Issues 'n Stuff

I am usually careful with my ‘stuff’ – a near-obsessive need to keep the few things I actually buy new, well, looking new. Forever. I can read a paperback book, multiple times even, and it will still look brand new, with nary a mark in the spine, not a single page dog-eared, any fingerprints on the glossy cover carefully wiped off. My book issues include a reluctance to loan out books, as few others share my respectful obsession with their ‘proper’ treatment, and I doubt I could be a librarian, as I’d probably institute harsh punishment to anyone treating a book with insufficient care and respect. Yes, I realize it’s extreme.

I have a few objects I’ve owned for decades that are pristine, because I think about where to place things, how to clean and store them so they remain as close to ‘mint’ as I can keep them. A few items are still in the original packaging – safely packed away in boxes, rarely seeing the light of day, waiting for that elusive ‘someday’ and the perfect house/room/ life for their display/use. And when that magical ‘someday’ arrives, they will emerge into the light like debutantes at the ball, in near-perfect vintage newness. Or, more likely, forever tainted with the icky smell of a damp basement from languishing in storage. Every time I hear Boyfriend rattle the delicate Japanese lidded candy dish that was my grandmother’s and that has taken me years to finally unpack and display, my heart skips a beat. It must be time to pack it away again for safety.

My neurotic control of my things probably started with the tragic disappearance of my blankie when I was a toddler. Mom says I was a thumb-sucking blanket-dragger, and she asked our pediatrician what to do about the blanket (probably while we were there to have my infected, over-sucked thumb lanced). He recommended she get rid of it while I was sleeping. So, one day she put me down for a nap and disposed of my security-providing fabric while I slept. It’s a wonder I could ever sleep at all after that. (How to Develop a Child with Control Issues, Part 1.)

Years later we moved to a different house. I unpacked my precious stuffed animals, searching for my favorite gray elephant which had long before lost an eye and its pink felt ears. It was gone! My confused tears and wailing temper tantrum (I KNEW I had put it in the box!) finally elicited a confession from Mom – she had tossed it in the trash because it was ratty looking and missing its ears and an eye. Deliberately. So, there I was, in my unfamiliar ‘new’ room, in our creepy ‘new’ house (which was some 50 years old and looked like it belonged in a horror movie), trying to sleep through steam radiator racket and haunted house noises and other strange goings-on, and my primary comfort, my beloved, defective gray elephant was gone. (How to Develop a Child with Control Issues, Part 2.)

As an adult, further crimes were perpetrated against my personal property – by an ex-husband who threw out treasures including my rhinestone tiara (hard-won in the Ms. Yankee Pageant) and by an ex-boyfriend who chucked albums of my childhood photography and my yearbooks from ninth grade through college. My neurotic, protective stance concerning my stuff was now cemented. Note to all – it is recommended you keep your filthy hands off the crowns of beauty queens and the early work of fledgling photographers. (Adults with Issues, Chapter 34 – How to Become an “Ex.”)

My stuff, which may seem like crap to some observers, means something to me. During the divorce from the tiara-tosser, we negotiated every stick of once-new furniture we’d bought for our eight-room house, and he got most of it. At the time, I told myself it was “a small price to pay” to get out of a bad scene. Since then, most of the stuff I have is second- and even third-hand castoffs from friends and family who were upgrading their lives. A vintage bedroom set from Dad’s neighbor who was emptying the family home of 50 years worth of things after the death of his parents. A dining table bought from a friend who moved to a place too small to house it. Night tables and dressers given to me by a friend who was moving out of state for a fresh start. Mom complimented me on my “shabby chic” décor. I explained it was not a conscious decorating scheme, just the way things worked out.

So, Sunday night, after assembling the (oh my gosh, it’s actually something new) etagere for the bathroom, I tried to make a photo of it. That’s when I came close to experiencing a new heart condition when I dropped my digital camera on the tile floor in the bathroom. I have no idea how it fumbled out of my hands, but it did. The plastic door to the battery compartment was completely detached from the body of the camera, the hinge pins broken off and missing, likely down in the ductwork from the floor vent. I cannot believe I was so reckless. It looks like there is going to be another new item in my future.

Broken Routine

My mornings are ruled by routine. The alarm clock goes off at 6:00. I am allowed (by my own decree) to hit the snooze button up to three times, depending upon whether or not I need to wash my hair, an operation that can add 10-15 minutes to the shower time plus the time it takes to blow it dry and style it. In the summer, I tend to save time by tying it in a knot while it’s wet, and leaving it that way until lunchtime or later, at which time it comes loose in a bunch of wavy curls, still smelling fresh with shampoo, and usually still damp.

Once I un-ass the bed, I stumble down the hall and into the kitchen to make a pot of coffee, pass through the living room to turn on my computer, hit the shower, then settle in for a few minutes of quality time with a cup of coffee and the computer, checking email, Facebook, the news and sometimes writing. During these activities, I am usually mentally running through the things in the closet, so that at 7:15(ish), when I finally head to the bedroom to dress, I know what I am wearing for the day. The routine serves me well. I get done what needs to be done with minimal brain activity, I have a little time to myself, and by the second cup of coffee, I am able to wake up (kind of). I need this time (with coffee) to become a semi-civilized human. Trust me, this nugget of self-knowledge benefits everyone.

One of my favorite things about Boyfriend is his spontaneous nature. He has his routines, but he is quick to mix things up. Tuesday night, around 10:00, when I was ready to wrap up my day, slap a bow on it and call it done, He asked what it would take for me to be able to get up early and go to IHOP for breakfast Wednesday morning. He had the day off from school for Veteran’s Day, already a nice break in the routine for him, and the idea of him wanting to get up early on a day when he could sleep in was a novel one to me – he’s sometimes worse than me with hitting the snooze alarm and has gone as much as an hour delaying (which stinks because his clock starts going off at 5:00 – so guess who is the one awake?). Wednesday was just another normal workday for me, so the idea of shaking things up with a visit to IHOP sounded great to me. It was supposed to be “shampoo the hair day,” so I would either have to get up really early or do it before I went to bed. I was in the shower in record time, and in another routine-buster, went to bed with wet hair (and got up some seven hours later with still-damp hair).

It’s funny that I can have such a hard time getting up on a normal day, but knowing we were going out for breakfast in the middle of the week made it a special day and I bolted out of bed, dressed and was ready in about 30 minutes flat. We went to IHOP, and I managed to be at work at the unheard of time of 7:40. Heck, I’m usually just putting makeup on at that time and hurrying so I can arrive at work some time closer to 8:00 than 8:30. Oddly, others had broken their routines, too – four people were already there – and we were standing around with surprised looks asking each other, “Why are you here so early?” It was weird. And a great start to the day. I don’t, however, expect it to become the new routine.

Paid Off

This weekend, I realized with a tiny amount of terror that a bill was due on the 8th (Sunday) and I hadn't paid it. It was not a large bill, and it may not have carried any consequences (i.e. the world was certainly not going to end), but I am a real stickler about paying things on time, so it bugged me. It was one of the bills that arrives in the mail with a payment coupon. How 1960s is that? The payment coupons don’t arrive with much lead time, so when it hits the mailbox, it has to go back out pretty quickly. It never lands here on payday, however.

When I realized that bill had come in but not back gone out, and that the due date was basically, right that minute, I was shopping for options. I invested quality time reading my loan payment notice. This fine and modern company with franchise operations nationwide, has a Customer Service 800-number for telephone payments that operates Monday through Friday, 9 to 4 central time. Wow, that is the epitome of customer convenience. There was a web address on the bill, so I checked that out. It had links to their various companies for lawn care, furniture repair, cleaning, warranty services, and even home inspections.

I visited the area for the termite treatment franchise. Apparently, customers with service contracts for routine pest control can pay online, but I lacked a “customer number,” an “account number” and a “billing statement.” I had a "finance account payment notice" with a loan number for the financing of a one-time, expensive termite treatment and that, apparently, was not good enough for their system, which rejected all my advances. Hard to get.

Upon reading my "finance account payment notice" I realized was paying an interest rate of 11.75% on this account. Even the fine folks at my credit card company get me for only 7.74%. Cripes. Why do I always forget about my high-falutin' finance education?

So, four months into the payment schedule on a high rate termite service loan, I finally wised up and decided to pay it off with the lower rate credit card to reduce the interest rate on the balance and consolidate a payment. If I had been thinking, that’s how I would have paid for it to begin with and collected some bonus points on the credit card's "Thank You Network." Duh. Oh well.

Monday after lunch and a morning filled with an eternally long meeting, I called the 800-number to pay off the Termite loan. The phone rang and was answered by an automated system, where a soothing female voice told me my call was important and that, "due to unexpected call volume, all agents are busy." I was invited to hold or leave a message (in what is usually the black hole of automated message systems – who falls for that?). The lovely voice said calls are randomly monitored or recorded for quality purposes. Then some music began to play. Five minutes. Ten minutes. At 13.5 minutes, I hung up because my neck hurt from cradling the phone and I couldn’t stand the music anymore. A half hour later, after updating some website copy for a project, I tried again. Same routine of recordings and music, but after five minutes there was the sound of a phone ringing. My heart leapt with hope that a person would be on the line to assist me, a valued customer. No dice. It reverted to recorded messages and music and my realization of the cruelty of false hope. I lasted for 11 minutes in Round 2 before I hung up. It appeared the randomness was the actual answering of calls.

Another 30 minutes passed where I did some more work. I was after all, at my desk at work during all this. I dialed the number again, and this time, after a mere three minutes of soothing recorded messages and music, Patsy came on the line. Her voice was like that of an angel from heaven. Ok, it wasn’t really, but I was darned glad to have some live human help and she could have been an angel. And in three more minutes, we were done transacting my business. If they only had online payment capabilities they'd have gotten their money on Saturday. Whatever. They are paid off and I don't have to deal with them again.

Assembly Required

Since Boyfriend moved in with me last December, I’ve been considering additional storage in the bathroom – either a shelf or a cabinet for behind the toilet, or a larger built in mirrored medicine cabinet with lights, like those sized for a double vanity sink. My preference is the built-in medicine cabinet mirror setup, because the storage would be plentiful and the added mirrors would reflect natural light from the window and eliminate some of the jockeying for position when we are both in there brushing our teeth, grooming or primping.

Unfortunately, the double wide cabinet setup requires cutting into the wall which means a carpenter, and the lighting requires someone with a clue about electrical work – say, an electrician. And those both mean money. My network is comprised of artists, not tradesmen, and the budget leaves no room for hiring professionals. Consequently, the storage issue has remained firmly lodged at the bottom of the “stuff to do at the house” list. The fact that I avoid shopping unless absolutely necessary means I have not even looked at any storage options in a store. Until now.

After a routine Sunday trip to the trash station, Boyfriend suggested we stop at Lowe’s for a new chain for the chain saw. While there, I remembered the bathroom storage, which had us traipsing all over the store. We finally found them, and after some discussion of the merits of chrome shelving (modern and cool looking, but open shelves mean having to look at the stuff all the time) versus wood with doors (close the doors, hide the crap), the “Cottage White Space Saver” with doors won.

At the register, I had the panic of opening my wallet and discovering my drivers license and bankcard missing. Errrr. I had transferred them from my wallet to the pocket of my jacket the night before, which meant they were hanging in a closet at home. Thank goodness my charge card was not where it belonged (in its secret hiding place at home to avoid frivolous usage) and was lounging in my wallet, ready for action. Crisis averted. I could have my $99 cabinet.

I decided to assemble it while Boyfriend studied, calling upon my previous triumphs with home furniture assembly. My construction resume includes a metal baker’s rack, a small bookcase, two six-foot library bookcases with doors and a matching TV stand with doors. A bathroom etagere should be a breeze.

At 2:00 I opened the box, inventoried the parts and read the instructions. The 52-page instruction booked was a bit daunting, but only the first 17 pages are English, and the rest comprise the bonus foreign language self-study programs – Francais et Espanol. On Page 4, under “Preparation,” it notes an “Estimated Assembly Time: 45 minutes (We recommend two people for assembly).”

The parts inventory revealed a challenge not encountered in previous assembly endeavors. The instructions featured 20 different types of metal parts (AA through TT in the booklet) and 12 wood parts (A through L). And I use the term ‘wood’ loosely – there were 11 pieces of genuine imitation wood-look glit (scientific elements are glue and sh*t) and one piece of cardboard scored to look like beadboard. And the problem? Although nicely depicted and labeled in the instruction booklet, none of the parts had labels. Thank goodness for detailed illustrations and God bless the artist(s) who create them.

The instructions had a bit of an issue – Step 16 describes attaching the hinges to the doors. Step 17 covers attaching the mounting brackets to the cabinet interior. Step 18 is the affixing of the knobs to the doors. Step 19 is installation of the completed unit around the toilet. Unfortunately, there is no step for attaching the doors hinges to the brackets in the unit. Oops. Good luck figuring that step out yourselves, kids. Which, incidentally, took about 30 minutes of focused effort and adjustments to the alignment. So much for that helpful time estimate on Page 4.

Some five hours later, I was newly, intimately acquainted with cams and cambolts, hardware not encountered in past projects. The toolbox is graced with 17 extra finish nails and two brass screws. The bathroom boasted a new etagere, assembled and installed, but absent piece “E.” Important note: This was clearly NOT a 45 minute operation by any stretch of the imagination, but neither was it a solid five hours of labor – I also cooked dinner (pork tenderloin with peach/strawberry/ginger glaze and cornbread stuffing with almonds and cranberries) and we ate and cleaned up the dishes. I nurtured my social networks (a.k.a. goofed off on Facebook) and made multiple plays in my multiple online Scrabble and Lexulous word games. I burned The White Stripes album ‘Conquest’ to my iTunes library.

And piece “E”? Well, it’s the bottom support, the final piece in the installation, the piece that stabilizes the legs and keeps them from spreading apart under the weight of the top portion. And it exists – it’s in the bathroom closet right now – there’s just no way on earth to install it. The instructions leave it as the last piece for some very good reasons. For one thing, the wood (glit), while only a half-inch think, is too thick to fit between the wall and the back of the toilet tank, which in my bathroom is a measly and miraculous not quite ¼ inch of clearance. The height of the support can be adjusted to accommodate the plumbing connections, which is easier to determine once in place. The problem? The slat requires two screws on each side – long, two-inch screws – and there is barely a half inch clearance between the unit and the wall on one side, and the sink cabinet on the other. Not happening. But at least the legs can’t spread very far should they decide to wander.

Crawling Art

The first Saturday of every month, the Nashville Art Community has an Art Crawl – galleries host receptions and stay open until 9. Anyone familiar with an art scene knows that receptions mean free snacks and wine aplenty. Nashville has a free shuttle bus to transport happy art lovers from one cluster of galleries to the next, so it’s a good time.

Last night, Boyfriend, Junior and I headed into NashVegas from C-Ville for a serving of art. We started at the Tennessee Art League, where my friend Terri is the president, and where they have been hosting some great shows lately. Last night was the opening for “Women” with the works of my friends Mitzi and Malcolm, both masters of models, composition and darkroom processing. The third floor gallery exhibit at the TAL was by patients in a mental health program. Many had never made art before, and have now discovered a creative outlet for self-expression. I love stories like that.

We hopped on the Art Crawl shuttle bus to head over to The Arcade galleries, which is usually a five minute ride. Heck, you can walk there in about the same amount of time, but who is that ambitious? (Especially in three inch heels…) The bus can be fun – I have seen complete strangers admiring each other’s art purchases and offering suggestions on shows that must be seen along the route and places to go later. It’s a little weird – people act like best friends while on the bus, but as soon as it arrives at the destination, they scatter like autumn leaves in the wind without another word to each other. Maybe it’s an effect of all the free wine.

Last night, however, we were on some sort of alternate universe bizarre shuttle ride. Instead of the usual quick right turn from the TAL, around a few blocks and bam, arriving at The Arcade, this driver took us up to the traffic light for a left turn leading to an extended tour of some desolate looking parts of town. The ride took about a half hour, and when we passed the same landmarks a couple times it felt like some crazy New York City cab ride. I started to wonder if some nut case had hijacked the bus, done off with the real driver, and was randomly picking up people to fill the bus, drive us to a remote location and rob us all. I kept this suspicion to myself – no point causing a panic. Besides, I read too many murder mysteries as a kid, and have watched a few too many crime dramas as an adult, so my imagination tends to stray down some dangerous alleys. It’s part of my dark charm.

When we finally arrived at The Arcade, it was, to use my Dad’s colorful words, “packed asshole to belly button.” Yeah, it was crowded. (And do you see where I get it from?) A new arts and crafts feature started in the central area on the lower level, plus all the galleries upstairs were open. Several artist friends were exhibiting – Monica and Greg! Melody and Ken! – geez, I know a lot of married couple artists. The amazing Miranda has her own rocking gallery (MIR Gallery). It felt like half of Clarksville was in attendance as a patron or an exhibitor, and I am thrilled we’re taking over the town. Clarksville – it’s not just soldiers and rednecks anymore – and our artists are crawling all over the place.

Tension Details

Details matter. In relationships, the little things can mean a lot – like offering to get something for someone in the living room when you get up and go into the kitchen, reaching for that special person’s hand while you are watching TV, hugging someone you care about for no other reason than they walked into the room, rubbing your boyfriend/girlfriend/child’s back when you know they had a rough day. Free and simple ways to show you care.

A missing button, a stain, wrinkled clothing could be read by others as a simple message that you don’t really care. If the elements happen to coincide in a perfect storm of wardrobe carelessness for a job interview or a first date, when it is assumed you will try to make a decent impression, you could leave the other person wondering what you might neglect later. It amuses me to hear people say “it doesn’t matter if they wear a … (fill in the blank – suit, tie, sneakers, etc – to the interview/date/public speaking gig because it’s the job/personality/speech that matters.” News flash – it’s a package deal. And why have people fixated on your crumpled shirt when you want them to hear your words?

If you’re charging $6,000 for accident repairs, why not go the extra step and buff the whole vehicle so the newly painted rear door and quarter panel have a chance to match the rest of the car with the five year old paint? Or offer me the option to pay the cost difference and paint the whole car while it’s in the paint shop anyway. And when I call about the paint mismatch, don’t suggest I look in the phone book for a detail shop. Guess whose repair shop I won’t be recommending to others? Details, baby, details.

It makes me nuts when an actor is carrying what we are supposed to believe is a bag of groceries, but they are moving it around in a manner that screams that all the boxes inside it are empty. Or when they are “drinking” and you can tell from the way they hold the cup it’s empty and then they don’t even pause to swallow before delivering the next line. Maybe I've taken too many acting classes. Unfortunately, these types of things jump out at me. Everywhere. All the time. Like a curse.

I attended a play recently where somebody in charge neglected details throughout. The play was set in the South, yet, every male in the cast sounded like he was from Boston. I wondered if all these characters were supposed to be geographic transplants, but nothing in the dialogue indicated it. I was willing to look past the dialect issue, but then we were presented with a character discussing the alpaca suit he was wearing, which I could clearly see was blue and white seersucker. Any wool or wool blend fabric could have passed for alpaca, but not summer seersucker. And if the alpaca reference was a scripting issue to indicate a change of season, then it totally missed the mark, because the character in a summer suit screamed that it was still summer on the set.

Another character was holding a pair of cotton pajamas, claiming they are the silk pajamas worn on his wedding night. Look, I know this is a low budget operation, but even a cheap polyester pair of PJs would have had a more convincing drape than the crisp new cotton fabric this guy was holding. A female character asked for help with buttons, and then we got to hear the sound of a zipper as the other character assisted. When the same female character stood there describing her suit in the blue color of some royalty of Egypt while wearing a pale gray ensemble, all I could do was roll my eyes. Of course, by then she was about ready to be carted off to the funny farm, so maybe it was a deliberate script issue, but who can tell, we’d already been lied to with so many other blatant inconsistencies. At least they really drank brown water in all the Jack Daniel's shot pours.

Sometimes I wonder if a lack of attention stems from a general lack of respect – for oneself, for others, for an audience. Is it an assumption (or a fervent hope) that others won’t notice or care? Or is the fact that I do care just one more reason why I was saddled with the “Miss Perfect” label by my siblings (and their friends)? But hey, I’m trying to relax. The tension of paying attention to details is getting to me, too. Maybe I can go for slacking lessons.

Fashion Police

Everyone is a fashion critic lately. This doesn’t ordinarily bother me. In fact, based on my ocassional obsession with fashion magazines and ongoing online subscriptions to Women's Wear Daily newsfeeds, Style Feeder and other assorted fashionista-geared publications, I generally fancy myself the chief of the local fashion police, although I lack the nerve to actually issue citations to strangers, no matter how well-deserved. As for friends and loved ones .... well, I have called out Boyfriend for letting his pants ride down low enough that I (and the whole world) have a full view of his underwear. Yeah, I know it's a 'look,' but I don't care who you are or how much I love you, I don't want to have to see your underdrawers in broad daylight out on the street, thanks. And when he asked, I (gently) suggested that no, he should just fuggedaboutit and not tuck his beautiful cable knit vee-neck sweater into his pants, unless he really wanted to look like some gangster from New Jersey. When shopping with a gal pal, I have issued a slow "Well .... (pause for effect) ... there might be something better..." during a dressing room consultation.

In general, I have a decent sense of personal style (I think), a perception frequently reinforced by positive feedback from others, and which, in my mind anyway, justifies my self-appointed status as fashion cop. Lately, however, I have been on the receiving end of a couple critiques that could be classified as less than favorable. Granted, I have not had any run-ins with Tim Gunn or Heidi Klum or Stacy London or anyone else involved in the made for television fashion industry. But still, depending upon the source of the commentary, it matters to me. Like when Boyfriend gives me the once over after I am dressed for work and says, “Oh, I see you have your school marm outfit on today.” Ouch. At least he has a sense of humor about it. And when I check the mirror, sure enough, an odd-length skirt plus a slightly baggy sweater is clearly frumpy, does not equal my best ensemble and warrants a change into something less hideous.

One night I was dressed and ready to go hear a band in a club with a couple of gal pals. I thought my jeans, converse sneakers and "Dedicated to the One I Love" tattoo design tee shirt were perfect for a metal band in a grungy club, especially when I wasn't interested in attracting male attention. He looked at me and said, “Aren't you going to get dressed to go out with your friends?” I guess I succeeded.

When I ask Boyfriend for his opinion on my attire, I am genuinely interested in what he thinks. It’s not that I can’t dress myself, it’s just nice to get his feedback. And when I ask and he (gently and humorously) suggests that perhaps the sweater from 1980 isn’t the best choice from my extensive wardrobe, I gladly change into something else, say from the WalMart 2005 collection, and make a mental note to retire the offensive item to the “on the way to Goodwill” pile (not to be confused with the “I just bought it at Goodwill” pile).

Recently, I bought three cute hats from Target that I was excited to show him. That was the night he declared me to have “the worst taste in hats.” I’m afraid he’s probably right. Of course, it would have helped greatly if there was a mirror anywhere within a quarter mile radius of the accessories department. Schlepping hats to the fitting rooms to use a mirror seems silly (but maybe that’s just me), so I was checking hats in the pathetic sliver of a mirror mounted on the sunglass rack. Note to retailers – you might sell more stuff if people could see what it looked like on them. Of course, the retail mirror shortage may explain a lot of the fashion frights running around town … grown girls in Loony Tunes pajamas and fluffy scuff slippers at WalMart and Kroger … men with gigantic keg shaped bellies protruding beneath shrunken, stained tee shirts and butt crack exposed by saggy pants … elderly grannies with gray hair and tattoos sporting schoolgirl plaid miniskirts … chicks in skin tight low-rise jeans with gigantic muffintops overlapping the waistband ... and lord help us all, leggings have made a comeback. Brace yourselves for some scary, scary days ahead. Listen people -- just because something is made in what you think is your size, it doesn't mean you should wear it.

The ultimate in scathing fashion criticisms, however, come from Boyfriend’s five year old son. They are raw. They are unsolicited. They come from nowhere. He has repeatedly scoffed at my oversized brown sunglasses, pointed at me, and in the midst of his laughter, spit out, "You look like a bug." A couple weeks ago, my new, favorite dark denim skinny leg jeans were in the laundry so I was wearing my once-favorite Gap boot cut jeans that are now a full size too big and definitely fit better when I weighed a few pounds more. I had cinched a belt to keep them from falling down. Hey, we were at home. In any event, I was standing at the kitchen sink washing a dish or getting a drink of water and staring out the window or something, and suddenly my pants were being yanked down by the back waistband, my belt nearly shredding my hip bones. I turned around, expecting it to be Boyfriend goofing off, and there’s Junior, his eyes level with my butt and his tiny fingers gripping my jeans. And as matter-of-fact as if he was delivering a weather report, he said to me, “Your pants are up too high.” Called out for bad fashion. By a kindergartner. Guilty as charged. Ouch!