Antisocial Personality

I should not be allowed to make any more new friends. I have a personality. Some people love it; some people hate it and I have come to terms with that. I have, at times, worried I may have an anti-social personality (not the DSM definition which seems to be one step away from serial killer but my own definition which is always a better use of the word). Let me explain. I am friendly, I love very deeply and I am very loyal. Plus, a good piece of cake at a party seems like a good time. However, I tend to be a little wary of making new friends. Perhaps this is because in my past, people seem to use the word friend and evil interchangeably so I was unsure of what the word actually meant for a good portion of my life. I am pretty good at spotting the difference now that I am older. (I feel a warning is needed here, once a person has proved that they know the difference between the two words, I tend to suction cup myself to their shoulder for the rest of their lives… sorry.) Spotting the difference, tends to take time; when a social occasion arises, usually with chocolate cake, (because why would you go to a social event with no chocolate cake?) I meet new people. I start out glaring at them suspiciously as they tell me what they do for a living, doubting that they really do work in retail. And I say over and over “Well… it is really nice to meet you…” interspersed with high-pitched manic laughter until they run away or I suddenly run away claiming I have to pee.  This serves to put the people in my life into two categories 1. People I suction cup myself to or 2. People I have to dive into bushes to avoid. What I am not prepared for is meeting someone new, who perseveres through my conspiracy theories and sharing of my bodily functions, and thus would like to become friends.

This recently happened to me when an acquaintance suggested we meet for coffee. I said yes because she is nice and it seems like something someone with my personality would do, you know, friendly and up for adventure (plus there could have been cake!). I was not prepared for the instant regret and panic I faced as the day drew closer. I began to realize this may be very bad indeed.  Because a social event has multiple escape routes when, for instance, you find you have been speed talking your way through the intimate gory details of your birth story. But meeting for coffee means they are trapped with you. However being an optimist… (see these and subsequent posts.) I thought, what have I got to lose? NOTHING. And I might gain a new friend.

The day arrives, I have a busy morning but manage to squeeze in a workout (which turns out to be a great distraction). However, the gym clock is five minutes off (it used to be fifteen minutes but now that it is five, I assumed it was right). So I push myself a little harder for five extra minutes as it is doing wonders for my nerves (and hopefully my curves but this is unlikely due to the constant anticipation of cake functions). Unfortunately, as I enter the shower I realize my (the gym clock’s) mistake and then have to speed my way through the shower. (see this post to see why this is a disaster.) Anyway, I am now late and must begin our relationship with an apology. She insists on paying which makes me panic and order a muffin (which I don’t want) and a latte which I never drink… Why? I will never know because there was actual cake which would have been the same calories as the muffin but I would have enjoyed it. I then proceed to ask some questions about her personal life. I will not say what they are here because despite my clear ineptitude, I do know one thing: that you should definitely not blog about a new friend’s personal life. (For the rest of you, I can’t promise anything.) However, let’s just say every subject I brought up was the wrong one and probably quite painful for her to talk about. She handles this with grace and sublime social skills; I, however, panic and begin to sweat; it’s dripping down my back, ribcage and also (strangely as I do not ever remember this occurring before) across my upper lip which I can’t hide. I check the time: one hour to go. What do I do then? Bring up 9/11 of course and discuss how horrible it was and how mean I think Osama Bin Laden is (or was, as I said over and over as I continued to forget and then remember we killed him). She listens with sympathy, as I describe in detail where I was and what I did, not just for 9/11 but the two days following the disaster. I managed to talk continuously (and when I say continuously I mean, not taking a breath and not allowing her more than an occasional “oh my!”) about this tragic day (to a New Zealander no less) for 45 minutes.  I blame the fact that I spent several evenings watching all the shows on the subject last week: 1. Because I swore I would never forget and 2. Because I keep hoping it will make sense or I will stop crying about it. I blame it on this, but really who am I kidding? If I hadn’t been watching that, who knows what I would have subjected her to… my last gynecologic visit?

I finished off giving her some pointers about writing... you know because I am a writer, not published or anything, just you know, tapping the keyboard lots of times and words come out. Ignoring the fact that she has her PhD in a related subject.  As I escape to my car, wiping the remaining sweat off my face, I ponder the epic failure. It occurs to me how it was probably a good thing I didn’t really get to date. Because if I had been let loose in those scenarios, I would have to spend the rest of my life diving into bushes or coming up with creative disguises whenever I left the house.  So I’m afraid I can’t make any new friends which is bad for all of you because if you are on my friends list, you have to stay otherwise I will end up “alone sitting in a crowded café mumbling to myself: My ass is twitching. You people make my ass twitch”[1]

---

[1] Kasdan, L. French Kiss

Dust Mites and More Floods

Sometimes in order to save a marriage compromises must be made. For an in-depth analysis of this please see post on Anniversary last year. For one reason or another it is pretty much guaranteed that each year Al and I will be fighting on our anniversary. It is coming up in a couple weeks and this year we have managed to sneak one in under the wire. Let me set the scene; hopefully you have all read my blog on why Alan and I sleep in separate beds.  I have a medical condition which keeps me awake and combined with his medical issues sleeping in the same bed is a disaster (again, click here to see how much of a disaster). Anyway, we bought Alan a bed last year it was a cabin bed which we knew was technically for children but it came with so much storage we thought it would help him keep his room tidy. (We did not anticipate how much of a hoarder he is.) Surprisingly, the child size bed has recently been “not working out” as his feet hang off the end and every time he rolls over one of the slats pop sounding like a gun going off waking everyone in the house as we all come running.

So we went to the bed store. He said he just needed a better mattress and I was not convinced and said he needed a proper bed. We agree on a very good bargain (but still more than we can afford at the moment: I agree out of guilt of having the actual grownup bed even if it is  just a mattress on the ground and he agrees because it is actually a major bargain.) We have a marriage imploding “discussion” about the bed and our inability to pay for it all day the next day but eventually we set the date for delivery. The night before, we spend getting the child bed into the actual child’s bedroom and reorganizing her room and his. This does not go well; the fourth time Amelia throws herself across the bed saying she just can’t take it anymore, I panic and tell her she has to push through or I am not sure if she will make it as a grownup. (We are both a bit tired.) I go on and on sounding a bit like a president giving a pre war speech in a movie, saying things like “This is the moment! This is when you decide who you are going to be. This is what separates the world changers from the McDonald’s workers.” (I have nothing actually against McDonald’s workers and I could tell this backfired immediately because for a ten year old a job at McDonald’s is like second place to a job at the candy store: either will do.) She said something to that effect so I switched to garbage collectors or something (I also have nothing against these heroes either. I could never do their job and am very grateful that someone gets on the back of that cesspool every week for me but I had a speech to give and the more dramatic the better.) Picture me, hands raised, an American flag behind me, (there wasn’t one but there should have been) as I beseech the flopping moaning fish on the bed to “show me what she is made of!” In what can only be described as a fluke of nature this completely insane parenting moment works and we clean her room to perfection and she even admits how good it feels to have it done.

 I leave this scene of triumph and glance into the hoarder’s room it does not look good but high from my success I offer my clearly remarkable abilities to my husband. He refuses and says his room is “not that bad” and he will be done shortly. I start to protest when he slowly closes the door in my face and I retire. In the morning, as I send Amelia off to school, I pass his room which now has all of the hoarded things stacked sort of Egyptian-pyramid style against one wall. I freak out because there is also an unidentified smell emanating from the room and he has to leave for work. Not only will the new bed not fit but the people will be unable to put the bed together because they will be unable to fit both themselves and the bed in the room at the same time. I begin carting everything out of the room considering on the way to the garage whether I should just put it all out on the street to be picked up by the amazing garbage men, but I resist.
 On a roll, I clean every surface of the room hoping to get the smell and all sources of his allergies removed. I decide that his ancient duvet that he has had since his bachelor days and refuses to get rid of, must be cleaned in hot water to kill all the dust mites. If you follow my blog you will remember that I recently flooded the garage with the washing machine. In our cleanup attempt, we damaged one of the hoses – the hot water hose. I remember this, but I think I will just turn it on because maybe the leak is not so bad and I can just put a bucket under it. So I turn the hot water on and place my hand under the tube to catch any drips. None come but the washing machine is not filling either and I hear the water rushing. My body goes cold as I fight with the child proof drawer (also adult proof) to see what is happening underneath. Unbeknownst to me, Al had unscrewed the hose all together, so now water is pouring out all over the garage again. Luckily, I am a master of garage floods, having just cleaned it up four days before. However, I still have the problem of needing to wash the arachnid infested blanket in hot water. So I call Al at work and say I need a new hose could he bring me one at lunch. He says, “just wash it in hot water in the tub”. I say not sarcastically at all and in a very loving voice, “Oh gee that sounds like so much fun please can I?” He says he has to go (but I don’t think he did).

After I hang up though, I contemplate his idea. If I do it, I can wash the towels from the flood clean up and his creepy crawly pillows at the same time. After a brief detour on Google to find out how hot the water needs to be to kill dust mites and climbing through the hot water tank/linen cupboard. Picture army training, crawling on hands and knees, under barbed wire, armed with a tiny flashlight squinting at knobs that say nothing on them about temp. I give up and fill the tub. The water is so hot, if I leave my hands in for more than a second they hurt. I am satisfied I must be killing something.(I also end up cleaning the linen cupboard out because apparently we have started throwing everything in there like vases and dinosaur party plates).  I then proceed to clean the rest of the house because I have got it in my head that the delivery boys will need coffee and thus the rest of the house must be cleaned.

 I leave the duvet for as long as I can but decide I need to pull it out so it will dry. Now, I realize it will be wet so I won’t be able to just walk across the house with it to the washing machine where I plan to spin it. So I cleverly get the laundry basket (it has holes in it but not at the bottom). I struggle a bit to get it untangled from the towels and with one last tug I free it and plop it in the laundry basket. As I do, there is a woosh and a wave of water races across the bathroom floor. (Just to let you know, screaming NOOO!! does not do anything to help) I grab every available towel from my now organized linen cupboard but they are powerless against the two inches of water now soaking into the cat food and hair that is strewn all over the bathroom. As I frantically mop the water to keep it in the center of the room and away from carpet and walls, I consider I should have emptied the water out of the tub first and let it drain. Also I probably should have had some coffee as it is now one o’clock and I am a bit ragey. (In retrospect, this may also be why I am obsessed with giving the delivery men coffee.) Al arrives home for lunch where I yell at him for making me wash the duvet in the tub to which he says, “You didn’t have to…” and “You should have let the water out of the tub first.”  To which I say… I am not sure what I said, I blacked out for a second.

Al leaves. The bed comes. They don’t want coffee. I spend the evening pouting… and Al gets the new bed which I refuse to let him enjoy (because what’s 17 years of marriage without a little immaturity? I did apologize but it went like this “I am so sorry I am not being nice about the bed… I mean, I am not sorry but I predict I will be sorry soon. So in anticipation of future feelings of guilt, I am sorry…"). On the bright side though, I think this year’s anniversary fight will be over by the actual date!