Is There Room for Me?

This week I heard, yet again, “Your life would be better if you were more organized.”

This is undoubtedly true.

But sometimes I wonder if my disorganization is not merely a bad habit but an actual genetic feature—like my brown eyes and my SUV hips.

There’s only so much you can do with genetics. Sure there’s exercise and cosmetic surgery, but do people get personality lifts? I suppose they call that counseling. And, yes, I’ve been told I need that too.

Apparently, I should be spending more time in the self-help section at Barnes and Noble and less time in fantasy.

But I’m not the only one out there. This guy, for instance, probably knows what it’s like in my loosy goosy noggin.



I seem to be cursed, ahem, blessed, with lots of very organized friends. They do things like plan meals a month in advance, put their kids to bed at 7 o’clock every night, and scrapbook.

My life would be better if I did all those things. But just as I don’t have the genes to be a figure skater, nature, it seems, also left out the domestic management skills.

Is there anyone else out there like me? Do you feel like a failure because you don’t know what you’re having for dinner next Thursday night? Will your sons’ future wives look at you in disgust when you don’t hand over eighteen color-coded, cloth-bound, perfectly-journaled memory books at the rehearsal dinner?

Am I all alone here?

Or, is there room for women like me, who—even if they did know what was for dinner a week from yesterday—would decided at 5 pm Thursday evening that beef stroganoff sounds yucky and chicken quesadillas would be much better?

Maybe you’ve thought about joining a support group for deviant women who don’t find fulfillment in cropping photos. NOT that there’s anything wrong with scrapbooking. Believe me, if I could make my hips smaller and my picture memories neater, I WOULD!

I guess I’m just looking for some sisterhood here. Can I get an ‘amen?’ Someone in the back, would you raise your hand and confess along with me that your kids were up until 9 last night on a SCHOOL night?

Or you can just leave me all alone, up in the front, singing “Just As I Am” at the top of my lungs. It’s okay. I’ll lead the revolution. But if you ever want to share your fall from the pantheon of domestic goddesses, shoot on over to my blog and leave an anonymous comment.

Like,

“Today I wore two different shoes and didn’t notice until 2 o’clock.”

Or,

“For dinner we had leftover mac n’ cheese, a can of fruit cocktail, and half a bag of gummy worms.’

Or,

“I forgot my camera and didn’t take one picture at my kindergartner’s play. And instead of staring through a lens, I actually got to watch my son be Carl the Cart-wheeling Carrot.”

Go ahead, let me hear it!

Valentimes

Yes, I wrote –times on purpose. Monkey and Chunky still call it Valentimes Day, which I find funny.

Sunday’s the big day. Are you looking forward to it? Me neither.

Have you noticed that American holidays are all about candy? Now, I have nothing against candy, but instead of packaging the same chocolate-covered marshmallow goo in a Santa shape, then a heart, then a shamrock, then an egg, and so forth, why don’t they make a generic holiday chocolate blob? After all, that’s sort of what Americans are turning into, right? Generic holiday blobs.

Michelle Obama thinks so.

Side note: I’m so glad Mrs. Obama is going to make the elementary school provide vegetables so my kids will have another opportunity to refuse to eat them. Now I can share my mom guilt.

Ok, I’m not really a Valentine’s Day hater. I know some women detest the annual love fest because some guy in their past has gotten it horribly wrong. I don’t blame them. But I’ve never experienced the dreaded V-Day/D-Day. Sure I had some romance-less Valentine’s Days.

Once my boyfriend equivalent called to tell me he thought about sending me flowers. Yeah, that was touching. Actually, I didn’t care because I’d just bought myself some really awesome combat boots. What can I say? It was the nineties. I had a crush on Doc Martin. I guess I needed this shirt.

Kory and I have had some fun Valentine’s Days. In fact, we kissed for the first time on Valentine’s Day. Awww! And one year we made our own pasta, and he gave me a dozen roses, and I dragged him to see Titanic for the third time.

But now we don’t usually make a fuss over the day. Our anniversary is in January. So we’ve just celebrated our relationship and love and all that mushy stuff and when Valentine’s Day comes around, it just seems redundant. I mean, no one needs that much love, do they?

Last year I came up with an idea that I think is a nice, sane alternative to overpriced flowers and chocolate. I suggested we buy each other music for Valentine’s Day. Actually, it’s kind of a personal gift, don’t you think? You have to put some thought into it.

Naturally, I haven’t put any thought into it. I have no idea what CD I’ll buy him this year. But I’m absolutely sure he’s completely forgotten about our new tradition, so at least I’m one step ahead of my husband.

Which brings us to another holiday tradition: The Valentine’s Day Expectations/Guilt Cycle. Usually women are the perpetrators. We buy something really over-the-top for our guy, knowing full well that he isn’t even aware it’s February, let alone that Cupid’s celebration approaches. Then we present it to him on the 14th and watch him squirm. Why are we so evil? I suggest we all go buy a pair of combat boots, or whatever shoes make you happy, and call it good.

How about you? Do you hate Valentine’s Day? Love it? Do you have any super memories to share? How about not-so-super memories?

Let’s regurgitate all our pink and red nonsense and remind ourselves that showing love is meaningful any day of the year. Except, maybe, February 14th.

Oh, and if any of you know my husband well enough to know what CD he’d like, please clue me in.