Archive for May, 2010

Pack Rat

Some of this junk around here just simply HAS to go. We have way too much STUFF!!

So today I started cleaning out one of the storage spaces, hoping to downsize some of it, throw unneeded things away, reorganize, etc.

In that space was this certain bin. This bin has circulated around between closets, storage spaces, under beds and such and I avoid sorting it like the plague. Mostly because it’s… depressing.

I opened the lid. On the very top was a pile of all my old diaries from high school on. Not much in there is actually funny! Unless you count unconscious irony to be funny. Entertaining, maybe, but not so much with the funny. Apparently that was before I developed a sense of humor.

The rest of the bin contained clothing.

Clothing that used to fit me.

Clothing that I will never fit into again.

Yet for some reason it is extremely difficult for me to ship off to the goodwill! I mean, the goodwill is really the only place it could possibly go! This stuff is so old and out of date it would be impossible to sell at a yard sale for a quarter, but still I can’t get rid of it.

Okay, I admit, part of the reason is that when my daughters are teenagers and think Mom has always been old, wrinkly, and pudgy around the middle, I want to pull out this bin and show them the tiny little clothes and say, “HA!!”

The actual clothing can say so much more than a picture. Pictures are… impossible to give proper perspective on the dimensions of waist and hips! No, holding up the size 1/2 skirt does a much better job.

The other half of the reason for keeping these clothes is that I have a notoriously bad memory. And when I pick up each piece and hold it up, there are memories that shake off and drift over me, taking me back to other times and places.

Like the size 3 sundress I wore to my 18th birthday party. I wore a little cream sweater with it, but didn’t even need a bra.

Or THE denim skirt with the lacing up the back. I thought that skirt was the very height of fashion at that crazy little conservative college! With it was the western style blouse I wore in those pictures taken of me one year before I got married, and the two A cup bras that were the staple undergarments for me that first year of college, explaining perfectly why my future husband never noticed me.

Then there is the striped shirt I wore to the coast the day we got engaged. And the size 3 dress I wore to a friend’s wedding. There’s the size 3/4 black stretch Express pants I bought in Kalamazoo – one of the very first things I ever bought for myself at a store in the mall instead of Mervyn’s or the goodwill.

A gray sweater I used to wear ALL the time, the size 3 Wranglers I wore so often my senior year of high school, and the floral tie-at-the-midriff sleeveless blouse I COULD wear, but never got brave enough to except once in front of Mr. First Love, who almost fainted when my hair was longer than the shirt.

There was the handmade crocheted top I bought in Brazil, the SHS choir t-shirt, the tiny little black stretch short shorts I used to wear to our secret skinny-dipping spot, a blouse worn to church too many times to count, the size 4 gray stretch skirt that Sarah’s boyfriend Chris said was “too tight” across the ass and he’d never let HIS girl wear it in public, and best of all, the black skirt.

THE black skirt. The one I grabbed out of the grab box at the end of the hall in the dorm my first year of college. It doesn’t have a tag in it. It is homemade with unfinished seams and a zipper up the back that may or may not be a little crooked. It fit me like it was made for me. And it is TINY. It measures a whopping 24 inches around the waist, and it used to sit flat against my hips with a blouse tucked in.

*sigh*

Yep, as much as I appreciate the memories that come with those things, I know it is time to let some of the clothes attached to them go. I’m getting rid of more than half of it.

Just not the tiny stuff. I’ll make room for that. I got another 15 years before I can start letting that go. You know, once I’ve proved my point to my girls first! 😉

Repentance

I hereby repent, completely and fully, of the reluctance and annoyance I felt toward my SMIL’s NEED for repetitive, long drawn out weekly training to take over my position as treasurer. I thought to myself as I sat in the drive-thru line at McD’s.

Turns out I actually enjoy getting out of the house one evening a week and doing something without kids, hubby, or the constant interruption of rational thought that normally harasses my daily life.

I sat there in the car, punch card in hand, listening to Creed, which I completely refused to turn down just for the paltry benefit of the yahoos working there. And then the youngster in the window called me “Ma’am”.

Twice.

It ALMOST derailed my enjoyable evening.

I drove away mumbling WTF under my breath as I peeled away the wrapper from my straw. But the second I slid the straw down into that yummy iced frappe and nearly had an orgasm I realized I was, indeed, going to survive being called a “Ma’am”.

Two hours later, after having slowly slurped away the frappe and finished up the work with SMIL, I could hardly sit still. Slightly overcaffeinated for 8:30 at night. Well, for me anyway.

I cranked up the Creed again, popped off the lid of my frappe and chugged down the icy chunks at the bottom of the cup. Mmmm… so very wonderful. And yes, I have to admit, I did find licking off the last traces of whipped cream from the straw to be…. slightly erotic.

Apparently a LOT of things are erotic for me these days. I’m okay with that.

Tell me it’s not just me that equates that perfect moment in a Creed song with a fantastic O. I even catch myself sucking in my breath and holding it (like I do when I’m about to O) just as the music pauses for the big crescendo that’s about to explode from my bose speakers. The tingling rows upons rows of goosebumps from my fingertips to my toes tell me I am not too far off base here.

When I’m NOT pregnant, I often wonder if those moments in music don’t outshine the real thing.

It’s total blasphemy to think that when I’ve got all these hormones surging through my system. Seriously. I should be having sex EVERY.SINGLE.DAY. I honestly can’t decide if it is the one redeeming factor in 9 months of utter misery, or if it is some sick and twisted joke that this is the only way to have seriously mind-blowing pleasure that will haunt you for the rest of your non-pregnant, gradually-getting-older-and-saggier life!!!

“So, LMJ, why is it you can’t quite stomach the sterilization thing?”

“Well, to be quite honest, it’s ’cause I can’t quite give up on the thought of NEVER HAVING THIS KIND OF SEX AGAIN IN MY WHOLE F’IN LIFE!!!!!”

I HAVE to stop having babies some time. Really. I will. But I do think the whole sex thing is totally unfair. I don’t want to give up having this kind of sensitivity to touch. You could touch my knees or my wrists and seduce me, let alone my face or play with my hair….kiss my neck…. If only my hubby realized how easily he could still get some even when I’m mad at him. Silly, silly man.

Ha ha!! Maybe he just doesn’t want to torture himself with the memory of all that sex when the moment the baby is born my hormones come crashing to a horrible halt and jump to the other side of the freakin’ earth. Then as long as I’m breastfeeding you practically have to bribe me with food, shopping, or back massages to even get to first base! Sex?! What’s sex? he starts to ask himself after a few months of “DON’T touch me or so help me you’ll wish you’d never been born with balls!!!” every time he makes an even remotely romantic overture.

Ah, well. Is it wrong that I’m so insanely tempted to make the 7 hour drive to go to a Creed concert at 39 weeks pg? I can totally deliver down there if I need to. And I think I’d better bring DH along just so he can catch me if my knees buckle when they start singing, “Lost sense of time and all seasons. Feel I’ve been beaten down by the words of men who have no ground.”

*sigh*

I think it’s time for me to go to bed.

Ooo! Yea. Bed! *wink,wink*