straight jacket

The term anal retentive (also anally retentive), commonly abbreviated to anal, is used conversationally to describe a person who pays such attention to detail that the obsession becomes an annoyance to others, and can be carried out to the detriment of the anal-retentive person. The term derives from Freudian psychoanalysis.

I once sought therapy for my anal-retentiveness.  True story.  He suggested I disorganize my color-coordinated closet.  I found that to be a little extreme.  C'mon...like I'm really going to put my yellow and pink together.  He also suggested I just sit and stare at my closet of colored chaos...really let the anxiety fester.  I followed his request.  And today I'm proud to announce...I am still anal-retentive. 

I honestly thought I was a reformed neat freak.  Just like I thought I wasn't high-maintenance.  I guess that makes me a high-maintenance anal-retentive neat freak.  Sorry, gentlemen...I am happily married.  Speaking of my husband...

Hubby:  "What is that?!?!?!?!"
Me:  "What?"
Hubby:  "That scratch on the floor!  Look at it!  It's huge!  How did that get there?  Who did it?  Why did it happen?  Our next house is a trailer."
Me:  "Really?  I don't even see it.  It's the size of an eyelash."  (a curled one with mascara on, of course)

My dear husband notices every crumb, dust particle, and scratch that surfaces in our house.  Nothing escapes him.  A few days ago I was sitting on the floor of our hardwoods and scooted back...scratching the floor with a button on my jeans.  I thought the world might end at that day.  Or I would wake up to find all the buttons ripped off my jeans. 

I suppose when you marry a man who's more anal than you are, it makes you look completely laid-back.  For some time now I thought I had turned into a type B personality, a hippie of sorts, always going with the flow, getting back in touch with my pacific northwest tree-hugging roots.  But I have to stay honest with myself and those around me.  I'm just a girl, trying to fit in, just like everybody else....who happens to enjoy a very organized closet.



I have a confession to make.  I have not wanted to admit it or even talk about it.  Denial is the best word I can come up with for this situation.  For years I've been making excuses and trying to talk myself out of what I have become.  Yes, it's time to admit...............................I am high maintenance. 

To be honest, I never thought of myself as "one of those girls".  I don't wear a lot of makeup and am definitely happiest when I'm snuggled on the couch in my sweats.  And then I had a conversation...

Julia (one of my besties):  Lisa, do you put on makeup everyday?
Me:  Ummmm...a little.  I mean, I definitely curl my lashes everyday.  And I put on a little mascara.  I won't go out of the house without blush on....or filling in my eyebrows.  While we're on the subject, I feel naked without at least a touch of pink gloss on my lips.  OK, and a dab of liner underneath my eyes, just to make it look like I got 9 hours of sleep.  But that's all.  Nothing more, really.  Oh, and I do love my strobe cream...I definitely would NOT be seen without that on. 
Julia:  Oh.  OK.  I see.  (At this point, she was trying to make me feel better...like I wasn't high-maintenance...like I haven't been living in denial)

I have had 3 c-sections.  "NO makeup," they tell me before surgery.  Oh, sure....no problem....hoping they don't notice that I really have a full face of makeup on but I've tried to make it look like I really am not wearing any. 

And another confession.  I often put on makeup AFTER I've showered but before my husband comes home.  I don't want him thinking I'm just a raggedy old housewife, do I?

Oh, and those of you that are rolling their eyes....you're probably sitting there without curled eyelashes.  And you know what?  I envy you.


Baby Snorts

I like baby noises.  You know, the way they smack their tongues like peanut butter's stuck on the roof of their mouth and snort because snot is up their nose but you don't want to get out the booger sucker because it's 3am and if you do the baby will scream bloody murder and he will wake everyone else in the house and that makes for one long....very long day.  For the record, I know that was a run-on sentence...I was just trying to get my point accross.

Let me get sentimental for a moment (if I may)...they grow up so fast.  Babies.  Yes, we have to change a lot of diapers, give a lot of baths, make a lot of dinner, and clean up a lot of messes.  But you know what?  I wouldn't trade that for anything.  Motherhood is the best darn job I've ever had.  Period.  They make me smile.  They make me laugh.  And they make me very, very happy.   

And one more thing...I actually like getting up with my baby in the middle of the night.  The house is quiet and it's just me and him.  Snorting away just like I like.


Who Moved My Cheese?

Time:  6:30ish am
Location:  Kitchen
Event:  Breakfast

Just poured cup of coffee #2 so I'm feelin' good.  It's gonna be a good day.  I'm not gonna do anything stupid today.  I'm not, I'm not, I'm not.

Goozer is standing at the fridge demanding, "dink, dink, dink".  I immediately get out his drink so no further chaos can ensue this early in the morning.  Brenden is asking for waffles and The Gooz concurs. 

What to eat for breakfast?  Done. 

I open the cupboard to get out the plates in a hurry so no one tries to Lego my Eggo. Something is out of place.  What is that doing in there? 

It was a Costco-size block of cheese.  I take it out and realize it's nice and warm...with condensation forming around it.  Looks like the cheese had a sleepover with the cups and plates.  Fabulous. 

Divert blame.  Calling hubby...
Me:  "Hey Trav, did you give the boys cheese last night?"
Husband:  "No."
Me:  "Are you sure?  I thought you did."
Husband:  "No.  What did you do?"

Side note:  I love that he automatically assumes I did something wrong.  I really have no idea why he does this. 

After getting prepped that he'll be home late due to a pit stop at Costco (for more cheese) we continue our morning eating Eggos with warm cheese sprinkled on top.


Peppermint Cookies and Gingersnaps

I had a dream that Jake Gyllenhaal was trying to convince me to leave my husband.   But that's neither here nor there.

This weekend I went to the grocery store.  True story.  I entered this new, uncharted territory with slight paranoia.  Will they know I don't belong? 

It was confirmed that, in fact, I did look out of place when one of the employees said, "Ma'am can I help you find something?"  And I replied, "No.  I just look confused but I'm really not."  I immediately held my head up a little higher, trying to exude the confidence that I was obviously lacking and bee-lined it to the deli.  Surely, I know how to order a 1/2 lb. of turkey and cheese.

It's not that we don't have any groceries in our house.  It's just that my dear husband does all the grocery shopping.  He is a bit of a, shall I dare say it, control freak.  Don't get me wrong.  I let this work for me and not against me.  While the rest of the housewives are lugging their kids to the grocery store I'm sitting at home eating bon bons.  This little anal-retentiveness of my husband's is a win/win for me. 

After my trip to the grocery store (ie. the deli and baking aisle) I return home.  I open the garage door and my husband is standing there (like he literally does every time I return home) to make sure I don't bump into the stairs with the car.  I'll save that for another day.  Anyhoo, this is where the attack of questions begins.

HIM: "Why did you get Charmin and not Angel Soft?" 
ME:  "They were on sale!" I enthusiastically say, knowing a good sale will always make my husband do heel clicks. 
He rolls his eyes.  Not impressed.
HIM:  "Well, boys, apparently we're having peppermint extract and ground ginger for dinner tonight."

I knew I forgot something.  Dinner.  At least we'll have peppermint cookies and gingersnaps for dessert.

Merry Merry Monday!


Martha Stewart

Let's get something straight right now.  I am not Martha Stewart.  I'm not even her sidekick.  When I need a button sewn my husband does it.  He gets nervous when I'm in the kitchen and makes the boys taste it before he does.  Sometimes he'll even throw out a "are you trying to poison me?" comment.  I digress.  Carrying on...

I decided my house needed more Christmas decorations so off to Michaels I went, 50% coupon in hand...or pocket, or purse...where did I put that coupon?  Anyhoo, strolling the aisles I decided painting something was in order.  Oh, this blank canvas looks nice.  Oh, the possibilities!  Now I just need some paint to match my decor and off I go.  Heel clicks anyone?

I get home, lay out some newspaper and the brainstorming begins.  I need a holiday word....PEACE?  No, too cliche.  Ho Ho Ho?  Nope...obvious reasons...I can hear my dear husband making comments on that one.  I got it!  BELIEVE.  It's perfect.  And so the painting begins...

Green metallic covers the canvas.  My toes are wiggling in delight of my craftiness.  Next, I take out the chocolate color (chocolate just sounds prettier than brown) and begin my masterpiece.  I get the "B" done and literally the hair on my arms are standing straight up because this is just too much excitement for one day.  Ahhhh...finished.  I take a step back to admire my artwork.  Maybe I can get paid for this.  I wonder if I can sell it on Etsy? 

Wait.  It's missing something.  I tilt my head to get a look with a different angle...that sometimes helps.  Darnit.  It's missing an "e".  Belive.

Now what do I do?  Maybe I meant to do that.  Is "belive" a word?  Sometimes I make up my own words so this might actually work.  Or maybe I can just do one of those arrows in between the i and the v and paint a cute little e at the top.  It's art.  It's all subjective anyway, right?

I decide not to take the easy way out for once.  My newly cleaned brushes come back out from the drying area and again I go.  Repainting my masterpiece.  Darnit.  Darnit, darnit, darnit.  Son of a gun, shucks (and other child-proof obscenities I blurt out).

I wish I had a picture of the "before".  But here is the "after"...

Happy Friday Y'all!


Dysfunctional Relationships

I admit it.  I'm the one that started it.  I take complete blame for creating this relationship.  In fact, I'm the one that introduced them. 

Binky and Goozer.  Two peas in a pod.  Binky's the macaroni and Goozer's the cheese.  They go everywhere together.  Codependent doesn't even begin to describe this dysfunctional pair. 

Today I lost Binky.  Actually, I didn't lose Binky.  Binky ran off probably getting annoyed that his counterpart has a cold and is sharing all his lovely snot and boogers with him.  I get it.  He'd rather be alone.  Goozer, on the other hand, does NOT get it.  I tried to pull a little sneakaroo on him by placing....gasp...a replacement binky in his crib before naptime.  Sound machine on?  Check.  Calming music playing?  Check.  Bunny and binky in his crib all snuggled in nicely?  Check.  Tip toe, out I go.  Nappy nap for me...yipee!  Not so fast.  That's when the screaming began.  Loud, blood curdling screaming that makes you want to either laugh or cry...sometimes both simultaneously.  Darnit.

And so the hunt begins.  Over the river and through the woods...I check every nook and cranny of our house.  Garbage can?  Nope.  Couch?  Nope.  Oh, there's a few Cheerios on the floor...they look tasty.  Don't mind if I do.  Under the table?  Nope. 

My sweatshirt pocket?  What?!?!  Really?  It was in my flipping pocket?  Nice.  And that reminds me to a similiar situation that happened over the summer...

I couldn't find Binky.  It was naptime...approximately 12:18...18 minutes past Goozer's very scheduled naptime.  Preston in my arms (FYI...he's no lightweight), I search outside under every flower and non-picked-up toy I can find.  I looked like a lunatic.  My neighbor was outside so I figured hey, I'll ask him.  Maybe Binky went over for afternoon tea. 

Me:  "Have you seen Binky?  He's blue, it says Rockstar on it..."  I say in a panic-ridden voice.
Neighbor:  "Yes, your baby is holding it," he says with a smirk on his face.
Me:  Nothing was actually said, or needed to be said at this point.  I smiled, giggled (as if the giggle would make it all better and maybe he would think I was just kidding) and slowly walked away.

And so this dysfunctional relationship continues...

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