Hoarders Wanted...Inquire Within

I was raised as an only child of a bi-polar.  While I have four brothers, the oldest were out of the house while I was still young and the youngest were my father's and lived elsewhere.  This situation left quite a few things to be desired in my childhood, but it taught me a few useful things; one of which was the fact that manual labor and a good old fashioned cry is good for the soul.  Hand in hand, cleanliness is next to godliness.

When I'm stressed to my limits, I find that I revert to comforting things...the smell of something baking or bleach.  The choice to bake or clean is dependent upon my pissedoffedness levels.  The angrier I am at my stressors, the more intense my need to clean.  Normally, my house is in a general state of "tidy" with random dust or cat hair that would be acceptable to most.  Occasionally, my house is clean enough to make Mommy Dearest uber proud.  Bring it Faye Dunaway!  And rarely, rarely...cleaning my house isn't enough to rid my inner demons.  I need a hoarder.

In instances of intense stress, junking items in my own home will no longer do.  No longer do I derive satisfaction from ousting my husband's week old receipts.  Nevermore will chucking out my kids' stickers while muttering to myself curb this random need.

I yearn to get my hands on a hoarder's mother-load and I see this proposal as a mutually beneficial relationship.  Have an Aunt Phyllis who has been pack ratting into her hidey-hole for the last 40 years?  I have unresolved rage that needs to be purged.  Know Clyde whose collection of trinkets has made it impossible to vacuum?  Strangely, in this mode - I enjoy cleaning grout with a toothbrush.  What luck!

Every item I can shuck into a garbage bag lifts the burden that weighs on my shoulders.  Every bizarre knickknack or 20 year old tube of Neosporin I can trash makes me realize that my stress and current source of discontent is really inconsequential.  Ultimately, the literal cleaning meets the figurative and I can let go.

Somewhere between the Pine-sol and the tattered vestiges of my sour attitude, I can just cry it out.  In the end I feel loads better and Grandma Millie's kitchen is again usable...So, can I come clean your stuff?

Trick Or Treat...Smell My Feet

Every year (or more aptly, as far back as I can remember), my husband and I dressed to match for Halloween.  We go all out.  It is, after all, my favorite holiday outside of my birthday.  As our family grew, so did our elaborate matching costumes.
We've been the cast of Peter Pan:

Alice's Wonderland (for some reason I can't find the photo with all of us):

A family of vampires:

 and so on and so forth.

This year was to be the first year that we were going to let everyone pick their own costumes.  The thought of it made me a little teary.  I wasn't ready to let go of one of my favorite times of year: the picking of the Halloween costumes...until I saw my children milling over my Halloween books & magazines.

"What are we going to be this year, Mommy?"

Could it be?  Could I get one more year of family bliss and cohesive outfitting?  I thought and thought and thought.  There was one thing I always wanted us to be, but I couldn't figure out how to make the cast of five characters into six, until a coworker provided me with my brilliant solution.  All I had to do was convince my sister-in-law that she would actually WANT to dress up as Scooby-Doo.  I mean, what 30-something woman wants to dress up as Scooby-Doo?  Apparently, my sister-in-law!

I could barely get the words out.  It seemed she had been waiting as long for me to come up with this masterful costume idea as I had been wanting to do it.  For the rest of the day I was barraged with questions and ideas:

Will we actually have Scooby snacks that I can eat?  Yes.
I'm going to get a wig...Why?  WHY?!?!  So I can randomly put it on and hide behind a ficus tree...
I'm going to need to get glasses with the fake nose for me to put on as well.
Did you know that ROFL makes me think of Scooby saying 'Waffle'?
Can we make your minivan into the Mystery Machine?
Oooh, can I go into a van, fill it with smoke and come out with the munchies?!?

I was sent a link into the history and personality break down for each member of this rag-tag cast.  Funny, we all seemed to fit - can you figure out who each of us will be?  And no, bonus points will not be awarded for guessing who Scooby is...

Run, Run...As Fast As You Can...

We're health conscious in my house.  By that I mean, we're aware of how healthy we used to be, and we attempt to get back there.  Of course, my tactics are different than my husband's.  See, he's motivated to live a long and healthy life; to see his kids grow and get married and live wonderfully blissful lives of their own.

I'm motivated to make sure he only looks at me from now until forever.  Once upon a time, in a galaxy far, FAR away - where no children existed, I looked good enough to demand that by merely breathing....Now, to my sadness, I have to work at it, and I'm not even remotely close to hotness. [shaking my head] Not even close...

So, I diet.  I eat salads.  I row.  I bike.  And now, I run.  I downloaded this couch to 5K app.  And this snooty animated character is training me to run 3 point whatever miles without keeling over.  What is going to happen, is that I'm going to slip on my own sweat and be found lying in a pool of it, drooling and praying for death.  [sigh]

Most recently, my oldest has taken an interest into why we exercise so much (my husband makes her ride her bike with him on his jogs...).  Here's how it played out one evening, as I prepped for my torture on the treadmill...

She looked at me in my work out garb, and my John McEnroe (circa 1985) Head band, as I stretched my calves.  "Mommy, why do you run?"

"Because once, before you inhabited my personal space, I used to be hot.  And while I'll never be able to reclaim that fully, I know that without a doubt I'll try my damnedest to get back there.  Ultimately, I'll take solace in lording it all over you for the rest of your life..."

[my husband yells his encouragement from the other room] "You're really never going to let that go, are you?" Hello?  Has he not been with me for the past 14 years?  Who did he think he married nine years ago next week?  Oh, right...that hot chick.

"Nope...and I'll have it known, if I drop F-bombs while running, I'm going to blame them on the kids too!"

My daughter, in her infinite seven-year-old wisdom, shakes her head at me and walks out of the room.  "Have fun running!" is shouted over her shoulder.  You have no idea kid...no idea.