Stains Happen - Unless You're In Denial

Sometimes I really don’t know who the hell I think I am. This morning I attempted to get all high and mighty with a container of lusciously red pomegranate yogurt. You know the kind with the foil lid and little pull tab?

I bellied up to the kitchen counter in my crisp white, just pressed T-shirt. Yes, I’m a little OCD about laundry (thank you, Mom). I've been known to iron my T-shirts and jeans. Not my kids’ or PB’s, mind you. Just mine.

Anyway, as I lifted the foil, this small, conscientious voice in my head said, ‘You know, you really should be opening this away from your mid-section.’

But that other voice, the one that likes to act like a big-shot, wouldn’t hear of it. Before I could shut it up, it ordered my brain to signal my hand to pull the lid. Then SPLAT. Guess what was dripping down my white T-shirt?

Just who do I think I am?

Did I learn my lesson from the night before when I found myself making tomato sauce while wearing my favorite, pale lavender sweater? The one that I’d just washed on delicate, hung-to-dry, steam-ironed, then placed in my closet as if it were one of those prop pieces of clothing you see in the floor displays of those do-it-yourself closet stores? It looked so good dangling from its padded hanger that I actually stood back and admired my handiwork for a few seconds.

A Zen moment – that didn’t last.

Because, of course, that night at my stove, in my lavender sweater, the tomato sauce I was making left a constellation of tiny orange dots across the front. And I knew.

There would be no escaping the ritual of trudging down the basement steps, taking my place in front of the washing machine and spraying my clothes with stain remover.

Part of being in denial, of course, is promising to change. Coming up with solutions. Aprons, perhaps. Or changing my clothes. Maybe I should start listening to the voice in my head, the one that knows what she’s talking about.

But, no.

I always go right back to where I started. Diligently washing and ironing my favorite items, then hanging them back in my closet, where I’ll stare at them for a moment of bliss.

Until, that is, the next time. When I drip balsamic vinaigrette or ketchup down my front.

(Image of ketchup-stained shirt courtesy of kevinthecoolguy.com)

Listening To The Sound Of One Acorn Crashing

This is the lounger I bought at the beginning of summer. I got it because I thought maybe, just maybe, if I had such an item in my backyard, it would entice me to...um...lounge.

Even though, I’m really not the lounging kind. But I’m working on that. That’s why I bought the damn thing, right?


By the way, don’t you think it looks great with my cushions? I’m always admiring the shot of color it brings to my garden. Like the way a Buddhist monk’s saffron robe adds some fire to a Zen setting.

There’s no doubt about it. I like my lounger, I really do. It’s just that I’m always admiring it from afar instead of while I’m in it.

Like from my kitchen window as I’m doing the dishes. Or, if I do get outside, as I'm sweeping up the millions of acorns falling like whistling bombs from our ancient oak tree. Or in between holding my breath while picking dog shit off the lawn. (Just for the record, I don’t recommend oak trees. And I strongly suggest thinking long and hard before acquiring a dog.)

So anyway, here’s the part where I come clean. I’ve probably sat my ass down in this lounger, oh, about three times this whole summer. And that could be an exaggeration. Actually, it is.

However, last weekend as I was walking down my street to the corner deli, my eyes almost popped out of my head. Through a screen of fir trees, I spied my neighbor Kara. She was on her own backyard lounger, reading a book. Yes. Reading a book.

Why is that so astounding, you’re probably wondering? And if you’re not, just humor me okay? It gets really lonely out here in the land of Blogs are Us.

Because, I’ll tell you. Kara is even more Type A than I am. Not only is she extraordinarily busy running her very successful design business, I know for a fact that she irons every stitch of clothing that comes out of her dryer. Even her sons’ t-shirts. Oh yes. I'VE SEEN HER AT HER IRONING BOARD.

So. If Kara can put down the iron and sit outside in her lounger, so can I, damn it!

With you as my witnesses (yes, that would be you, my twelve faithful followers), here’s the promise I’m making to myself. I will NOT let this beautiful pre-fall weather pass without taking a few moments out of my day to sit in my lounger.

Uhhh, okay. That's too much pressure. Maybe every other day. And, if all I manage is ten holy minutes listening to the wind rustling through the leaves and a trusty acorn (or more!) crashing down, I will consider this lounger worth every penny. And then some.

Shopping For School Supplies (AKA My Psychotic Break From Reality)

For the past week, I’ve been scrutinizing this crumpled list and carrying it around to numerous chain stores and mom-and-pop shops in search of the binders, notebooks, pens and pencils that meet its rigid specifications.

In my attempt to track down the required items, I’ve cursed at this list (why does the glue stick have to be PURPLE?). I’ve witnessed other parents as dazed and confused as myself cursing at their lists.

And I've reached a conclusion. Behind this seemingly innocent piece of paper is a hidden agenda. This back-to-school ritual of procuring student supplies is one thing and one thing only. A giant “f*#k you” from teachers to parents.

Oh, yes. Believe you, me. It’s payback, pure and simple. Teachers want the final days of summer vacation to be as miserable as possible for parents. Because all too soon (and not soon enough!) it will be their turn to deal with our little darlings.

“You think you can hand your brat over to us that easily? Not so fast! Before he'll even be allowed to step foot in my classroom, you must stalk down a ONE-subject, WIDE-ruled, SPIRAL-notebook. PERFORATED. And may you shiver in your shorts in the over-air conditioned supermarket aisle, desperately rifling through notebook after notebook until you find EXACTLY the right kind.”

“And you. That’s right, YOU! How dare you leave your back-to-school shopping until the very last minute? What, did you have a tennis match or something? Well, don’t even THINK about having a Labor Day weekend. You will search the picked-over shelves of every office supply store within a 30-mile radius for four sets of binder dividers. That’s right, four! With WRITE-ON LABELS! Because anything else just won’t DO!”

Now, a saner person might say I'm reading a little too much into this. That it's time to get a grip. And I might have to agree because 11 a.m. really is too early to be feeling the need for a glass of wine, isn’t it? So let me take a closer look at this list. All right. Maybe it's simply meant to be a guide. It's entirely possible that the 4” by 6” COLORED index cards don’t have to be SPIRAL-BOUND.

Big Man, watching TV in the living room, overhears my attempt at positive self-talk. Without taking his eyes from the screen, he says with the wisdom gleaned from three years of middle school, “You really should get what they tell you to get."

"Why is that, honey?" (Finally! The method to this madness is about to be revealed!)

In his best "don't ask, don't tell" tone, he answers, "It’s just better that way.”

And the voices start up again.

“What, Chloe??? Your notebook is THREE subjects???!! It doesn’t have perforated pages???!! To the shark-tank!!!”

“Excuse me, Max? Just who do you think you are??? Your D-ring binders are 1.5 inches not the specified 2 inches???!! Call the guards!!!"

Looks like I'll be making one more trip to Staples. Right before I check myself in.