So, there are a few things that I am a little neurotic about. And you're all like, "Yeah, and the sky is blue…"
The one that I'm about to describe has followed me for as long as I can remember—I'm talking back to my preschool days. It was a little game I played every time I got in the shower…and get your mind out of the gutter. I'm talking about the shampoo to conditioner ratio, and my game was to see if I would reach the end of each bottle at the exact same time.
Over the years, I have become a little meticulous in the way I dispense the hair products, always looking for ways to achieve that perfect balance. I now buy them in the liter size (which can be rather pricey with salon products, but they last forever…or…months). I bought a set of pumps to use with them.
The pumps were a happy accident. I bought them because I had vivid thoughts of slippery, soapy hands losing grip on heavy bottles and equally vivid thoughts of bruised toes. It turns out, they are also a much easier way to measure how much I use! When I had long hair, it was two and a half pumps each. With my shorter coif, it's an easy single pump. This is a very scientific part of my day, you'll understand.
When my husband started asking questions about my shampoo, I didn't think much of it. I stopped trying to figure out how his mind worked years ago. Eventually, he spit out that he's been using it. Nick doesn't use conditioner. I was going to get to the end of my shampoo before I was at the end of my conditioner, and life might just end. I was devastated. He, not realizing just how big of a deal this was, was taken aback. However, his uncontrollable laughter came along shortly.
To compensate, I've been using a 1:2 shampoo:conditioner ratio. Even then, I have no way of knowing how long he's been dipping into my supply, or how many pumps he uses. In nearly 30 years, I have never known such a breech in my unspoken code. My chi is decidedly off-kilter.
Several weeks ago, I bought myself a Kindle. It was a controversial buy for me because I like books—you know, like the kind with pages that you have to turn? But, during those long days after my hysterectomy when I was stranded on the couch (which might as well have been an island in the middle of nowhere), understanding dawned.
My brain was alive and well, leaping through fields of new wildflowers and shouting with rapture to be so aware of everything. And then there was my body that was looking and feeling a little worse for wear. So I had a ravenous mind trapped inside a vehicle that just didn't want to move.
I quickly devoured the majority of the unread books I had on the bookshelf. Then what? I was in no condition to be on my feet very long much less take myself anywhere. I was tortured by the idea that if I just had some sort of e-reader, I could have all the words money could buy right at my fingertips. The intense desire made me feel cheap.
So, when I had a little post-surgery scare and was feeling very down, I gave in to the urge because I was tired of fighting it. I felt like I needed to hide the box under my shirt as I walked from the big box store; I felt like I was selling out.
The Kindle has been within arm's reach ever since coming to live with us. I have read about 15 books on it now, and it does serve its purpose well (though I still think real books have their place). However, I have noticed some odd behavior from my condo-mates. Both of them have been coquettishly pawing all over me—you know, more than usual. Granted, one of my condo-mates is a cat, and she acts all jealous and bids for my attention whenever I seem to be occupied with something that isn't her. But the behavior of the taller, more human one surprised me.
The other night he snuggled up to me, resting his head on my shoulder. "Whatcha reading?" He stayed there for about a minute reading with me before mumbling something about boney shoulders and got all huffy as he turned away. Another time, he kissed me just as I was pulling out the Kindle. And he continued to kiss me before growling against my lips, "You're still holding the Kindle."
So, I realize that I'll have to become a little less transparent with my Kindle time. I'll have to figure out when I'll have the condo to myself do all my Kindling then. I'll have to wait until he falls asleep at night before stoking the Kindle fires. Somehow, the sneaking around makes my relationship with the Kindle feel a little tawdry—but not tawdry enough to end it, obviously.
Do you know how I can tell when work turns me into a total stress monkey? Suddenly I have a lot of opinions about the people sharing the road with me on the drive home, and very few of them are friendly.
I love my car, absolutely love it. I bought it almost five years ago now, my aunts coming along with me to the dealership for moral support. I have had several people tell me over the last five years that the car looks like a Laura car. I'm not really sure what that's supposed to mean, but I've decided that it should mean that I am cute and sporty. I have had trouble sticking to a name for the car. I've christened "car" with several over the years, but I always forget what I had decided on and call her Sally instead. My very first car was a 1988 Chevy Celebrity which I also named Sally.
I did put some thought behind that first car's name. It had something to do with Mr. Wilson Pickett, as I recall…
Maybe every car I will ever drive will be a Sally, and maybe I just need to be okay with that…because you know what? That cute Mazda3 feels like a Sally.
Shortly after buying my car, a coworker came to me for my opinion because she was looking at the same car. Sure, it was rated one of the top consumer choice cars that year, and the mpg rating for 2006 was unreal…but that's not what I told her. I told her that it would make her an intensely angry person as it had done to me in those short few months. "No one else on the road will be able to go as fast as you or as quickly." She bought it the next day.
But I wasn't lying. There are times that I actually seethe—SEETHE!—when there are slow cars in front of me, slow cars next to me, slow cars as far as the eye can see. Generally speaking, I am not prone to these ragey tendencies…unless my irritation threshold has already been lowered significantly by my corporate environment.
When this situation constructs itself, it isn't pretty. I talk to the offending traffic aloud in my car, using the best of my sarcasm and ironic wit in a setting where no one can actually hear me or take offense (but it sure as hell makes me feel better).
"Oh, okay, so you don't have anywhere better to be? Gotcha. Let's go slower then."
"Why are your brake lights on? We're going, not stopping…I think simple training may be the source of the communication breakdown we're having."
"Curious that you couldn't wait to pull out behind me, yet you seem to be in no real hurry at all."
"Um, hello. Red Car here. MOVE. I can't hold 'er back forever."
Yes, the conversation flows quite well when I am frustrated with work. By no means would I act on my irritation or even deem it worth a swear word…but I find my one-sided conversation quite fulfilling. I always seem to be in complete agreement with everything that I am saying, and it salves the crossness to have such a staunch ally.
We carpooled today. Walking from my office building, the sun was cheerfully bright. I slid into the passenger seat.
I tend to encase myself in things that sparkle. It's not a conscious decision: I veer into glitter quite naturally. I imagine myself as an old woman dripping with ostentatious costume jewelry. I'll look gaudy, sure…but I figure you can blame anything on senility.
While I am biding my time, since I am still in my 20s (well, for another 22 days), I do try to keep it tasteful. Nick, fully aware of my tendencies by this point, gave me the perfect ring when he asked me to marry him. It's made of Hearts on Fire diamonds, and I think it's the most beautiful piece of jewelry I've ever seen (I may be biased).
It's that very ring, with its immoderate sparkle, that usually causes problems in the car. When the sun catches the stones, a shower of blinding glare drops rains across a myriad of surfaces. Once it starts shining into Nick's retina, he feels obligated to tell me to make it stop.
So during the commute tonight, with that cheerfully bright sunshine, I thought I merely had to cover my left hand and did so without even being asked. But only, it didn't work. The glare drops continued to shower the interior of the car. The directionality of them was difficult to decipher. I looked down and noticed that my necklace had both a mirror ball and a largish prism. With my left hand, I grabbed the offensive necklace bits.
No good. My rings were exposed again. I sat on my left hand again and grabbed the necklace with my right hand. In frustration, we still saw that splash of potentially problematic glare.
Sigh.
My earrings were mirror balls. So, sitting on my left hand and covering my necklace with my right, I lifted my shoulders to hide my ears. I sat there like that for awhile, humored with the situation—especially when it occurred to me that an easier solution would have been to simply remove all jewelry from my person.
Nick and I were brought up differently in the art of dishwasher usage. He's a rinser; I am not. When one of these types of conflicts arise, I tend to fold. Why you ask? Because even though I'm playing nice, I know in my heart of hearts that I'm still right. I think the word is indulgent.
This is one that I just cannot accept. It does not appeal to my time management mentality in the slightest because the cost-benefit analysis doesn't work out. Why waste your resources to do the same job twice? It's inefficient and just plain ridiculous. I know that there are many who disagree.
We did not pre-rinse in my household. I think this is important to note because my mother was crazy-fastidious with housework. She became inarticulately happy when the house was perfect. I even posted a picture of a clean kitchen floor once at her supplication. And even at this level of manic cleanliness, we let the dishwasher…you know…WASH THE DISHES BY ITSELF. She remains my barometer for what is and is not acceptable to get away with in the corner-cutting of housework.
Nick is a faithful rinser. Dishes are rinsed so completely that I'm not convinced that they still need to be washed. As he has noticed my reluctance to give in this time, he has slowly given into the dark side—though with very strong and very loud verbal protest that he is doing so against his better judgement.
He unloaded the dishwasher this morning. Pulling a bowl from the top rack, he screamed by righteous proclamation as he noticed oatmeal remnants stuck to the side, "THIS IS WHY I RINSE! WHEN I RINSE, NOTHING COMES OUT OF THE DISHWASHER DIRTY!" I cocked an eyebrow and watched his snotty little tirade with disinterest.
He failed to thank for for saving him all that time: instead of having to wash the entire load of dishes before putting them in the dishwasher, he only had to re-wash one dish after the dishwasher was finished. The time savings was significant. Managing this man is a thankless job.
