A Dose of Reality

Okay, so perhaps I watch too much reality TV. I have already confessed to my obsession with organizing-decorating shows (and, really, the first step is admitting you have a problem), but it doesn’t stop there. Not by a long shot.

I watch cooking shows: Top Chef, Masterchef, Rachael Ray’s 30 Minute Meals at $40 a Day (or whatever). True, I’m not going to be making anything with truffle oil anytime soon, but I have to say I’ve widened my flavor horizons, just in case Chef Tom Colicchio ever graces my kitchen.

Tomato soup - from scratch. Go, me!

Even Hell’s Kitchen throws out a good challenge every now and then (and I can make a terrific, creamy risotto because of it, so, Thanks, incompetent, foul-mouthed chefs!) .

I watch competition shows about stuff that really shouldn’t be competitive. I love The Amazing Race (travel as a contact sport), and The Biggest Loser ($250,000 might be an incentive to get me off the couch and . . . nah, who am I kidding?), and America’s Next Top Model (is it wrong to say that some of those contestants look like drag queens?), enabler of my shoe fetish.

The one show that I watch for no particular reason – and I mean, none – is Project Runway. Why do I say that? Because I cannot sew. As in, if you put a gun to my head, I might be able to do a decent hem so I’m not treading on my trousers when I wear my flats, and it’s possible I could replace a button on a shirt, but beyond that? Nope. Actually constructing something is a skill I never mastered, like trigonometry. Oh, I have a sewing machine, and I did for a while have plansdelusions that I was going to make gorgeous flowered pillowcases for my sofa, but that idea died a quiet death the minute the bobbin ran out of thread. One look at the instructions for re-threading that thing, and the lovely material ended up neatly folded and stashed in my linen closet.

Also? I have no fashion sense. Heidi Klum would take one look at my wardrobe and pronounce me “owt” immediately. I might get the double-cheek kiss before being escorted out by Tim Gunn.

So, it was an interesting Saturday, to put it mildly, spending time with Doodle and Scooby as they cut up old t-shirts and pajamas and stitched PANTS for their stuffed bear and dog.

Seriously. Totes adorbs. (They did not make the “Boston” shirt.)

In the end, they put together several “looks,” including a second pair of bear pants, a vest, and a matching hat (not pictured).

Now that’s how you make it work.

Mission: Clean Slate

I used to be a sucker for those organizing/decorating shows that were all the rage a few years ago. Clean Sweep, Clean House, and Mission: Organization were all appointment TV for me. For an hour at a time, I’d sit and swing between judgment and chagrin, knowing full well that I was a box of clothes or two shy of being a “makeover” myself. I’d gather little tips from this show or that one, and internalize the pep talks about letting go of clutter and making your house a home.

I’d start a project and peter out just as the hard work began.

So, this past weekend, for my birthday, I decided to bite off a small doable piece, and actually complete it during a four-day weekend. (Three days, actually, because Sunday was already fully booked.) I took a day off from work on Friday, and made sure to plan and prepare (a change from my usual on-the-fly approach).

My target: the front entry.

Here was the depository of everything that we were too lazy to give a good home. Coats, backpacks, purses, shoes. Books, papers, folders. Keys, magazines, mail. A travel-sized Communion kit. It all came to rest in the hall, and once there, never went away. It got to the point where I felt like I needed to apologize to any visitors as soon as they came in. It made me feel flustered, anxious, and embarrassed. It had to go.

I shopped and prepped on Friday. Scooby and I painted our hearts out on Saturday (it didn’t hurt that it was an Indian summer holiday weekend), and found a perfect piece of furniture (if not an antique, then close enough) to make a good first impression. I finished up the details on Monday.

We went from this:

to this:

Okay, so it’s not the biggest space in the world; barely a blip on HGTV’s radar, but it came out almost exactly the way I’d imagined it in my head. (And at least now, I don’t feel like I’m headed for the latest TLC show, Hoarders.)

Gosh, what a relief. Not a bad way to start my 45th year. Clean House, Clean Sweep, clean slate.

A Moment's Peace

It’s that time of year again.

School’s back in and starting to settle into a routine. I’m in the process of memorizing each kid’s particular weekly schedule – who has tests/quizzes/reports due when, how much time can I reasonably demand each one to devote to homework. Actually, it’s not so much a matter of committing it to memory (as mine doesn’t really work), but rather devising a color coded weekly chart to keep track of it all.*

It’s also the time for obsessing over my life. My birthday’s coming up soon. I have a doc appointment coming up, and it’s a doozy: my four month cancer checkup and my yearly physical. I can feel myself tensing up already. I’m starting to worry about my weight, beating myself up every morning because I can’t seem to shed those three five stubborn pounds I gained over the summer. I’ve given up chocolate (sort of) and cheese, because I suspect my cholesterol will be tested and found wanting. I’m obsessing over the level of stress and anxiety in my life in anticipation of my blood pressure being measured (I always have a whopping case of “white coat syndrome”). Yes, I’m anxious and stressed over being anxious and stressed.

I’ve nearly convinced myself to try a yoga class. (I’m not quite sold on the idea because I’m worried that I’ll look ridiculous, which, I suspect, comes close to defeating the purpose of taking the class in the first place.)

I’m falling out of love with my job of seventeen years and so I’m starting to think about an exit strategy.

There’s a lot on my plate.

I’m reminded of the admonition in Philippians 4:6, which says, basically, Don’t be anxious for anything, but pray and ask God for what you need, thanking Him in advance for it. And you will experience the peace of God, which nobody can ever understand, through Jesus Christ.

Problem is, I’m running so hard, so fast, so steadily, that I don’t even know what I need or what to pray for. More time? A more fit body? No cancer? All of those things feel both frivolous and too much to ask for, all at once. There are bigger problems in the world.

Maybe I’ll just cut to the chase and ask for peace. World peace; political peace; inner peace; peace and quiet. Just a couple moments’ worth. Enough uninterrupted consecutive minutes to take in the fact that I’m turning forty-four next week, and to be thankful about that. To take a look at the wide open space that the coming year represents, and maybe set a few goals. To cross the stuff off of my list that I didn’t do and that didn’t matter anyway. To enjoy my life. For the peace of wild things, which neither sow nor reap.

I think I’ll start by carving out one hour of my week for yoga.




*(You think I’m kidding. I’m not. Boy is red; Doodle is blue; Scooby is purple; Rev is black. I don’t have a color.)