Ok, so it's confession time. I absolutely cannot keep a house clean. Just can't do it. Mind you I can clean a house until you could eat off any surface it contains. But keeping it that way, regularly? Waaaay beyond my skills. I don't know how, but even after a mega purge, or even better, a move, I still find the top of my fridge piled with everything from bills to T4's to half-eaten lollipops. The single seat is always piled with crap accumulated after any kind of shopping trip, or just socks, scarves, hats, shoes, jackets, chucked there after a trip outside. The desktop is constantly covered with papers, hair ties, coffee cups, video games, game systems, old ink cartridges... RIGHT NEXT TO A GARBAGE CAN...
Truly, it's the utter innappropriateness of the clutter is what gets to me. There hasn't been a meal served on my dining table in months, but rather it is the home of The Other Half's RC helicopter collection. The laundry baskets are toy receptacles, linen storage, and occasionally comfy reading hideouts (when the picked-over socks, and t-shirts it has housed for the last three weeks are clean, anyway).
My kitchen counters serve triple duty after their intended purpose as medicine cabinet, knife storage, bread basket and recycling bag. My inherited desk with my lovely displays has become a catch all and currently houses every single of Anna's DVD's (loose >.<), a bottle of screen cleaner, a bottle of contact solution, a bowl full of playdough shape cutters, and no less than two notebooks.
Now, I'm sure those of you reading this can relate in some way, and even have your own horror stories, and let me just say I LOVE to hear them! To a certain extent I need to hear that my unique brand of clutter isn't as unheard of as I think it is. Especially having grown up in a hoarder's household.
Yes, that is what makes this so damn scary. When I was growing up, I literally thought I was a completely separate species from the well-groomed, happy, sweet-smelling creatures I attended school with. I thought I lived in the only house on the planet that had thousands of books, architectural magazines from the 70's, a fully functioning eight track player (complete with a collection of eight tracks--country mostly), a record-cassette combo player, and a dress-up chest containing peach prom dresses and white vinyl platform boots that, had they had survived in good condition, would probably be worth money today. My first ever game system was an original Atari that I shared with my brother (when he was in a good enough mood to let me in his room), complete with two joysticks and around forty games. My day-to-day existence involved dodging stacks of Psychology Today's, and towers of old tobacco containers. Towers that regularly could be stacked to well-above my own height and often the heights of anyone who had the misfortune of seeing them. I remember playing on piles of lumber, and making a playhouse out of tree trunk rounds destined for the woodstove, and old plywood and particle board.
My childhood home could have been the blueprint for a hedge maze, there were that many little paths through the junk. It was an adventure to sneak into my mother's bedroom when she wasn't home to look through the little drawers, and toolboxes, and nuts and bolts organizers. Do you know how many pairs of clip-on earrings a tackle box can hold? A frickin lot. My mother had built her never-used double bed up on a loft, so to maximize the storage space beneath. She stored pens and pencils, and old stationary in a desk-like structure at the back, with an old institutional mail box mounted above it. You remember those walls of cubbies for each teacher back in school, where other teachers put memos and notes? One of those. I remember rearranging it's contents a couple times to suit my own sense of organization--pens with pens, sharpeners with sharpeners. Three hole punches with three hole punches. Yes, there was more than one of those in my home. I don't know if it's funny or sad that she never noticed.
That bedroom was home to some truly incredible vintage dresses and shoes, and I squirreled away so much costume jewelry, I could have had the best eclectic style ever seen in a small-town high school...had I the courage the go through with the outlandish outfits I put together. She kept perfume, and lipstick on a lovely corner shelf in beautiful little boxes made of shells, and inlaid with semi-precious stones. She was a fan of turquoise. As the youngest child, I had the privilege of being allowed to use makeup far earlier than my sister, just because my mom thought my combinations using her fuschia lipsticks, and bright blue and green eyeshadows were 'well executed.' Lol. Yeah.
Growing up, I don't remember ever seeing a floor meet the wall. Probably why I have such a thing for negative space nowadays. Heck, for that matter, I only remember three unadorned walls ever having been in our home. And those were all in my own and my sister's bedrooms. Every wall from the living room through the hallway to the kitchen, laundry room, even the tiny nook where the sink was located had a book shelf mounted on it. I remember my first taste of adult literature being the romances my older sister had collected in her room. The old Woman's Day and Chatelaine's my mom had collected were ruthlessly cannibalized for posterboard-sized collages of eyes. Being an actress at heart, I've always somehow been comfortable with the idea of thousands of eyes being pointed in my direction. The books that were purloined away to my own room were the books closest to my heart. The Only Astrology Book You'll Ever Need. It's reached legendary status in my family both for the discussions over it and a cup of coffee, enjoyed by myself, my sister, mother and my brother's future wife, and for the way Mom and I fought over possession of it. Had it not burned, I am sure it would be on my own bookshelf (SINGULAR) even today. I remember finding a book of Egyptian gods after watching The Mummy, and keeping it on my own bookshelf, for the scholarly status I imagined it endowed me with. Eventually my personal bookshelf would expand to include science fiction, astrology handbooks, a couple medical thrillers, crime fiction, Mom's ENTIRE Mercedes Lackey collection (also a hotly contested item in our household), some dry out-of-date literature on subjects that vaguely interested me... mostly science, religion and mythology, past and present--as well as my own young adult fiction, and later issues of CosmoGirl, and TigerBeat. Yes, books were the currency of my mother's kingdom; the measure and quality of her love was determined by how engaged you could get her in conversation, with source material to back up your conclusions.
As an adult with a reasonable grasp of the English language and a thirst to read about all things-- truly a drive to know as much as I can before I die -- this is really the area of my Mom's illness I can forgive the easiest, and truly value as an integral part of my formation as a human being. If there is one thing a person must hoard, information should be it. It is truly a credit to her that she allowed me access to occasionally explicit, adult material to explore in the privacy of my own mind.
I guess, what I am trying to say here, is that having grown up in the dusty, unkempt, colourfuly infinite world of hoarding, I can both appreciate having the things you need and the things you want, and yet enough space to enjoy them in. When you see a day's worth of dirty dishes, you see a job. When I see it, I see a choice. To become that horrible, entempered, shy, possessive, loving, intelligent, generous, beloved woman. Or not. To become myself.
So, when you come over, and I apologize for the dust, the lack of a place to put your coffee, or the smell of three baskets of neglected dirty laundry, please understand that I am apologizing for her as well. I am apologizing for the time spent teaching me the wonders of the world, rather than how to clean an oven. And if you give me enough time to prepare, I can provide you with a lovely, clean, restful place to speak your mind, and grow. I, as my mother-in-law once worried, am NOT a clean freak. But if I get the chance, it's how I'd prefer you see me.
Monday 19 March 2012
Saturday 21 January 2012
a letter to the toybox
Just finished reading a post on baby showers by a lovely lady who's been around the blogosphere long enough to know how to write a post that gets one thinking! One thing that struck me, as I commented is how my own views towards materialism have just about turned 180 degrees in terms of priorities.
Stuff is one of those pervasively ubiquitous categories in life, at least for us in the industrialized world. Lucky us. >.< It begins for us, over a bowl of cheerios, interrupting the stories on that magic box, the ones our parents might read to us if the power goes out, but have come alive through the mediums we call network tv. A flash of colour. A catchy tune. Little girls with a toy so captivating, it causes her peers to gravitate in her direction, as though--almost--against their will. In the thirty second lifetime of that ad, our children are hooked. Not chemically. Not physically, though the craving and nagging are a certain common physical symptoms of this addiction. No, this is more insidious. They are hooked emotionally, and even instinctively.
We are told, in our formative years, that we NEED this, or we HAVE to have it. Why? Because our friends will love us for it. We are told during the practice stage, as we shakily attempt those mysterious grown up rituals, that this will ATTRACT, this will ENERGIZE, this will secure our place in the group. We are told as adults, as mothers and fathers, that we SHOULD get this, or we OUGHT to have that. Because it's good for our family. And those of us that believe the promises on the screen, share one fundamental thing. I believe, if asked to sum up their immediate thoughts and feelings into one succinct word, very few shopaholics would say first, "I am happy." They might admit to inadequacy, or anxiety. Depending on the number of bags in their hands, perhaps multiplied by the level of social distinction conveyed by the names blazoned across them, you find one or two shoppers who feel "GREAT! CHARGED! READY TO GO!" That would make sense, given the levels of dopamine their brains are releasing because of what they carry in their hands.
What really frightens me is that, in our society, we have progressed to a point where accumulation of things can be a harmless passion, a career, and a brain-warping disease all at once. Very few slices of life can claim the same. Some of us have almost forgotten the kiss of non-recycled air, or the soul-calming effect of a view with neither billboard, nor ad. There are those of us who would rank the thrill of the deal higher than the true accomplishment of having a quiet, happy home. As long as we're talking about chemical brain reaction, why not remember instead, the nerves that fire when you hold your infant close, and your very cells recognize her as a part of you. Can a hoarder, or a salesman, or an antique cola bottle collector remember the sound of a song sung just for them? The flattery of a child who screams with delight as you walk through the door?
The picture of a person reduced to covetous greed is not new at all. We've seen this before, and all we did was create a much more complex model. We're good at that. However, we're also pretty good at loving. Says the 7 billionth baby, anyway! ;) So, what say we challenge ourselves? Can we, as industrialized humans let go of the 'paper or plastic' and focus instead on 'carrots or broccoli;' 'Empty papertowel tube, or box that the Crockpot came in;' 'Go for a walk, or play house'? Can we place trust in our tiny humans, that they will thrive if they are Disney-less and remember that saying no will not transform our beautiful babies into outcasts, nor must it break them.
I believe we can do it, but it will take strength. And it will take our greatest strength. But the important part (the part that would be flashed on the screen a half dozen times were this playing on latenight TV) is that we can do it.
Says Baby 5,079,451,844, !
Stuff is one of those pervasively ubiquitous categories in life, at least for us in the industrialized world. Lucky us. >.< It begins for us, over a bowl of cheerios, interrupting the stories on that magic box, the ones our parents might read to us if the power goes out, but have come alive through the mediums we call network tv. A flash of colour. A catchy tune. Little girls with a toy so captivating, it causes her peers to gravitate in her direction, as though--almost--against their will. In the thirty second lifetime of that ad, our children are hooked. Not chemically. Not physically, though the craving and nagging are a certain common physical symptoms of this addiction. No, this is more insidious. They are hooked emotionally, and even instinctively.
We are told, in our formative years, that we NEED this, or we HAVE to have it. Why? Because our friends will love us for it. We are told during the practice stage, as we shakily attempt those mysterious grown up rituals, that this will ATTRACT, this will ENERGIZE, this will secure our place in the group. We are told as adults, as mothers and fathers, that we SHOULD get this, or we OUGHT to have that. Because it's good for our family. And those of us that believe the promises on the screen, share one fundamental thing. I believe, if asked to sum up their immediate thoughts and feelings into one succinct word, very few shopaholics would say first, "I am happy." They might admit to inadequacy, or anxiety. Depending on the number of bags in their hands, perhaps multiplied by the level of social distinction conveyed by the names blazoned across them, you find one or two shoppers who feel "GREAT! CHARGED! READY TO GO!" That would make sense, given the levels of dopamine their brains are releasing because of what they carry in their hands.
What really frightens me is that, in our society, we have progressed to a point where accumulation of things can be a harmless passion, a career, and a brain-warping disease all at once. Very few slices of life can claim the same. Some of us have almost forgotten the kiss of non-recycled air, or the soul-calming effect of a view with neither billboard, nor ad. There are those of us who would rank the thrill of the deal higher than the true accomplishment of having a quiet, happy home. As long as we're talking about chemical brain reaction, why not remember instead, the nerves that fire when you hold your infant close, and your very cells recognize her as a part of you. Can a hoarder, or a salesman, or an antique cola bottle collector remember the sound of a song sung just for them? The flattery of a child who screams with delight as you walk through the door?
The picture of a person reduced to covetous greed is not new at all. We've seen this before, and all we did was create a much more complex model. We're good at that. However, we're also pretty good at loving. Says the 7 billionth baby, anyway! ;) So, what say we challenge ourselves? Can we, as industrialized humans let go of the 'paper or plastic' and focus instead on 'carrots or broccoli;' 'Empty papertowel tube, or box that the Crockpot came in;' 'Go for a walk, or play house'? Can we place trust in our tiny humans, that they will thrive if they are Disney-less and remember that saying no will not transform our beautiful babies into outcasts, nor must it break them.
I believe we can do it, but it will take strength. And it will take our greatest strength. But the important part (the part that would be flashed on the screen a half dozen times were this playing on latenight TV) is that we can do it.
Says Baby 5,079,451,844, !
Tuesday 17 January 2012
worry wart
There's maybe an inch of snow on the ground, and I'm wondering if today is the day The Other Half doesn't come home because he's gotten himself hospitalized. Does that seem a little extreme? Of course it does. Even to me. That doesn't mean my mind isn't revolving around the repercussions of a car accident in my family.
If I were a superhero, my name would be Worst-Case Scenario Girl. If the hijinks I get myself into don't end in one, well my brain is fixated on what would happen if it did... I read internet articles and wonder who around me will eventually axe murder me one day. I notice the tub needs a cleaning, and wonder what horrible bacterial infection I've given my daughter by making her bathe in it. I see a beetle scuttle across the floor, and image search cockroaches, and bed bugs, which inevitably leads me to Youtube videos of necrotic spiderbites from across the world, wherein, I take my glass of wine and sit rocking and humming in a corner. Daily life on this vicious rock can be enough to give a girl the thousand yard stare.
I'll admit it, it's probably stupid. And 99.8% of the things I worry about will never happen to me, or most of the people I love. It's that .2% that's left that eats at me...
What's your .2%?
If I were a superhero, my name would be Worst-Case Scenario Girl. If the hijinks I get myself into don't end in one, well my brain is fixated on what would happen if it did... I read internet articles and wonder who around me will eventually axe murder me one day. I notice the tub needs a cleaning, and wonder what horrible bacterial infection I've given my daughter by making her bathe in it. I see a beetle scuttle across the floor, and image search cockroaches, and bed bugs, which inevitably leads me to Youtube videos of necrotic spiderbites from across the world, wherein, I take my glass of wine and sit rocking and humming in a corner. Daily life on this vicious rock can be enough to give a girl the thousand yard stare.
I'll admit it, it's probably stupid. And 99.8% of the things I worry about will never happen to me, or most of the people I love. It's that .2% that's left that eats at me...
What's your .2%?
Tuesday 10 January 2012
my apologies for the overshares
I decided to have kids early. There were many reasons to do so... you can blame it on meeting a guy worth procreating with. You can blame it on my loneliness for family after my mother's death. You can give all kinds of reasons why I took the plunge early. None of them matter anymore. Fact is, my ladies are here, and this is my life. I can still do other things with it, they'll just have to wait a couple years. I'm willing to sacrifice a degree, martinis, and uninterrupted conversation for now...
But unfortunately becoming a young mother has many inherent disadvantages, also. One of the worst, to my childless friends at least, is the tendency to overshare. Let me just say, right now: I AM SORRY! I know you don't care about the consistency of my babies bowel movements, nor does my toddlers accomplishments give you the rush of accomplishment, the way it does for me. I do try to limit my gushing/complaining/bodily fluid-induced despair, but it is so very hard! As a human being, we are programmed to reach out, to relate to another. These moms broadcasting their worries, and joys and opinions are participating in an evolutionarily necessary activity, (and amongst ourselves) we're LOVING it! The fire we gather around to share what we've learned over the day will always be a cherished, important part of parenthood.
Alright, I'm headed in the direction of a completely different topic. Focus, Mom! Perhaps, it would help for one who is horribly guilty of Overshare in the First Degree to break down the elements of the crime, so as to better understand the mental path that leads to statuses about poop. I do this not for the parents out there, because you know already how easy it is to fall into the trap of thinking that people you went to middle school with care about your child's hysterical way of eating pizza. (upside down, natch; i mean really, who does that? My Booger Pile is a unique one! :D)
No, I do this for those of you still blissfully ignorant of the tug of infant smiles. The concern brought about by bowel movements the colour of 80's leg warmers. The delirious moment that comes in the dead of night after the third wakeup call, at least one load of laundry, and the despair that arises when you realize it's been more than one week since your last shower. These are the people that need to understand the primal urge to share, so strongly felt by those who are too exhausted to properly utilize the more civilized parts of their brain.
The overshare, as rationalized in the mind of the offender, is an anecdote, and/or expression of emotion, intended to amuse or inform the recipient of diverse minutiae relating to the daily activities of the offender and their progeny. Topics can range from the unimportant to the wildly personal. Results include expressions of relateability, a false sense of approval garnered by rising numbers of "likes" depending on the ratio of parents to the childless among online contacts, and at least one squeamish teenager wincing at the mental picture created by accurate (albeit amusing) descriptions of bodily fluids in motion. The true master of the overshare is capable of making a victim feel both repulsed, and fascinated, and yet somehow respond in a manner appropriate to the social setting. As if nothing ever happened.
There are three main categories of oversharing. The first, and least offensive can be characterized as mildly irritating, or could-have-been-interesting-had-it-not-been-so-obnoxious, depending on the topic, and the viewer's opinion of said topic. A good example is the oversharer who posts multiple statuses about the meal of the day, and caps off with a badly lit digital photo of said meal before it is consumed. This oversharer does not realize that very few people care so much about what she happens to be eating, nor do they require a visual stimulant of a meal they aren't going to eat. I plead guilty to multiple charges of this particular crime. Also, pulled pork is on the menu for today, and it's going to be delicious. Chew on that.
The second category can escalate into true conflict if the participants don't have sufficient self control, or an aptitude for topical debate. This category involves the status/blog post/tweet about any code of conduct that conflicts with the personal morals of the one reading the status. This category is unique in that it is not the sole dominion of parents. Posts, involving theological arguments, political leanings, and non-scientific opinion relating to something scientific can all be considered overshare in the second degree, not because it is too much information, but rather it is information that should stay personal for the greater peace of the group. Shalom Bayis, as God's Chosen would say. (those among you who are most guilty of this type of overshare will recognize that last as a mistake on my part; but too bad, I don't know enough Hebrew to say "peace amongst friends".) A parent can easily identify this type of overshare in the forums with threads containing within the title Montessori, exclusive breast feeding, or Tiger Parenting.
The third, and most serious category of oversharing is also the most obvious. This is the status with "TMI!" repeated in it's comments. This is the dreaded poop story. This is the most controversial of overshares (yes, even over the theological argument!) for many reasons, not the least of which is that so many of us are enamoured of the overshare! I delight in a great fart story. I will snort laugh for hours over tales of childish terms for bodily fluids. And it's not just me! Websites like Damn You Autocorrect wouldn't be so popular if there wasn't a tiny part of all of us that likes to laugh at dick jokes!
But the fact remains, after all hilarious stories are told, that these are personal stories about small people who don't get a say about what they want people reading about on the internet. The fundamental issue at stake here is respect. Respect for our tiny humans who must learn how to respect themselves. And they can't do that, if we don't show them what that looks like. And as much as I enjoy a good bath story, I will (I must) reign in my tendency to tell you about my kids and their doings. They deserve that from me.
In conclusion, I offer my regret, and I wish to make it understood that this is not a victimless crime. With proper rehabilitation, us parents of young children can return to civilized adult conversation with nary an appearance of poop stories or model comparison of child-rearing techniques. It will take a community to reform those among us most guilty of this issue. But it can be done. And if our pristine, childless peers can't help us heal... there's always the teenage years.
PS: 'To the German Commander: NUTS!'
Oh Network TV. How you fill my need for dirty humour without harming my children directly! Oh wait...
But unfortunately becoming a young mother has many inherent disadvantages, also. One of the worst, to my childless friends at least, is the tendency to overshare. Let me just say, right now: I AM SORRY! I know you don't care about the consistency of my babies bowel movements, nor does my toddlers accomplishments give you the rush of accomplishment, the way it does for me. I do try to limit my gushing/complaining/bodily fluid-induced despair, but it is so very hard! As a human being, we are programmed to reach out, to relate to another. These moms broadcasting their worries, and joys and opinions are participating in an evolutionarily necessary activity, (and amongst ourselves) we're LOVING it! The fire we gather around to share what we've learned over the day will always be a cherished, important part of parenthood.
Alright, I'm headed in the direction of a completely different topic. Focus, Mom! Perhaps, it would help for one who is horribly guilty of Overshare in the First Degree to break down the elements of the crime, so as to better understand the mental path that leads to statuses about poop. I do this not for the parents out there, because you know already how easy it is to fall into the trap of thinking that people you went to middle school with care about your child's hysterical way of eating pizza. (upside down, natch; i mean really, who does that? My Booger Pile is a unique one! :D)
No, I do this for those of you still blissfully ignorant of the tug of infant smiles. The concern brought about by bowel movements the colour of 80's leg warmers. The delirious moment that comes in the dead of night after the third wakeup call, at least one load of laundry, and the despair that arises when you realize it's been more than one week since your last shower. These are the people that need to understand the primal urge to share, so strongly felt by those who are too exhausted to properly utilize the more civilized parts of their brain.
The overshare, as rationalized in the mind of the offender, is an anecdote, and/or expression of emotion, intended to amuse or inform the recipient of diverse minutiae relating to the daily activities of the offender and their progeny. Topics can range from the unimportant to the wildly personal. Results include expressions of relateability, a false sense of approval garnered by rising numbers of "likes" depending on the ratio of parents to the childless among online contacts, and at least one squeamish teenager wincing at the mental picture created by accurate (albeit amusing) descriptions of bodily fluids in motion. The true master of the overshare is capable of making a victim feel both repulsed, and fascinated, and yet somehow respond in a manner appropriate to the social setting. As if nothing ever happened.
There are three main categories of oversharing. The first, and least offensive can be characterized as mildly irritating, or could-have-been-interesting-had-it-not-been-so-obnoxious, depending on the topic, and the viewer's opinion of said topic. A good example is the oversharer who posts multiple statuses about the meal of the day, and caps off with a badly lit digital photo of said meal before it is consumed. This oversharer does not realize that very few people care so much about what she happens to be eating, nor do they require a visual stimulant of a meal they aren't going to eat. I plead guilty to multiple charges of this particular crime. Also, pulled pork is on the menu for today, and it's going to be delicious. Chew on that.
The second category can escalate into true conflict if the participants don't have sufficient self control, or an aptitude for topical debate. This category involves the status/blog post/tweet about any code of conduct that conflicts with the personal morals of the one reading the status. This category is unique in that it is not the sole dominion of parents. Posts, involving theological arguments, political leanings, and non-scientific opinion relating to something scientific can all be considered overshare in the second degree, not because it is too much information, but rather it is information that should stay personal for the greater peace of the group. Shalom Bayis, as God's Chosen would say. (those among you who are most guilty of this type of overshare will recognize that last as a mistake on my part; but too bad, I don't know enough Hebrew to say "peace amongst friends".) A parent can easily identify this type of overshare in the forums with threads containing within the title Montessori, exclusive breast feeding, or Tiger Parenting.
The third, and most serious category of oversharing is also the most obvious. This is the status with "TMI!" repeated in it's comments. This is the dreaded poop story. This is the most controversial of overshares (yes, even over the theological argument!) for many reasons, not the least of which is that so many of us are enamoured of the overshare! I delight in a great fart story. I will snort laugh for hours over tales of childish terms for bodily fluids. And it's not just me! Websites like Damn You Autocorrect wouldn't be so popular if there wasn't a tiny part of all of us that likes to laugh at dick jokes!
But the fact remains, after all hilarious stories are told, that these are personal stories about small people who don't get a say about what they want people reading about on the internet. The fundamental issue at stake here is respect. Respect for our tiny humans who must learn how to respect themselves. And they can't do that, if we don't show them what that looks like. And as much as I enjoy a good bath story, I will (I must) reign in my tendency to tell you about my kids and their doings. They deserve that from me.
In conclusion, I offer my regret, and I wish to make it understood that this is not a victimless crime. With proper rehabilitation, us parents of young children can return to civilized adult conversation with nary an appearance of poop stories or model comparison of child-rearing techniques. It will take a community to reform those among us most guilty of this issue. But it can be done. And if our pristine, childless peers can't help us heal... there's always the teenage years.
PS: 'To the German Commander: NUTS!'
Oh Network TV. How you fill my need for dirty humour without harming my children directly! Oh wait...
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