared away.  Then I made the mistake of blowing off the dining reservations until last week — an ungodly seven weeks prior to our arrival.

This is pretty much Disney Armageddon.  The End of Days.  The Death of Tinkerbell.

Now, before you Disney veterans begin breathing into a paper bag, I should tell you that I know better.  I’m a seasoned WDW traveler.  And while I’m not the WDW Extremist who books my trip six months in advance, I have found that two months out is generally OK if the dates don’t coincide with Spring Break.

I just procrastinated with the dining this year.  And now I’m paying for it.

I don’t believe in planning every single meal at WDW in advance, but there are key restaurants/experiences I want to nail down ahead of time.  And then there is some ratio where I’m willing to wing it with some fast food-ish (aka Quick Service Dining) options.  That’s OK.  If it’s part of the plan to do that.

Let me illustrate exactly what you don’t want:  No plan at the stroke of 5pm, when your kids declare they are starving at the same moment that everyone else in Central Florida reaches the same realization.  

Because, at that point, you are left with these choices:

–Accept a hot pretzel as your fate for dinner, served by some 15 year-old in an awful costume who chirps, “Have a magical day!”

–Wait on some line for 45 minutes to eat at The Craptastic Desperation Buffet.  {I don’t think that’s the official name, but I’d have to check.}

 

Not willing to fully embrace this destiny for three meals a day over five days, I have come up with some alternate coping mechanisms for breakfast, lunch and dinner.

1.  Research a secret loophole for using FastPass in restaurants.  Screw Space Mountain, I want the front of the line at Chef Mickey’s breakfast.

2.  While in a crowded, enclosed space {presumably, waiting to go on a ride}, start a loud and highly plausible rumor about “those unfortunate findings” in the kitchen of Cinderella’s Royal Table.  “I mean, at first I thought the mice were part of the act, but…”

3.  Begin to fabricate false memories of how tasty the buffets were.  Maybe that dried out meat and side of Goofy pasta really was worth the $30 per person.

4.  Wonder how long the family can subsist on the illegal stash of cereal bars I have smuggled into the park {ssshhhhh, they’re watching}.

5.  Drop hints to the kids that eating lunch with a Disney character is overrated.  Suggest that Mickey and Cinderella are egomaniacs who  steal children’s french fries.

6.  Rationalize the money we are saving by sacrificing sit-down meals.  After all, a series of $8 hot pretzels is way more economical, paving the way for the irrational purchase of various overpriced memorabilia in the shape of mouse ears.

7.  Secretly scheme a pregnancy-related blood sugar crash in front of my favorite Disney restaurant during peak dining hours.

8.  Tell my family that, starting on this vacation, we’ll be juicing as part of a new health kick.  Assure them that the dizziness will pass.

9.   Consider cheating on WDW with dinner at Universal.  Risk being locked out of our WDW resort upon our return.

10.  Embrace the Vacation = Ice Cream philosophy to an extreme by feeding the family those delicious Mickey-shaped ice cream bars at every meal.  Praise myself for the parenting knowledge to offer significant dairy supplemental value to my growing kids.

 

There.  I feel better already.  I think these strategies will work, if it comes down to it.

But, just in case, I’m on hold with the WDW Dining Reservations Line as I type this — ready to execute my alternate plan:  Begging.

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Filed Under: Entertainment, Family, Food & Drink, Holidays 8 Comments

My Cirque du Soleil Audition

January 22, 2013

 

The residents of Fordeville are on Flu Lockdown after my son was diagnosed over the weekend.  Since he has sneezed on me no fewer than 487 times in the last week, it’s only a matter of time before I get it.  So, as a warm-up to my clearly impending misery, let me tell you about another form of torture I experienced just before lockdown.

In a few weeks, I’m attending a very nice event that requires me to dress up.  Usually, I embrace something like this.  It gives me an opportunity to go shopping and find something to wear.  And even shower.

It’s a little different at 20 weeks pregnant.  My options are far more limited.  I mean, I don’t want to spend much money on something that will fit me for all of four days.  As for going the Duchess Kate route and famously re-purposing something I already own — well, I don’t think my yoga pants are acceptable, even in a bedazzled state.  And I’m saving my muumuu debut for the town pool at about 38 weeks pregnant.

So I was pleasantly surprised to find a simple, elegant — and of course, black — maternity dress that I felt comfortable in, yet was not shaped like something out of the Breaking Amish Mother-To-Be Collection.

Score!

Having completed my purchase, I felt victorious and relieved.  And then, I saw them.  On my way out of the store — on the rack out of the corner of my eye.

Maternity Spanx.

At first, I was confused.  I mean, what’s the point?   There’s no pulling in this stomach, at least not without industrial or surgical equipment.

But, ever the curious consumer {and clearly stalling to drag out my alone time in the mall}, I took a closer look.

Hmmm.  Why, yes, I would like to pull in my bottom and streamline my legs — all while giving my growing mid-section some forgiving room for expansion.

In what I can only describe as a second trimester moment of low blood sugar, I was sold.  I purchased the Maternity Spanx.

Anxious to witness their slimming effects, I immediately took them out of the package when I got home.  I began to try them on.

After gently sliding them over my hands, I wondered if maybe I purchased the wrong size.  I  mean, I’m no stranger to regular Spanx, but these — they seemed awfully restrictive.  Like barbed wire.

I checked the package.  Nope, I had the right size.  And so I started again, gathering them carefully around my ankles.  The trip from big toe to ankle took about six minutes.

Wow, I had a long way to go.  I checked my calendar to make sure I didn’t have to be anywhere for the next 25 minutes.  Did I have anything on the stove that could burn while I’m trapped in this compromising, chain-gang-like position?

I continued.

By the time the Maternity Spanx were up to my knees, I was winded.  Yes, my legs were slimmer, but I was concerned about my circulation.  I wondered if I should talk to my OB about this before proceeding.  Or maybe a hematologist.

The knee-to-hip journey was perhaps the most challenging.  Now, I work out about three times a week, and yet this task had me in a full sweat.  In fact, I only have to exercise twice this week after the calories I burned in my Maternity Spanx application.  And I feel I’ve earned that extra cookie, if not an alternate spot on the US Women’s Gymnastics team.  Better yet, I think I have just mastered the audition process for Cirque du Soleil.

My God, this was exhausting.  Despite leveraging my years of intensive ballet training, I. just. couldn’t. get. these. things. all. the. way. on.  And where was that bottle of water I swore I had on my nightstand?

Finally, success!  The Maternity Spanx were fully in place.  I took a minute to rest from the cardio impact of my efforts and regroup.   Once I adjusted to the lack of oxygen flowing to my brain, I thought the result was pretty good.  I looked at least eight ounces lighter than I did half an hour ago, when I began this P90X situation.

After all that, I considered just sleeping in them, as I was far too exhausted by the thought of reversing the process.

Thinking ahead to the lovely event I’m attending, the fate of my Maternity Spanx is unclear.  I hate to waste the money I spent on them, but I’m just not sure I can repeat this exercise in torture.  Plus, it would cost even more to have the ER cut me out of them if necessary.  Do you think my co-pay would cover that?

But, then again, looking eight ounces lighter is appealing in my current state.  Maybe I’ll take what I can get — even if I can’t get up from my seat without medical assistance, just for the night.

 

 

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Filed Under: Entertainment, Knocked Up, That Which Drives Me Crazy 21 Comments

Pimp My Ride

January 18, 2013

The lease on my car is up next month, and so I find myself looking at what my next vehicle should be.  Given the amount of time I spend in my car, I feel like I’m shopping for a house.

Thankfully, my husband — the King of Research & Due Diligence — has narrowed our search down to approximately 26 different models based on our criteria.

And what are these criteria, you ask?  Well, of course we are looking for the typical things like safety, comfort, convenience and affordability.  And room to fit the expanding family.  But, really, I have a wish list of other features that are perhaps a little harder to come by.

And that’s where the search gets challenging.  What do you guys think of some of these features I’m hoping for?

Eyes in Back of Head Feature.  Like all moms, there is only so much of my kids’ shenanigans I can safely view in the sliver of the rear view mirror while driving.  So I’d like to upgrade to a model that gives me a full view of who really started it so I can respond accordingly.

Extending Limb Feature.  Mom, I dropped my {insert item here — book, snack, shoe, etc}.  Mom, can you hand me my {insert item here}?  Mom, I need to put my mittens on.  What I need is that extending robotic arm that can retrieve and distribute said items with precision and safety.  Also, if needed, the Extended Limb Feature can swat a misbehaving kid on the head who is seated in the third row — all without me taking my eyes off the road.

Time Suspension Feature.  This may be out of our price range but it’s a worthwhile investment, in my opinion.  On the 365 days a year I am running late, I would simply activate this feature, which would set all clocks back to a desired interval in order for me to appear to reach my destination on time.

Snack Mold Disintegration Feature.  You know how you find remnants of old snacks and — gasp — sippy cups of milk tucked under the seats, maybe weeks later?  No worries.  My new car will swiftly locate such items and prevent mold from forming.  I know you want to carpool with me now, don’t you?

Music Ban Feature.  Certain overplayed artists make me want to hit a tree and are, therefore, unsafe for my driving experience.  With this feature, my car will pre-emptively detect and block any and all music by Taylor Swift and Adele, for starters.  I will add to this list over time, but these are the primary safety essentials.

Eject to Time Out Feature.  This is really reserved for top-of-the-line vehicles — I need to save up to make it part of my next ride.  As tempting as it can be every now and again, we all know that you can’t safely eject an annoying child from the vehicle.  BUT, what if — with the push of a button — you could have a misbehaving kid’s seat repositioned to a time out spot in the car?  Why I’m not working in vehicular R&D is a mystery to me.

Husband Navigation Lock Feature.  It’s true that many cars have navigation systems, but do husbands ever use them?  Notsomuch. Their DNA forces them to resist.  So, what if navigation was automatically locked in the ON position when the car detects your husband in the driver’s seat?  And, what if that navigation was programmed to a voice he would listen to?  I mean, he will tune out the annoying standard navigation voice, but if, say, Bob Costas was giving him directions — he might actually stay on course.

So that’s what I’m looking for in my next car.  Just a few extra conveniences.

I’m not sure why every dealership says I’m so picky.  I think, next time, we will do a three-hour test drive with a car salesman and my two kids — and then we’ll see if I’m still being “unrealistic.”

 

 

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I Was Here First

January 11, 2013

M E M O R A N D U M

TO:            Residents of Fordeville

FROM:       Señor, Head Household Pet and Chief Bacon Officer

DATE:         January 11, 2013

SUBJECT:   Family Expansion

* * *

I know the last time I wrote a letter, I got a little heavy-handed and involved my legal team, which may have been overkill.  I admit, I did that in a moment of rage.  This time, I’ve decided to take a more personal approach with my plea by using the family member-to-family member approach.

{But please know that I will call in counsel if I have to.}

Sooooo, I hear that you’ve decided to bring a third human child into this household.  Congratulations.

I’m sure remotely hopeful that we can all live together in peace, but you won’t mind if I suggest a few ground rules, right?  Because, honestly, I don’t remember you ever mentioning any of this family planning when you brought me home nine years ago and I was the center of the fucking universe.  You remember those days, right?  Treats on demand.  Long walks in the park.  Saturday afternoons at the dog run.  Birthday presents that entailed more thought than a crappy drive-by at Petco on your way home.  Yes, the glory days.  Or, more specifically, The Bacon Years.

 

Anyway, shortly afterwards, you went on to marry that nice guy who always gives me treats.  And he has been a very good addition.  We totally have a mano-a-mano thing going.  But then, things changed.  To be precise, it was at the moment the two of you started bringing home unauthorized human children.  And I really thought that two was plenty, but clearly my vote counts for nothing anymore.

The point is this:  I think I have been fairly adaptable up to this point.  But, I am aging, and I have become a little more ornery over the years.  So let’s just get a few things on the table about how I’ll survive this new arrival.

1)  I’m going to need my own room.  I mean, I totally appreciate the various beds I have stationed throughout the house for my personal comfort {that last one, at Christmas — the memory foam gig — nice touch, but it’s not going to keep me out of your bed at night}.  But, look, much like the concept of the man cave, I just need my own area to relax and decompress from the events of the day.  Ever since your kids became mobile and vocal, I can barely get in 20 hours of sleep a day.  Do you know what that does to my mental health?  So I was thinking — that new basement you guys pimped out?   I’ll just take that and make it my own.

2)  Again, I’m not a pony.  I hear you, now and then, casually telling your two children to remove themselves from my back and that I am not, in fact, a passenger vehicle.  It’s a nice gesture, but maybe you could put some real effort behind that message — you know, like when they try to scale the Christmas tree?  Surely you realize they both outweigh my 22 lbs.  Are you trying to kill me?  Let’s just nip this in the bud with the third kid and give me a three-foot radius of solitude on a 24/7 basis, OK?

3)  More bacon.  I hear that, in your pregnant state, you are craving bacon.  This is good news that warms my little heart.  It seems that we’ve finally found an aspect of this situation that is mutually beneficial.  As you know, bacon is my favorite thing on the planet.  And yet, you deny me in an ongoing effort to have me maintain a healthy weight.  Lady, we both know that ship has sailed.  I don’t want to hit below the belt, but can I assume that I won’t be the only one around here with a few extra rolls soon?  So let’s just enjoy the next five months of Fordeville Baconfest together, shall we?  It may be an opportunity for us to re-establish our bond, like the good old days.  And don’t try to fool me with that bullshit turkey substitute.  I want the real deal.

* * *

I don’t mean to be harsh.  It’s not that I don’t get any enjoyment out of your kids.  In fact, I’ve really come to appreciate the benefits of their horrific table manners — because they result in a gold mine buffet for me on the floor {I believe you call it The Swiffer Effect}.  And they are total suckers for my “go get me a treat” face.

We’ve reached a pretty good place, I think, overall.  Even if they have no concept of volume control.  I count my blessings many days that my hearing is going.

Anyway, I think my requests are simple enough.  We can all co-exist if everyone remembers one important thing:  I was here first.

Otherwise, I’m so out of here.

 

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Filed Under: Family, Knocked Up 11 Comments

Secrets & Lies

January 7, 2013

I decided that I should start out 2013 on the blog by coming clean.  Because there are some things I’ve been keeping from all of you.

One big thing, really.

 

No, we did not order a tadpole online.  I know the photo isn’t great, so let me spell it out.

Yes, coming in June:  Chaos, Party of Five.

I’m pretty impressed with myself that I’ve kept this under wraps for 17 weeks.  And, while I’m at it, here are the other secrets that go along with it.

Essentially, if I’ve talked to you in person in the last three to four months, you should know that these things were all happening:

1) I almost vomited on you.

2) I probably fell asleep at some point in our conversation.

3) I seriously considered stealing any food you were holding right out of your hands.

Because the first trimester was pretty much like being simultaneously narcoleptic, carsick and starving.  24/7.  I was in a constant fight with myself over whether I was going to throw up or eat my own hand.  But then I’d fall asleep mid-thought until this cycle repeated itself every six minutes of the day.

So, those are my secrets.

There were also lies.

Mainly, any and all ongoing references to alcohol consumption.  Lies.

Obviously.

That was just my feeble attempt to not totally blow my cover.  {And this is where we could debate how sad it is that not having a glass of wine nearby would easily sell me out.}

So I’m a fraud, basically.  I’ve been stripped of my wine glass and weaned down to one normal-sized cup of regular coffee a day.

As for life without wine, the truth is this:  Every time I am pregnant {and this is my third ride on this Carousel of Madness}, my body develops a strong aversion to wine.  As in, I can smell it from across the room and I am repulsed by its existence.

This is what is known as Divine Intervention.  And this is what allowed me to get through things like Hurricane Sandy, the chaos of the holiday season and the release of the new Taylor Swift album without consuming alcohol.

You should know by now that I’m not what you’d call a religious blogger, per se.  But I think I just offered you proof of God’s existence.  If you’re looking for that sort of thing.

There it is.  Now it is all out there.

{Except for the part where my husband said he’d leave me if I had twins.  But don’t worry, it’s just one baby.  Which is good, since him moving out over the Christmas holiday would have been awkward.}

We might be a little crazy to have a third child.  I am considered — according to the very prominent red letters stamped across my medical file — Advanced Maternal Age.  If you missed the incessant reminders back in May, I turned 40.  I will be 41 when I deliver.  For those of you not trained in the medical field, that’s apparently the equivalent of about 113 in fertility years.

And my husband is older than I am.  I can’t talk specifics, because it’s not really polite to disclose another person’s age.  I am classy like that, so I will just give you a range.  He is currently somewhere between 45 and 47.

Yeah, we did all that math about how old we’ll be when this kid graduates from high school.  We crunched the horrific numbers about the cost of college.  And we discussed the concept of retirement {retire-WHAT?}.

But, at the end of the day, it was really the simplest math of all that spoke to us:

4 + 1 = 5.

You may accuse me of doing this for blog fodder.  I mean, it’s true — it does provide for really some good material.  But as much as I like all of you, I’m not sacrificing any remaining definition of my waistline merely for your personal entertainment.  For bacon cravings, yes.

Or, you can say I’m always trying to keep up with the Kardashians.  Or copy Duchess Kate.  But I’m due before both of them, so let’s just be clear:  This was my idea first.  Minus the media sensation part.

It was none of that.  We just wanted one more passenger on our journey to Crazytown.

And we’re really excited.

So, stay tuned.  I am feeling much better now.  I won’t throw up on you and I probably can stay awake through our conversation.

But, be warned:  I am still going to steal that food right out of your hands.

 

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Filed Under: Family, Knocked Up 33 Comments