Monthly Archive for November, 2009

Page 2 of 4

Confessions of a Casual Perfectionist: Day 22

nablo1109.120x90It’s NaBloPoMo Day 22!

Today’s confession: I have created an effective Queue Management system that creates less stress while providing more drama, and when we’re talking about movies, more drama and less stress is always a good thing.

My husband and I love watching movies. Even before we had a child, we’d rather watch movies at home on our entertainment system than go to a crowded theater and be forced to watch a movie straight-through without pausing to use the bathroom. Of course, we enjoy a night out to the movies every once in a while, and some movies are best seen on the big screen, but we love watching movies at home.

In my opinion, the only way to truly enjoy the process of watching movies at home is with Netflix, an online video rental service. Our lives have been so much easier after having ditched the local rental store and joining Netflix over six years ago (April 2003…can you believe it!?). Things are peaceful here. Life is good. We have no rush to return movies we may or may not have had time to see. We no longer have to search through rows and rows of movie titles only to find the last copy in the hand of the person standing in front of us in the long check-out line.

With Netflix, we choose the movies we want to see from their online database. Those movies go into our list, or Queue. They have varying plans available, and we happen to be on the 3-at-a-time plan, meaning, we have three movies at our house at any given time, all for one low monthly rate. (Disclaimer: Although I sound like a commercial, Netflix is not a sponsor here, and any ads you see on the sidebar for Netflix are purely coincidental.)

When we’re done watching a movie, it goes back in the pre-paid envelope and in the mail. (I’ll give you three guesses as to who is in charge of that…and the first two guesses don’t count.) We live super-close to a major distribution center, so we get the next movie on our list within the span of two days. No late-fees. No lines. No stress. The only drama comes in the mail in the form of a DVD.

Sometimes we rock out and watch all three in a weekend, and sometimes one gets stalled while the others get watched and replaced, and sometimes we go on vacation and they sit there. No harm, no foul. We’ve rented more than enough movies per month to more than beat the cost of the typical video rental place by a landslide.

They recently added an “Instant Queue” that we can access through our Xbox 360, and we love it! Television shows, classic movies, and even new releases are all there, and they don’t count against the number you have at home! At times, though, it’s not very “instant” when we realize we’ve spent longer looking at the movies than it would take to actually watch one.

We can also rate movies that we’ve seen, and then Netflix uses magical spells and mathematical algorithms to suggest movies we may enjoy watching as well. We’ve rated over 1,500 movies (1,543 at last count), so they have a lot of good data to crunch. Sometimes, it suggests some really good movies, and other times we wonder just what kind of people they think we are.

There is also a Friends Section, where you can invite your friends to see your movie choices and ratings. We have a lot of friends on our list, and this can work in a couple of different ways. We have some friends who really like the kinds of movies we like (for the most part), and we always trade movie suggestions back and forth, usually with good success. We also have some friends who really have the opposite taste in movies. The suggestions we get from them usually say, “We hated this movie. You’d love it! You have to put it in your Queue!” Whatever works; that’s what I say.

My husband teases me, but here is the key to getting newly released movies to arrive at your door within hours of their release to DVD: Effective Queue Management. I have it down to a science, and he can make fun of me all he wants, but it’s because of my system that we always have the newest movies in a timely fashion.

Here’s how it works:

  • When we see a trailer for a movie that looks interesting (and, actually, with trailers these days, all movies look interesting…so this is getting tougher and tougher to judge), I log on to our account and save the movie in the Saved section of the Queue. That way, I can forget about it for the time being and go on with my life.
  • I can casually keep an eye on the Saved part of the Queue, and when the movie gets closer to actually being released, a date will pop up, and it will automatically be moved to the bottom of the Queue.
  • I can then move those movies up to the top, or wherever I want, if I so choose, and just wait for the date to arrive.
  • The final key to getting this to work is making sure we have an opening for the new movie. We can watch a movie or two and turn them in, just in time to fill that opening with the New Release we’ve been wanting to see.
  • And, voila! Odds are, the next movie in your mailbox will be a newly released DVD!

Luckily, my husband and I have the same taste in movies…for the most part. There is a large portion of the movies that we both really like, and then each of us has our own kind of movies we enjoy. As the one in charge of Queue Management, I try to be fair in the movie selection that arrives at home, and keep these things in mind. I try to make sure we have a varied selection of movies from which to choose throughout the week.

He may not always believe me, but I really do put all of his specific requests at the top of the list. See? Aren’t I nice? His problem is he needs to make his requests out loud, and not in his head. I may be an expert at Queue Management, but my mind-reading abilities, though getting much better, are still a little lacking.

Confessions of a Casual Perfectionist: Day 21

nablo1109.120x90It’s NaBloPoMo Day 21!

Today’s confession: I never really worry about something dreadful happening to my daughter’s stuffed-lovey, because we have an exact replica hidden in a secret location, and they trade places often.

Puppy is Claire’s lovey. He’s a stuffed little puppy we got from a friend for Claire before she was even born. Because I was a [paranoid] safety-conscious first-time parent, I wouldn’t let her sleep with anything (not even bumper) in her crib until she turned 1yr old. Then, I saw to it that Puppy and Claire spent a lot of time together, because I knew she’d fall in love with some lovey, and I wanted that lovey to be small and manageable. It worked! (for both of us!!)

Puppy in Drag in a Ballet Bag

Most recently, Claire started dressing puppy in Baby Ariel’s onesie, and she made him wait in her Ballet bag during class last week. Then, she told me to take his picture. Puppy smiled so nicely, just like he always does. I can’t tell if he’s embarrassed by his outfit and predicament or if he’s happy he looks so big in this tiny bag?

Puppy and Claire have had many, many adventures together.  Puppy has been Claire’s confidante and partner in crime for years now.

So, as a perfectionist, how am I handling life knowing that at any time, something dreadful could befall Puppy, thus upsetting the delicate balance of sanity we have in our household?

It’s easy: Puppy has a stunt double.

It’s true! Puppy and his twin have been trading places for over two years now. In fact, I’m not even sure which is the original Puppy and which is the one we got when we realized that life without Puppy would be terrible for everyone involved if something horrifying happened to Puppy.  (Not knowing which is which does make me twitch a little, but I’ve come to terms with it…because if I can’t tell, that means the trick is working!)

At first, I switched them out every other week or so, so they’d get the same wear and tear. Then, it became once a month. Then, just last month, I realized I hadn’t switched them in a while, and when I went to do so, the plump stunt double peering at me from my secret drawer made the current Puppy look exhausted and in terrible need of a massage and a bath!

This time, I made the switch when Claire was in school. She asked if I’d given Puppy a bath, and I told her I had. It wasn’t technically a lie, since a version of Puppy was in the washing machine at that very moment, unbeknownst to her.

Puppy and Claire were once inseparable, and she still has days like that. Now, that she’s almost 4-years old, there are times when she can go a whole day without even asking about Puppy if she’s busy with other things. It just depends. Once bedtime rolls around, though, Puppy and Claire drift off to dreamland together, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

When will we tell her there’s another Puppy? I’m not sure. We’ll burn that bridge to the ground when we get there. In the meantime, I spend my days knowing that it doesn’t matter what happens to Puppy, because there’s another one waiting in the wings, and that is the epitome of casual perfection if I’ve ever seen it.

Confessions of a Casual Perfectionist: Day 20

nablo1109.120x90It’s NaBloPoMo Day 20!

Today’s confession: Sometimes I’m the one who wants chicken nuggets for lunch.

Seriously. Is that so wrong?

Confessions of a Casual Perfectionist: Day 19

nablo1109.120x90It’s NaBloPoMo Day 19!

Today’s confession: My daughter told everyone I had a boyfriend named David.  Our imaginary relationship lasted for over a year, and I missed him when he left me.

I’ve been meaning to write about this for years, and now I finally have a chance.

Almost two years ago, my husband was doing a lot more traveling for work than he normally did. So, it’s only natural that I got lonely and found a boyfriend. Kidding! I did get kind of lonely, but I didn’t find a boyfriend.

My daughter found one for me.
The catch? He wasn’t real.  Honest!

One day, when my husband was home, Claire told him that Momma had a boyfriend.

“Really?” he said with a smile. “What’s his name?”

“David,” she said matter-of-factly.  This was news to me!

“Oh, really?” he said with a bigger grin. “What does he look like?”

“He’s a tall black man. He wears khaki pants, and he’s really nice.”

“Really!?” he said. “What kind of hair does he have?”

“Oh, he doesn’t have hair, Daddy. He’s bald.”

Thank goodness my husband isn’t the jealous type.

Oddly enough, I’ve always had a thing for bald men.

“When do you see David?” he asked.

“Oh, he comes over every day!” she said. “Momma has a boyfriend named David!”

We all had a good chuckle…and I thought that was the end to the story.

Until she started telling everyone this. Everyone.

She was barely two years old! She’d say this to strangers and friends alike. I’d blush and deny it. I’d laugh a nervous laugh. “Kids!” I’d say. The more I tried to deny it, the guiltier I sounded.  Most people didn’t realize that Claire was as verbal and imaginative as she was. She had to be getting this from somewhere, right?

They shouldn’t have been so surprised. She’s always been very verbal (putting together sentences by the time she was 17-months old), so that wasn’t the shocking part. The shocking part was the fact that she was consistent in her description of David. Every. Single. Time.

“Momma has a boyfriend, and his name is David.” (At this point, Claire wasn’t familiar with any Davids, so we’re not sure where she got the name.)

“David is a tall black man.” (her words)

“He wears khaki pants.” (I had friends amazed she knew what khaki was, but what can I say? If Claire said David wore khaki pants, he wore khaki pants.)

One of my friends who lived on the East Coast wondered if it was someone she’d seen, like a mailman or a UPS guy or some other delivery person that would come to the house. None of our delivery people match that description.

We didn’t let her watch much TV before she was two, and the shows she may have caught in passing didn’t have any characters that matched David’s description.

I was at a loss…so I decided to embrace it.

We all pretended that David was my boyfriend, and, imaginary or not, our relationship lasted for over a year!

David became a daily topic of discussion. My husband would call me to tell me when he’d be home early “so that David will have a chance to leave before I get there,” he’d say. “I mean, talk about awkward!”

“Let me know if you’re going to be late,” I’d tell him before he left for work. “If you are, maybe David can pick something up for us to eat on his way home.”

My sister would send me random texts about David, asking me what he got me for Valentine’s Day, etc.

David and I were an item for over a year, and then one day he stopped visiting…just like that. Claire said she hadn’t seen him, and that was it.

It was over: no calls, no messages, no nothing. Jerk.

Part of me kept telling myself that something must have happened, because that just wasn’t the David that we’d all come to know and love. The other part of me wondered what I’d done to upset him.

Imaginary or not, my feelings were real!  Or not.  It took a while, but I got over it.

So, David…wherever you are, I hope you had as much fun as I did. It was fun while it lasted.

Confessions of a Casual Perfectionist: Day 18

nablo1109.120x90It’s NaBloPoMo Day 18!

Today’s confession: I used to be a wizard, and I had a dragon as a pet.

Okay, okay. It wasn’t just one dragon, it was two. One was tiny and the other quite large, and both were very dangerous if you didn’t know how to control them. Okay, fine. They weren’t really pets, so much as they were my minions. Okay, okay, fine.  Once a wizard, always a wizard.

Wait. What? Yes, it’s true. In a former life, I may or may not have been a wee bit obsessed with a tiny little card game called Magic: The Gathering.

“Obsessed” has such a negative connotation. I mean, it wasn’t just a card game. It was a way of life. It’s woven into the very fiber of my being.

See? I wasn’t obsessed at all!  *cough*

How did this all begin? The year was 1994, and I was smack-dab in the middle of my college career. One of the guys I worked with at my summer/college-break job was really into a little game called Magic: The Gathering, by Wizards of the Coast. He’d talk about how he’d stay up ‘til 4 in the morning playing this game, and I just didn’t understand how that was possible. I mean, a card game? Really? Can keep your attention that long? Really? Then, one night, during college break, after our shift, he asked me to join them.

It was like nothing I’d ever seen before, and I was hooked. Because I’d never played before and didn’t have my own cards, I played with a borrowed deck. I caught on very quickly, and I can’t even describe to you how much fun it was. I had a group of friends back at college that would totally love this game, so the day I got back to campus from break, I told them about it. They seemed intrigued. The four of us walked to the local grocery store that just happened to have a machine that sold gaming cards.

Our future was set into motion with every chu-chink of the coins that disappeared into the slot.Cover MtG book

From there, we studied the game. We played every day. We built our decks from the cards at the grocery store, or we even made special trips to the “real” gaming store. There was a whole new world, and it was incredible. There were people who paid real money for single cards. (We were poor college students, so we were very careful with our money, but every now and then we’d splurge.)  There were tournaments. There were whole clubs devoted to this.

We created our own circle and immersed ourselves in the game. There are five “colors,” in the game, and they all focus on different powers:

  • Red – Red power feeds on the vast energy boiling deep in the heart of the mountains.
  • White – White power draws its vitality from the untouched open plains.
  • Blue – Blue power flows from the islands and thrives on mental energy.
  • Black – Black power comes from the swamps and bogs.
  • Green – Green power gets its life from the lush fecundity of the forest.

There were also “artifacts,” which were “magical devices that have certain effects on the game,” and the basic land cards were “the most common kind of card and usually provide the mana, or magical energy, for all your spells.”

MtG book(Yes, in honor of full-disclosure, I have this written on the dividers in my Card Collection Binder.  Yes, I have all five colors represented on the cover and binding of my Card Collection Binder, along with the different covers to the packs we played. Yes, Magic: The Gathering is still going strong! I can only imagine how far they’ve come in the last 15 years…the cards I have in my collection are classics!  But, for the record, I didn’t take my entire collection with me everywhere.  I carried my deck in a special container and left my collection in a safe place, like any good wizard would do.)

Because I have red hair, and because I’d learned to play with a red deck, that was my focus.  (Even then, years before moving to the mountains, I was enthralled by them!  How funny…) My three other friends took over blue, black and white. Every once in a while, we’d have a guest play with us, and they played green. You can also mix the decks, and I had a really fun Red & Green deck that I would play, too.

Every color doesn’t have to be represented when you play, but it really made the game come alive!

We turned ourselves into wizards every night, and we even had special names to match our personas: I was Alma Lanasa, The Fire Wench, with my Red Deck of Death & Destruction. Blue was mastered by llyana Akh-Elamshin, Mistress of the Deep. Black was controlled by Mordain Soulforger, Lord of the Abyss, and the White bases were expertly covered by Zara Adriana Jessamine, Enchantress of the Lunar Light.

This game was like chess (which I love!) mixed with a role-playing aspect. I was playing with theatre majors, after all. Everything was a production, and I loved it. The voices, the animated dramatic play that followed a particularly niMtG Quotece card move, the quotes. Oh, the quotes! The quotes still pop into my head, and it’s been 15 years.

Back in the day, I even printed a quote and put it on the back of my Card Collection Binder. Yes, Serra Angels speak with a slightly German accent, especially when flustered. Just so you know.

For a few hours a night, we were yanked out of our stressful college lives and placed in a world where we were in total control of our creatures and our powers, and it was awesome.

So, if the evenings were full of impromptu Magic tournaments and the days were full of work and classes, when did I have time to create the perfect deck? Well, it really helped that I had a particularly boring Western Civilization class toward the beginning of my Magic career. This was the class that the professor’s lectures were comprised of him reading the exact chapter to us that he’d assigned as homework the previous class. I kid you not. So, why go to class? Because I went to a small private college, and if you didn’t show up in class, people would check in to see if you were okay.

So, I’d go to class, and I’d take diligent notes…on how to construct the perfect deck. Seriously. I’d use my time to work out deck plans in my head, and I’m not talking about the deck that adorns a domesticated house in the suburbs. I’m talking about the Red Deck of Death and Destruction.

It sounds so gruesome, but it wasn’t. Not really. It was beautiful.

I devised the perfect ratio of creatures, spells, artifacts, enchantments and mana so that regardless of the seven cards in my hand, I was a force to be reckoned with.

I tweaked it to perfection.

You couldn’t play all mana, or you’d be attacked from all sides and have no creatures to defend yourself. You couldn’t have powerful creatures on the board and no mana or they’d be useless. The battle started with the very first round, so you had to be ready.  How big could your deck be to support what you wanted to do without being bogged down? How lean could it be so that every hand was useful?  Deck perfection was a science, and I was really good at it.

Your mind had to be sharp. You had to quickly play out all scenarios in your head before making a choice. The card you played next could save your life or end it just as quickly. The card you played could blindside your opponent in the blink of an eye, and vice versa.

Not only was Magic a science, the cards were pieces of art. We all had our favorite artists and cards. Artists like Quinton Hoover and Liz Danforth were my favorites.

We created moves that should be patented. A Stone Giant throwing a Kird Ape at a Serra Angel and then finishing it all off with a bolt of lightening? It was perfectly choreographed poetry. It was magic.

I craved it. I needed it. And, after college, I missed it.

After college, I longed to play, but in the real world, there isn’t much room for a wizard and her dragons. When I found out my boyfriend (now husband) had a deck and knew how to play, I was ecstatic! Another one of our friends also had a deck! Sweet!

“You played Magic?” they asked.

“Well…” I said, not sure how to tell them that I hadn’t played Magic, so much as lived Magic. “Yes. I love Magic: The Gathering.”

I told myself I’d take it easy on them. I would try to hold my dragons in check so that we could have a nice, long, leisurely game.

They were both dead within 3 minutes.

Once I got started, I just couldn’t help myself! Not to mention, my little Nalathni and Shivan were hungry. They hadn’t eaten in a long time! Dragons need to eat or they get cranky.

I had shown restraint!  I’ve killed off opponents in quicker time than that; trust me. The games I played in college went on much longer than that, because we all played a good game. We all played with powerful, well-mastered decks.

This time, I was playing with amateurs who thought this was just a game, and these were just cards. Silly boys.

“Let’s try again,” I suggested, happy that I still had it in me. “Here, shuffle.”

Again, I had no choice but to put them out of their misery much too quickly for their egos.

I don’t know which shocked them more, the fact that this innocent looking Liberal Arts major had her own deck of Magic: The Gathering cards or that she really knew how to use them.

Then things got ugly. Alma Lanasa may or may not have come out with a triumphant yell. My opponents whimpered like big sissies. I may or may not have laughed at them while calling them big babies. One of them threw one of my cards. “Let’s see how your Shivan flies now…” he said. No one throws my Shivan Dragon card and lives to tell the tale. There is no throwing of the cards in Magic! These aren’t just cards. They represented the best years of my college experience. Have some respect!

Needless to say, we didn’t play Magic again after that. It was just better for everyone that way. (Well, better for everyone except my poor, starving dragons.)

It was a sad and bittersweet realization that what I had can never truly be revisited.

Those nights and early mornings of Magic were some of the best of my college days…of my life. The bonds we created in that circle will never be broken. We’ve all since grown up, moved away, and become rather un-wizardly. But, deep inside, The Fire Wench is still there, and she’s powerful. And every now and then, she gets out her book of cards and plays with her dragons.

Confessions of a Casual Perfectionist: Day 17

nablo1109.120x90It’s NaBloPoMo Day 17!

Today’s confession: I don’t like holiday decorations.

There. I said it. I don’t like holiday decorations. Not only that, I’ll take it a step further. I can’t stand holiday decorations. Would “hate” be too strong a word? I’m probably not going to make very many friends with this post today, but this is about confessions, and this is a timely one.

I don’t like holiday decorations in my own house.
You can do what you want in yours.
Yes, your decorations look lovely.

Luckily, my husband doesn’t like decorations either, so for years, we lived in a decoration-less house, and it was awesome. For years, we’d say, “We have kitties! We can’t have all those decorations out!” or “We travel for the holidays, so what’s the point?”

Those were true, but they were all just excuses we had for not having a tree and for not being so “festive.” And, we loved every minute of it.

I have a box of ornaments from my childhood, and I’ve experienced the magical glow of a lighted tree…but I just don’t want to decorate. I hate getting everything out. I hate putting it all up. I hate taking it all down and putting it all away.

So, we didn’t.

Then we had a child and decided not to travel anymore for the holidays, inviting all our relatives here, so we had to pretend we actually like decorations.

I’m very good at pretending to like all this, so some people who read this will be shocked. I try to keep my feelings to myself, and my husband is the only one who gets to hear my grumbling and muttering when it’s time to drag out all the decorations. Lucky him.

I was [tortured with] surrounded by holiday decorations as a child. My mom would decorate every square inch of our house, starting the day after Thanksgiving and they would stay up until January. I’m not kidding.

My mother-in-law also takes great pride in her decorations and her tree.

Sometimes I feel like I’m all alone in my feelings. I like the way our house is decorated now. We’re rather minimalistic as it is, but it’s exactly the way we want it. I don’t want to change it, just because there’s one holiday or another right around the corner.

All this being said, if I have to decorate, I’ll admit that I do have a fondness for snowmen. People have given me various snowmen artifacts and paraphernalia, and they are cute and festive. I begrudgingly dig them out, dust them off and display them. I spend a month trying to keep them clean, straight, and unbroken. Then I dust them off, pack them up and try to fit them back into the space we have allotted for them in the storage closet with all the other decorations. And for what? Because decorations make people happy?

I guess decorations do make me happy…when they’re all packed away for another year.

Confessions of a Casual Perfectionist: Day 16

nablo1109.120x90It’s NaBloPoMo Day 16!

Today’s confession: I have a super power, but it’s only effective in the winter.

Longtime readers of The Casual Perfectionist may recognize this story, as I’ve written about my super power before, but considering we got another 10+ inches of snow over the weekend, I think it’s time to revisit it as one of my confessions.

I love sweater weather.
I love sweaters.
But, all my sweaters have to be cotton or a synthetic blend, because I can’t handle wool.

And, “can’t handle” is putting it mildly.

I can tell you with a single touch whether or not something has wool in it. Not only does it have a distinct feel, but the wool makes a sound in my head. It’s a jarring, unpleasant noise.

I can tell with a mere touch.

Wool is scratchy to me. “Scratchy” is putting it mildly. It makes me itch with a feeling a thousand times worse than a mosquito bite. It feels as though it’s prickly and rough and has sharp pointy edges. Even the softest looking wondrous wool sweater feels like shards of glass.

Yes, even cashmere and really good-quality wool.

So, imagine that feeling combined with the irritating sound screaming in my ears, and you might be close to understanding my feelings toward wool.

Close.

I don’t think I’m allergic to wool. But, sometimes I say that. It’s easier than trying to explain what really happens in my head. And all over my body. I don’t break out in hives, but I may as well, because the urge to scratch off all my skin is very real. I can wear Lanolin hand-cream, so I guess I’m not really allergic. I’m allergic to my reaction to wool. But, at this point, that’s just a semantically technical detail.

“Would I like to wear that scarf? No thanks. I’m allergic to wool.”

See? That’s much easier and I don’t sound quite so…

What’s the word?

…oh, yeah. Crazy.

I remember when I was a little girl, my grandmother gave me the most beautiful wool blanket for my bed. It was a smoky-bluish color. It was gorgeous. It was such a thoughtful gift, but I had to give it back. It couldn’t be on my bed without causing me to scratch myself into a fit. Even through the sheets I could feel it buzzing, and just touching it with my hands to adjust it was a horrible experience.

I remember wearing one of my mother’s wool skirts. If I had a slip on, I was kind of okay, but I still had troubles with that little tiny part of the hem that would hang down and brush against my leg, and if I didn’t have a shirt tucked in, the waste band would threaten to eat me alive.

Against my better judgment, I do have a wonderful wool coat. If I have my scarf or collar adjusted just right and my sleeves pulled down, I can be out in public without having a panic attack. But, I have to concentrate. This coat is worth the sacrifice. Few things are worth the suffering. It’s lined and gorgeous.

And so warm! I wish I could wear wool! Really, I do!

One of our friends didn’t believe me when I told him I was hyper-sensitive to wool. One day, while shopping with us, he kept asking my husband if the hats on that table over there were a wool blend. My hubby looked at me with a smile.

“You’re asking the wrong person,” he said nodding over to me. “I can’t tell, but she’s the one with the super-power. Ask her.”

“Super-power? What do you mean?”

“She can tell you in a single touch which ones are wool.”

My friend didn’t believe us. So, I showed him. I went through every hat on the table, only touching once.

“Wool, wool, wool, not-wool, wool, not-wool, wool.”

And, so on. He double checked the labels, and I got every one of them right. He thought that was pretty cool…and helpful. He asked how I did it.

“Well, can’t you hear that?” I’d say.

“Hear what?”

“That shrieking noise. Wool makes a horrible noise in my head. It’s kinda like a screeching REEEEEEEEEEEE noise,” I said while curling my fingers into claws and scratching the air.

He just shook his head.

“Plus, can’t you feel how scratchy these are??”

He insisted they were soft. All of them. He honestly couldn’t tell a difference.

My hubby has me find wool socks for him, so he’s familiar with my abilities, but when he’s not bragging about my super-power, he likes to torture me. He likes to give me bear hugs in his beautiful sweaters. His beautiful scratchy horrifying sweaters.

One night, as I was screaming and trying to escape his clutches, Claire asked what was going on. I told her that Daddy was trying to rub his sweater on my face. Not wanting to sway her opinion either way about wool, I didn’t say why I didn’t like it.

“I wanna touch Daddy’s sweater!” she shrieked.

So, she did.

“Claire, was that soft or scratchy,” he asked.

“It’s scratchy!”

Maybe she’s inherited my super-power. For her sake, I hope she hasn’t. I hope she’s been spared. Time will tell, I guess.

In the meantime, I’ll cuddle under my fleece blanket in my nice cotton sweaters and synthetic-blend socks. And, you can have the wool.

Thanks, but no, thanks. I’m allergic. ;)

Hey, that blogger looks familiar.

I’m featured on Mamapedia today!

I'm a featured blogger on Mamapedia Voices

Go check it out!

Confessions of a Casual Perfectionist: Day 15

nablo1109.120x90It’s NaBloPoMo Day 15!

Today’s confession: Nine years ago today we eloped. Kinda.

Today is our 9th Wedding Anniversary. We’ve lived together almost 13 years! It’s amazing how quickly the time flies by when you’re having fun. I’m so thankful to look back over the last decade-plus and see such happy times. There have been some struggles here or there, but at the end of the day, every day for almost 13 years, we’ve ended the day on the same side.

We were just as committed to each other the day we moved in together as the day we got married, so that’s why I always honor the total time together.

In the state of Colorado, you are allowed to officiate the ceremony yourself, and that’s just what we did. By the time my husband officially proposed, we’d lived together almost 4 years.

Why wait so long? Why not?

We weren’t in any hurry.

I’m a perfectionist, but I’m not a traditionalist. Neither is my husband, so we make the perfect pair! By the time we decided to tie the knot, we’d been in 10 weddings. We were all traditional-wedding’d out!  We are firm believers in doing what is best for you.  All those weddings were awesome for the people who wanted that.  We didn’t.  It isn’t who we are.

Our new lives and home were in Colorado, and the thought of going back to the Midwest for a traditional wedding ceremony just wasn’t who we were.

We didn’t want to waste money on a big to-do, knowing that it wasn’t what we wanted.

He proposed at the end of September, and we set a date in Mid-November to make things official. I’ve always had an affinity for 11:11, so we wanted to get married that day. Unfortunately, the 11th is Veteran’s Day, so the courthouse wouldn’t be open. The next logical day was the 15th, so we took it. Plus, getting married in 2000 had its advantages. The last two digits of the year are how many years we’ve been married. Simple!

Why so quickly? Why not?

We put the plans into motion. We ordered announcements with a gorgeous mountain cut-out scene on them. We were going to be married at the foot of the rockies in a local courthouse. We loved the view from there.

Not everyone would be able to make it out here, so rather than hurt some feelings, we risked hurting everyone’s feelings equally. No one was invited. That way, everyone was equally perturbed.

Many of our out-of-state friends would be traveling back to the Midwest to visit relatives (just like we did year after year) over the Christmas Holiday, so we planned a Reception back there for friends and relatives.

So, on Wednesday, November 15, 2000 at around 10am, we exchanged our own vows in our apartment. We exchanged rings that symbolized what we already knew and had already been living. We drove to the courthouse and signed a paper. It was an elopement without all the secrecy.  The ladies behind the desk cheered and then got teary.  We did the same.

We hopped a plane and flew to Vegas to party for a week. A month later, during our Holiday Visit back to the Midwest, we celebrated with friends and relatives.

It was simple. It was practical. It worked out perfectly. It was exactly how we wanted it. I wouldn’t change it for anything.

Confessions of a Casual Perfectionist: Day 14

nablo1109.120x90It’s NaBloPoMo Day 14!

Today’s confession: I’m not bossy; you’re just not very good at taking direction. Okay, maybe I’m a little bossy.

I’m the oldest of four kids. I vividly remember my sister being born. I was three. Life was perfect until she came along. I remember being told that I’d have a new sibling to play with! I’d have so much fun!

Wrong.

You don’t play with babies.
They lie there.
They cry.
You can’t pick them up and try to “help” without being reprimanded.
This was not what I would call “fun.”

Life as I knew it was over.

Years later, my mom actually apologized for the way they handled the transition. “I’m so sorry we told you you’d be able to play with her right away,” she said. “We were new at the whole thing! You were our first! You were our guinea pig. We learned a lot through trial and error with you. If you remember, we never told any of the rest of you that when a new sibling came along.”

My parents were (are) great people, but I was also dropped or fell on my head a lot. (You think I take diligent notes as a perfectionist? My babybook is filled to the brim with all the sordid details, all in my mom’s handwriting.) Although that explains quite a bit, let’s just move on, shall we?

We are all two or three years apart. My baby brother, baby number 4, was born when I was eight. As the oldest, the responsibility to keep it all together often fell on my shoulders. Things had to be done a certain way in our house, and, as the oldest, a lot of the responsibility was mine.

Am I bossy because I was the oldest, or is it purely coincidental?

Claire is an only child, and I see some of my traits in her, so I’m leaning toward the genetics aspect of this condition. “Claire is a true leader,” one mom said at a play date a few months ago. “That’s so nice of you to say that,” I said, watching her lead around a group of kids. “In my day, we called that ‘bossy.’”

They all laughed, but we all knew the truth.  I am what I am, and those proverbial apples aren’t very good at bouncing too far.

There are many times when I get into a situation that the next steps seem very clear. This, this, and this need to happen in this order. It’s obvious. It’s hard for me to not step in and start taking control. It’s hard for me to step back and let people do things a different way. And that’s if there’s already a person “in charge.” If it’s a free-for-all, look out! I do try not to trample anyone on my way to the front of the line.

Sometimes, I can let it go, but if I’m stressed or otherwise preoccupied, I slip into my true mode and start barking orders in the politest way I know how. I think I’ve gotten pretty good at telling people what to do without really telling people what to do, but I could also be delusional.

Were real life a game of Survivor, I’m not sure how long I’d last before someone voted me out.

It’s a good thing I have this immunity necklace.

My husband, on the other hand, is the spoiled little brat baby of his family. He’s also very opinionated, and our “conversations” can get rather spirited at times. When we get locked in battle, an outsider would be able to see our “original positions” come into play. Personally, I think it’s good for Claire to see people disagree about things, especially if they play by fair rules, which we do. I think it’s good for her to see how the problem solving works. I think it’s good for her to see people disagree but end up at the same place in the end.

It’s also good for her to see how to lose an argument gracefully. And, yes, those are lessons she learns from her father. ;)