…disorder in the fort

Hi, It’s me again,

A sedentary opportunity is a terrible thing to waste. So here, hidden in the bathroom I relax; just wait, it won't be but two minutes and something or someone will intrude and re-motivate me. T

In life there are those busy moments when all parts of life begin to slip dangerously out of control, and that’s when my PPP-MO, passion for perfect placement—meticulous organization, can sway dangerously close to unhealthy obsession.  

It is in those moments of supreme chaos that the sight of an organized underwear drawer comforts and affirms to my conflicted soul that someone, somewhere is in charge of something and all is right with the world.

As the drawer slides open and the nice, polite rolls of order come into view, I am assured that indeed, I am the bureau chief… and I wonder if those in Washington feel as empowered by this power as I?

I know it’s risky to connect self-affirmation to the state of one’s underwear, but mothers have been doing it for centuries. They've credited all kinds of mythical powers to clean underwear and in this moment, that is my delusion de jour.[3]

It is in this moment of calm reassurance that sanity rears it's ugly head and I remind myself that the warning sign of a truly futile existence is a sorted plastic wrap drawer.[1] Any person who spends an inordinate amount of time on the fruitless enterprise of organization must be one tree short of an orchard and a half-bubble off plumb...[2]

Hey me,

I sorted Legos[4] today. I retreated to the bedroom and sat hunched over, dividing Legos by color and size. It’s been another of those nasty weeks. Nothing specifically happened that drove me to the Lego pile. Yet for supreme serenity, there are very few absolutions that beat the calming power of Legos…

I have felt the draw of the drawer—that small, superficial satisfaction that can be found in organization. I must admit that there are times when I enjoy a house of order, but the urge to purge can become dangerously addictive, like the last time I raked and fumigated the son’s bedroom. Wielding that much power is heady stuff, not brought on by the smell alone!

Reality Bite: May the force be with me.

[1] Mangled from a quote by Kate Capshaw.

[2] Still related to fruit, right?

[3] means of the day…or maybe with ice cream, either works.

[4] More free advertising… will somebody pay me, please?

Book style notes to self:  footnotes will be numbered however.  

...compulsion

No base jumping photographs, so I'm stuck with my hot air ballooning... It felt just as risky.

I’m hooked! Don’t tell me to stop writing. At this point I would just find something else to cram into the crevice. Living nearly out of control is equal to the thrill of BASE jumping.

I’m energized and each day is filled with extreme goals and ridiculous expectations that keep me perched and peeking right over the precipice.

I’d like to think that somehow, somewhere in the world of karma,[1] there are extra points awarded for level of difficulty. My risk ratio peaks at ten and the failure rate edges toward 100%, but somehow the back-up chute continues to inflate just in time to prevent the face plant.

Every close call is flushed with adrenaline and the rush is so exhilarating that it’s addictive. I really should be headed for rehab. I’ll schedule that in between, let’s see…

Reality Bite: Beware the strait jacket.

[1] Karma, I once knew a girl named Karma. How's that for messing with the universe?

…maxed out

Today, when I push away from the writing desk, I look around and discover a new disorder I've self-diagnosed[1] as M.E.S.S.—Maximum Effort Stress Syndrome, caused by cramming more stuff into a life that is already full.

This malady oozes out when I pile more onto whatever I was buried under before and I watch like a doomed test monkey, as this particular strain merges and morphs with my previous disorder—the one that someone else creates from the order I’ve just made.

Dear Me,
I have become The Jerk[2] as I exit every room I’ve entered with armloads of nothing but this remote, this chair, this jacket, this telephone, this screwdriver, this blow dryer and this magazine. This is all I need, as I stuff my pockets and waistband with every misplaced item and then I deport each item back to its own land.

I’m tired of hearing, “Mom, where is my (fill in the blank)?” I reply with “Have you looked where it belongs?” It’s rhetorical because they don’t even know where it is supposed to be.

Reality Bite: 'Cause I’m the only one who’s ever put it there!

[1] After an exhaustive, unrelated internet search.
[2] The movie

…bilge

Over the years, I’ve attempted to clear the bilge from the decks with every inventive remedy. I’ve charged a bounty for kidnapped items. I’ve raked up, and counted the stash and named the highest offender my personal slave for a day. I’ve even swabbed it into one gigantic pile in the living room and made the scurvy rats walk the plank, but none of these feel as satisfying as my most recent solution.

I now bury the booty wherever it doesn’t belong. I know it’s not a new idea for me. In the past I’ve done it accidentally anyway, but now in the future, I will it purposely and continue on without apology.

The daughter responds after an extended search where she finds her calculator in the cereal box in the pantry. She mutters, “Spare me the creative mother.” But, it’s back to the drawing board for the son who thinks the winter hat box on the top shelf of the front hall closet is now the perfect nesting place for all of his school books.

Dear Me,
Writing may accomplish what I’ve been striving for since the dawn of conception—the shifting of the heavy weight of responsibility onto the progeny’s precarious stack. It may upset that balance of things and cause it all to topple, but when desperate measures result in more desperate times, the bottom line is: Who will really notice?

Reality bite: Desperately seeking something.

…hero-whine

Organization puts the son off his groove. He complains for weeks afterward that someone has been in his stuff and he won’t find anything again, ever! Ah, but I have an ulterior motive. Stay with me while I explain how the supremacy cycle can solve this problem.

“Don’t worry!” I yell as I swoop in, “Out of the Way! I’ll help!” Slipping into a Superhero persona is the only way to really make mental contact with the son. To reach him at his level, I introduce the comic book super villain, Batty Mothre whose arrival follows the comic book formula and creates greater mayhem, destruction and chaos and places the victim in even greater peril.

The son is expecting that, but the second phase of rescue calls for my character to follow the typical storyline and morph from bad to good and become noble and heroic. Again, utilizing the tried and true comic formula, my character then spends the next sixteen pages morphing from good to bad, back to good. I die twice and then I resurrect and rescue the victim from the disaster with my superhuman powers. And amid all of the confusion, I construct a force field that blows everything back to rights and he is ever and most eternally grateful, just like those confused souls in Gotham and this is how the tiny little cycle of supremacy pedals onward.

It’s me again,… the power of ruling the Lego world is similar to being a Super Villain toying with mankind. Aside from the obvious pleasures of wrenching the tiny people from their comfort zones, putting Mr. Motorcycle in Water-ski World, I can relocate entire civilizations. Vikings are quartering with cowboys and knights are swimming with underwater aliens.
At least their heads are. I divest the heads from the bodies and divide them into their own chambers, along with hats, weapons, bodies, and legs. 

Help me,

Reality Bite: Be armed and aware… and afraid