His, Mine and Ours

Being married for the first time at such a late stage in life is sort of interesting. Okay, really interesting. I swear, I could write a book. There are so many changes in my heretofore single life that I don’t know where to begin.

But let’s talk about friends for a minute. See, I have a whole lot of friends and Vince has a whole lot of friends. Now, before you say “Well, Miss Social Butterfly – you're awfully full of yourself, aren’t you?” in a rather snippy tone of voice (if you don't mind my saying so), let me explain. Having a lot of friends is more a result of us simply being alive for so damn long. Unless someone is a real jerk, they’re probably going to have more friends at 50 than they did at 25.

It occurs to me that when people get married at a younger age, they tend to grow “couple friendships.” While they probably still have individual friends they made while growing up or through school, a newly married younger couple focuses more on forming friendships with other couples. And when they start procreating, they become friends with other couples who are in the same boat. Or at least the same daycare. They want to be able to do things like make “play-dates” for their newborns. Like their newborns really understand the social aspect of a play-date. Heck, those kids are busy trying to locate their toes and are mostly concerned about their next diaper change.

On the other hand, when a couple breaks up, many of their friendships break up, too. Usually one member of the former couple wins the friends in the divorce settlement. I think it's one of the first assets the lawyers split up. But what usually happens is that the non-divorced couple picks one of the ex-es (usually the one who isn't as snippy). But they gravitate toward either the ex-wife or the ex-husband – not usually both. If by some weird cosmic accident a couple is able to maintain friendships with both the ex-wife and the ex-husband, it isn't easy. At the very least, planning a dinner party becomes significantly more complicated.

As for me, well, I was one of those “third-wheeler” sorts of friends. Even when I was in a relationship, I still had a lot of free time. Fortunately, my married girlfriends were able to carve out a little time for me. Mostly, we'd meet up for dinner and go see a chick flick while their grateful husbands stayed home watching ESPN and probably burping and farting without having to apologize to anyone or blame the dog.

But sometimes they’d invite me over to their house and the three of us would hang out together. I'm guessing my friend's husband didn't like it as much when we did that because then he would have to blame the dog for any gaseous emissions that inadvertently occurred.

I always wondered if my friends’ husbands merely put up with me as the third wheel – or if they actually considered me a friend? Who knows – maybe they were simply grateful because I was the reason they didn’t get dragged to as many chick flicks. I never really asked the question because I didn’t really want to know the answer. I was just happy to spend time with my friends.

About 5 years ago I became more active building friendships with other singles. Eventually, I joined the Columbus Ski Club for the social aspect of the club. So I developed lots of friendships with both singles and couples alike.

Vince, meanwhile, was doing the thing where he was inheriting some friendships after his marriage broke up. He also developed friendships in his newly single life. And in the past few years, he has re-connected with many friends from high school, college and previous work situations.

So as we’ve merged our lives, we’ve been merging our friends. While there are still some “mine” and some “his” – we’re not doing too badly with the “ours” and Vince is now usually included on invites from my friends. I don't hear from his friends much. Probably they're a little scared I'll call them snippy - or will edit their e-mails or something.

Anyway, sometimes having this “his-mine-and-ours” situation complicates matters. Like when a holiday weekend comes up and we have invites from both sets of friends. It takes some juggling to make sure we aren’t short-changing one group over another. So for example, on this 4th of July holiday weekend, we have three gatherings to attend Friday night, and four gatherings to attend on Saturday. Egads! Seven events in two days? Ain't no way we can be that good at juggling.

I dunno. Maybe we should just go out and buy a box of Sparklers and throw a coupla burgers on the grill and call it a day? Nah. But...seven events? Even if we manage only half of them, I think I should still get to be called "Miss Social Butterfly."

Just don't call me snippy!

Blogging, Buca, and The Bitchy Waiter

Ever since I started this blogging thing, I’ve been interested in reading other people’s blogs. And I’ve discovered that there is a whole blogging world out there that I never knew existed. Oh, well, I take that back. Sort of. I mean, I knew the word “blog” has been around for a while – and I knew people were doing it. I just never took the time to read any of them.

So now, whenever I post one of mine, I press a handy-dandy icon at the top of Blogger.com that reads “Next blog” so I can read, well, the next blog. And I’ve gotta tell you, there are some pretty strange bloggers out there. I’ve landed on foreign blogs, mystical blogs, poetry blogs, mommy blogs, photography blogs, ranting blogs and blogs that pretty much defy categorization. Actually, some of them even scare me a little bit.

The other day I discovered a better way of vetting the blogs I read. There is an icon on iGoogle called “Blogs of Note.” I’m not sure how it works, but it seems that the powers that be at Google select one lucky (or clever) blogger per day and shine a spotlight on their blog. Immediately hordes of readers flock to that blog and the blogger becomes an instant celebrity.

Well, not really. But it definitely kicks their readership up a notch.

Most of the time I find these “Blogs of Note” interesting and there have even been a few that I’ve started following because I enjoyed reading them. One is called “The Bitchy Waiter.” It is written by a guy in New York City who has worked in the food industry a l-o-n-g time, which means he has pretty much (a) seen it all and (b) lost all patience for diners. He’s funny. He’s sarcastic to the point where the words practically drip. And he swears a lot.

Mostly, I think I keep reading his stuff because I want to know what not to do when I go to a restaurant. Before I started reading the Bitchy Waiter’s blog, I figured I was a pretty normal restaurant diner. Rarely do I ask for substitutions and I tip at least 20%. I’d say that if I received really bad service I would tip less, but over all these years, I’ve done that maybe once or twice. When I ask for a glass of ice water, I try to do it when I order my glass of wine or beer or soda – so the waiter doesn’t have to make two drink trips. And I read the menu carefully to make sure I like all the ingredients in the dish before I order.

So imagine my consternation the other night when we went to Buca di Beppo and I couldn’t eat what we’d ordered! Vince and I normally order the same dish every time we go there since we both like it and the portions are served family style, which necessitates sharing. I don’t like spicy and he does, so we get the wimpy dish and he loads it up with whatever spicy stuff they have on-hand.

Well, they had a summer menu with some new offerings, so I threw caution to the wind and we ordered one of the summer pasta dishes. Vince did ask for a substitution of the white wine sauce that we normally get on our other dish – and the waiter said he’d be happy to bring it to us on the side so we could add it to our pasta. Now, for all I know, he could’ve really been annoyed that he had to do extra work and perhaps he did whatever bitchy waiters do to the food of people who are annoying them. I don’t know – and I really hope that I never find out.

I usually order a glass of wine whenever I have pasta – I think it’s some sort of Italian law – and I’m a very law-abiding citizen. However, once we’d asked for ice water, we never moved beyond that to the wine list, so I decided that this once I could do without a glass of wine.

Anyway, the piping hot bowl of pasta comes out and I serve some to Vince and then to myself. I take an anticipatory bite. And then I put my fork down. There were spicy red pepper flakes liberally sprinkled throughout the bowl. Arrrgghhh! Maybe I AM wimpy, but I really can’t stand to eat anything hot and spicy. And if faced with that sort of food, I’d be happier abstaining completely than eating it. And I love pasta – so that’s a pretty strong statement for me to make.

It turns out that nowhere in the description of the dish did the words “spicy” or “red pepper” appear. Believe me, I look for those sorts of words! So both the waiter and his manager came over to our table to apologize. They promptly offered us the dish for free. And then they offered to bring out a bowl of the pasta we normally order. By now, I’m feeling like one of those very diners the Bitchy Waiter writes about. A pain in the you-know-what.

Vince, on the other hand, was happy because he had a whole lot of spicy pasta to enjoy. But by the time my bowl of wimpy pasta arrived, I wasn’t hungry any longer. So the waiter had to box up both my entire bowl and most of Vince’s bowl. Separately, of course. While he was off performing this task (and hopefully not spitting in it), the manager came back over to make sure we were happy. And she handed us a couple $10 off coupons for future visits.

Well, we already had a $10 off coupon for this visit, although we sort of debated about using it since we felt we were getting a lot of food for not a lot of money. But the waiter took it and returned with our bill. We ended up with about $50 worth of food for, well, less than half of that. We did, however, tip the waiter as if we were paying the full tab – including the free bowl of pasta we’d received.

Our waiter definitely deserved a good tip. He worked hard for it. And he was gracious and professional throughout our meal. If he was at all “bitchy” it was not something we saw. Of course, for all I know the Bitchy Waiter blog-writer might be gracious and professional throughout his shift – only to go home and wax sarcastically about his customers.

So, in review, we (a) drank only water that the waiter had to keep refilling, (b) asked for a substitution, (c) complained about our food, (d) got the manager involved (inadvertently), and (e) used a coupon. I can only hope that our waiter does NOT write a blog.

Oh, and I am VERY happy that the Bitchy Waiter is located in New York City.

Fifty-Eight Years of Wedded Bliss

Yesterday was my parents’ 58th wedding anniversary, which is a pretty awesome milestone. Yep, they done good! And they’ve set a fine example of wedded bliss that’d probably be a good idea for the rest of us to follow.

Well, except for Vince and me. Don’t get me wrong. It’s not that we wouldn’t want to live in wedded bliss for 58 years, but let’s face it – we didn’t start out our married life as still-wet-behind-the-ears kids. In 58 years, we’ll be, well, ancient. And, if by some miracle, we’re both still alive and kickin’ then, I’m thinking we’ll be doing well to remember our own names, let alone the name of our beloved.

But, we’re not talking about Vince and me. We were (before I so rudely interrupted myself), talking about my mom and dad. Now, I don’t exactly know the secret to their success, but I do know that they have always considered their marriage to be the foundation of the family. Unlike some families today, my brothers and sister and I didn’t rule the roost – our parents did. They knew that eventually kids grow up and move out of the house, and if they didn’t maintain their relationship, there wouldn’t be anything left by the time the final kid packed her bags and left the proverbial nest.

I believe my parents worked hard all these years to keep the spark alive in their marriage. They still hold hands whenever they go for walks. They kiss each other every morning when they wake up and every evening before they go to bed. And they treat each other with love and respect.

It’s not that my parents were without conflict. They did – from time to time – have their little spats and disagreements. Still do, in fact. But we rarely heard them arguing behind closed doors, let alone in front of us. They were raised in an era where you worked through your differences. I can’t swear to it, but I don’t think they ever seriously considered the “D” word.

When I was young I remember my mom teasing (threatening?) my dad by saying that if he ever found a “floozie” and wanted to run off with her, that was fine – he just had to take the kids with him when he left. I used to think, Heyyyy! Like being with the four of us kids is a burden? C’mon! We’re freakin’ angels here! But I also fervently hoped that she was just kidding. I didn’t know what a “floozie” was at the time, but it sure didn’t sound like someone I wanted to become acquainted with.

Plus, come on. My dad with a “floozie”? In the immortal words of Cher in the movie Clueless: “As if.”

When we were kids, my parents would try to take a day or two off together at least once a year so it could be about them – and not about us. They even had a No Kid Zone every evening after my dad returned home from work. Mom and dad retired to the living room for a set period of time to enjoy a cocktail and catch up on their day. It was probably also the time when mom ratted out any bad kid’s behavior, but since that was never me, I can’t absolutely swear this to be true.

(Hey, I’m the writer here; I get to remember the story any way I want!)

But seriously, I do remember one time coming to the entrance of the living room apparently with what I thought was an urgent question. I didn’t, of course, step a toe over the threshold. I have no idea what my question was, but since they determined that no blood had been shed, I was promptly turned away. See? Even angels try to push the limits!

(Wonder if that’s why when I’m at my parents’ house today, I still hesitate before walking into the living room. Guess I’m thinking I should probably ask for permission before entering!)

But the point is my parents were definitely a solidified unit. It never worked for us to play one against the other because they always knew what we were up to. They actually talked to each other and made joint decisions. So we never heard those magic words, “Ask your dad.” For kids, that’s like giving them the keys to the candy store. They go to dad and say, “Mom said it’s okay with her if it’s okay with you.” And – voilà! – instant permission.

Back then I might not have agreed with everything my parents did, particularly when I was denied permission to do something – but today I have to say I think they did a pretty good job. Mom and dad were definitely the parents in the equation. They were not our “friends.” We respected them and knew what the boundaries were. That is a good thing for a kid.

So even though my parents have not had a perfect marriage, they’ve had a pretty darn good one. And they’ve just celebrated 58 years of wedded bliss. My hat goes off to them. Oh wait. I’m not wearing a hat. Perhaps I should propose a toast. Hold on while I go get a glass of champagne or something…

(…okay, I’m back. By the way, does Fresca count? It’s the only fizzy thing I had handy.)

Anyway…ahem...: Mom and Dad – here’s to you. Congratulations on your 58th wedding anniversary. Thank you for showing us what a real marriage is all about. It’s not about hearts and flowers all the time. It’s about hard work. And perseverance. And compromise. And forgiveness. And a whole lot of communication. And much love and affection. And holding hands when you go for a walk together. May we all be as blessed as the two of you.

Na zdrowie!
Slàinte!
Cheers!

Shoes and Shopping...The Rare Occasions They Do Not Mix

I had a couple of free hours the other week so, like many people with a little extra spare time, I spent the time doing one of my favorite activities. By “many people” I mean women. And by “favorite activity,” I mean shopping.

Wanting to get the most out of the experience, I drove right on past the strip mall shopping center thinking that there weren’t enough stores there for my browsing pleasure. Instead, I headed directly to the Polaris mall.

Now the only flaw with spontaneous mall shopping is questionable footwear. I was wearing a pair of sandals that were both cute and comfortable. But sandals that are perfectly comfortable walking around the office may not necessarily be good for a two hour trek through the mall.

By the time I had traipsed from Macy’s to JC Penney, those cute sandals had rubbed against the sides of my feet until angry red blisters had formed. But rather than concede defeat and head for the exit, I did what any determined shopper in just such a situation would do – I bought another pair of shoes.

Because shoe shopping was not specifically on my agenda, I ducked into a bargain store and bought a cheap pair of flip-flops thinking I could get away with it. Ha! Blisters quickly formed between my toes, which attested to the fact that cheap flip-flops are not an alternative to sensible “mall-walking” shoes.

So I heaved a sigh, took off the flip-flops, put my old sandals back on and gingerly hobbled out of the mall.

When will we women learn?

I must admit that men have the right idea. I know men who, for the most part, can survive with a total of four pair of shoes. They own some sort of running shoes, a pair of hard-soled shoes for all events in which their Nikes would not be appropriate, a pair of sandals to wear the entire summer and with any ensemble and, finally, a pair of boots for the winter when the snow reaches their kneecaps.

I, on the other hand, have bins full of shoes. I get glassy-eyed inside the hallowed entrance of DSW. At last count, I had twenty-three pair of black shoes. Now why is it necessary for one woman to own twenty-three pair of black shoes? Truthfully, I don’t know, but I was willing to justify the number with a lengthy discourse on different styles and heel heights. That is, until I went home after my painful shopping excursion, plastered bandages on my blisters and dug through those bins searching for a comfortable pair of shoes. And I couldn’t find any. Sigh.

On a brighter note, I see another trip to DSW in my near future. But this time, I’ll bypass the cute sandals and head for the sensible mall-walking shoe section.

Or…at least I’ll try!

What if I Don’t Wanna Enter My Name And Password Here…?

Is it just me or are we being “user-named,” “passworded” and “PIN-numbered” to death these days? I’m telling you, I have so many log-ons to every imaginable site – for personal use, for work, for banking, for bill-paying. Not to mention the user names and passwords I need for e-mailing and facebooking and blogging. Oh my.

I don’t use the same user name and/or password for all those things because I don’t want to make it easier for a hacker to hack my stuff. On the other hand, I can’t imagine how exciting it would be to hack into my cable bill or my Twitter account. Who knows? Perhaps they could make my tweets a little more regular and halfway interesting.

The other day my boss asked me to create a Facebook page for his other-other business (he has several). I did an exaggerated mental sigh and an eye roll. Plus an imaginary hands-on-hips gesture with a little toe-tapping to underscore my huffiness. What I said, however, was, “Sure! No problem!”

Don’t get me wrong – it’s not that I don’t like to be creative. It’s more like I couldn’t bear to create yet another Facebook page under my name. I mean, I have one for personal use and one for his second business. And now I had to create yet a third Facebook page wherein I’m one of the administrators? Please. I’m gettin’ dizzy here!

So I put my creativity to the test and instead opened a new Yahoo address for him. And then I created a Facebook page for his other-other business. Pretty clever of me, eh? Yeah, but while it solves one problem, it creates another. See, I’M going to have to be the one who remembers all these e-mail addresses and passwords and log-ons. And I’ve got enough of my own to contend with! It’s only going to get more complex because I’m quite sure his next request will be to create a Twitter account for this other-other business. Who knows? I might get so frustrated, I’ll do the hands-on-hips and toe-tapping thing for real.

Most of the time I’m pretty organized and I’m able to handle all these log-ons, passwords and such, but it became an embarrassing situation a couple months ago at Costco. I normally use my debit card as Credit so I get the points offered by the bank. What this means is that I don’t need to remember the PIN number. Well, Costco only accepts Debit cards (or their American Express card, which in my opinion is a clever ploy to get you to sign up for yet another card.)

Anyway, we were using a relatively new card – and I’d only used it as “credit” prior to this shopping excursion. And, for the life of me, I could not remember the PIN number. We tried the one Vince thought we received when we signed up for the card. Didn’t work. I tried the normal “go to” PIN Number I’ve used forever. No dice. We were getting a little desperate because we didn’t have enough cash to cover our purchases and we couldn’t use a credit card. And then we noticed the line behind us growing ever longer and we started hearing audible sighs. Believe me, I could relate. Allegedly I may even have been one of those sighers in the past.

Finally, we hit upon the brilliant idea of writing a check to pay for our purchases, which, of course, caused another problem. Why? Because my checks were still in my birth name and not my married name. Arrrghhh! Fortunately, the manager approved it – probably because he was afraid all the people in line behind us would revolt and start the first-ever Costco riot. (Truthfully, it was more likely because I was smart enough to carry our marriage certificate in my purse for just such occasions. He couldn’t really dispute that I was who I said I was.)

The first thing we did when we got home – even before refrigerating our purchases? Change the PIN Number to one I might actually remember. I’ve gotta admit, I feel a major sense of relief when I use that card and tap in the 4-digit PIN number – and it is accepted. Major whew!

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to post this to blogger.com. I only hope I can remember the log-in and password. Wonder if my debit card PIN Number would work?

The Beginning of a Beautiful Friendship…

You know how you have some friends who seem like they’ve been your friends forever? And you never have that awkward “getting reacquainted” moment if you haven’t seen them in months – or even years? Well, I am blessed to have a lot of those kinds of friends.

The other day when we went to Cleveland for the wedding, we got together with several friends I categorize as my “OSU friends.” Most of them went to Ohio State, which explains the category. (Duh.) Some of them, however, did not – but I categorize them that way anyway because I met them through my Ohio State friends.

I believe we are all friends for life. (If they haven’t kicked me out of their friendship circle after 30-something years, well, I guess I should be pretty safe…unless, of course, they read this and decide to be funny…!)

Anyway, it’s a little hard to believe that our friendship deepened to the point that today we consider one another family. Why? Well, because my introduction into the group started rather inauspiciously.

It was my freshman year at Ohio State when I met the first of these characters – let’s call him “Adam.” It was the middle of winter and we’d recently had a record snowfall that even closed down the university, which was practically unheard of. So what else were cooped-up college students to do but head to the bars? (We could, by the way, legally drink 3.2 beer at age 18 back then.)

At the end of the evening Adam gallantly offered to escort a couple of us back to our north campus dorm from the Thirsty Eye. He was, as you can guess, interested in one of us, otherwise, he probably wouldn’t have made an extra stop.

He was doing the guy thing of trying to win over his potential target’s friend, which was me. And to clarify – I was the friend; not the target. But I was also not (at that time) a beer-drinker, so I didn’t have that magical layer of beer protection where the wind chill factor isn’t, well, a factor. My teeth were chattering so much that I was a little concerned about breaking a tooth. All I wanted to do was get back to the warmth of my dorm room. But he was laughing and joking and trying to get me to smile. What he was rewarded with looked sort of like a set of those fake chattering teeth. Not a good look – and not exactly sincere.

So how did Adam respond? He pushed me into a snowdrift!

Now anyone who knows me would understand that this is hardly the way to win me over! As you can guess, I was not pleased, nor did I think it was cute. But he helped me up, which was a point in his favor.

The next time I saw him, he forgot my name as he tried to introduce me. Strike Two.

But, actually, it wasn’t really a strike. He was so funny and a genuinely nice guy that I didn’t really get mad. He introduced me to his twin brother and all their friends – and, believe me, there were a LOT of them – and that was our first tentative steps toward a blossoming friendship.

…Until the next time I saw them. I walked into a party he’d invited us to and I was greeted with a loud chorus of: “Jane, you ignorant slut!”

I was shocked, appalled and embarrassed. I’m quite sure my face turned a bright shade of red in complete and utter mortification. I didn’t even know these people and they were calling me a name I’d never spoken aloud in my life, let alone done anything to earn the title!

As I wheeled around to march right back out of that party, Adam ran after me and said, “Haven’t you seen Saturday Night Live?” Uh…noooo…I hadn’t. We were not usually at home watching TV on Saturday nights and this was before the advent of VCRs or DVRs or any other television recording device.

So he explained the whole Jane Curtin/Weekend Update/Point-Counterpoint thing where she played the earnest television anchor stating her opinion about some current event. Dan Aykroyd, her co-anchor, would begin his rebuttal with, “Jane, you ignorant slut!”

Oh.

But doesn’t it figure? If the role had been played by Gilda Radner, I wouldn’t have had to live with such a greeting all these decades later whenever my college friends see me.

Not only that, but then they proceeded to combine it with the Jetsons line, “Jaaaaannne…Stop This Crazy Thinggggg…you ignorant slut!”

Cripes.

Up to that time, I was rarely called anything other than “Jane.” Sure, I got the occasional “Plain Jane” thing thrown at me in grade school. (Grade schoolers are not exactly known for their creativity in schoolyard taunts.) I also had several nice nicknames, too, as my cousins or a teacher might call me “Janie.” And in high school a bunch of us high school friends decided to end all our names with “ers” – so my name became “Janers.”

All of those nicknames I could handle. Being basically called a woman of ill repute? Not so much.

But, anyway, it was all done in fun – and if I’d really objected they would have stopped…

…Oh, who am I kidding? Knowing them, they would’ve used the phrase louder, more often, and probably under the most inappropriate of circumstances.

By the time they started translating the phrase in Italian, I gave up trying to stop. This. Crazy. Thing. (Hey, if you can’t beat ‘em…)

So, do you see why it’s a little surprising that our long-lived friendship had a chance given that kind of beginning? But our friendship did grow and, through them, I’ve met many other forever friends. Their 80-and-change mother even calls me “family,” which is, indeed, an honor.

No matter how close or how far away we live, we somehow manage to come together for happy occasions like birthdays and weddings and baby christenings. And sad occasions like funerals. And every other occasion in between. But no matter what the occasion, when we see each other, it is a celebration. Of the best kind.

One of these days, I’ll tell the story about our infamous ski trip to New York. If I can remember the details…

Clean Freak

Our refrigerator has never looked as clean as it does right now. That’s because there isn’t very much food in it – and, believe it or not, I’m sort of happy about that. I cleaned it out last week to make room for the 80th birthday/Father’s Day celebration food and we haven’t restocked yet. I’m kind of digging the emptiness of it.

Yeah, I don’t really like looking in fridges that are so jam-packed that you can’t find anything – including the jam. And, when you actually do find something you’re looking for, more than likely it has become a weird science experiment. In my single days, when I used to run across containers of mystery food featuring fuzzy green mold, I would usually throw the whole thing out – container and all – which explains why I was always searching for containers to put leftovers in. Good thing there are two of us in our household now. Leftovers don’t usually stick around long enough to get to the moldy stage.

I love cleaning out stuff. But then I also like re-filling the empty space. Yep, I’m a little strange that way – what can I say?

It’s like my closet. I’m thrilled when I clean it out and donate clothes that I no longer wear (or the ones I have to iron before wearing, thus those particular articles of clothing never appear in public). Once I’ve gone through the purging process, I’m happy. And for one brief, shining moment my organized closet resembles one of the model closets in an ad for closet re-organization.

But then, of course, I then proceed to fill it back up. But I mean, really, who can live with just five pairs of shoes? Or – like in those ads – three blouses, a couple pairs of dress slacks, a few jackets and an odd skirt and dress? There is so much empty space in those closets, they could do double duty as guest rooms. Provided, of course, your guests don’t mind sleeping amid your dress slacks and five pairs of shoes.

I always wonder about those people who can live with very few possessions. Sometimes I wish I were like them, but I really like my “stuff” around me. Don’t get me wrong; I’m not one of those hoarder types who keep every single toy they ever received as a child or every magazine or piece of mail or newspaper ever delivered to their house. I don’t have to maneuver through “aisles” in my living space – or worse – live in a domicile so packed with junk that you can’t sit on the couch or eat at the dining room table.

The other week I found myself in the rare position of being in charge of the remote, which basically means that Vince wasn’t home. There I was happily flipping channels when I stopped at a show on Style Network called “Clean House.” O.M.G. I was utterly shocked and appalled!

That particular episode featured a family who couldn’t use the living space in their house because there was so much “crap” in every room and on every surface. The mother on the program had something like SEVEN sewing machines lying around. (Vince can’t get me to buy even one sewing machine so I could possibly fix a hem once in a while.) And the father, who had some sort of online sales business, kept boxes of every sort in just about every room in the place. And most of them were not broken down, so there was a LOT of space taken up by empty boxes piled nearly to the ceiling. He also owned half a dozen guitars – and the guy doesn’t even know how to play the guitar!

And, yes, I’m sort of guilty of the same thing. I admit that I own a guitar, which is sitting in the corner of my living room. It was handmade especially for me. And, no, I don’t know how to play it. But I couldn’t get rid of it. On the other hand, I also wouldn’t keep collecting more guitars to clutter up the place like this guy did. If I owned more than one, I’d make myself take lessons so I would know how to play and people wouldn’t think I was weird for owning a fleet of them.

Vince came home sometime during the middle of this program and wondered why I was watching it. He kept saying, “What is this show?” Mostly, I think, because he wanted to regain control of the remote so he could flip back to CNN. But I didn’t hand it over to him. I was feeling a little like I feel when passing an accident on the freeway. Sorry for the people involved and relieved that I wasn’t one of those in the middle of it. And a little curious about how it was all going to end.

And perhaps I was even feeling a little smug because never – in my worst housekeeping days – have I ever allowed my home look this bad!

On the other hand, these folks received $5,000 worth of renovations and free clean-up of their mess while they lounged around in a hotel somewhere. (Hopefully they didn’t trash the hotel rooms.)

Maybe I should move all the junk we have stored in the garage and toss it around the living room and then call up this show to see if they’d be willing to clean and reorganize it for free? Nah. One of the downsides in allowing this show to come in with their cameras is that the inhabitants must allow their faces to be shown on national television amid their pigsty of a house. I think I’d literally die of embarrassment!

So I guess I’ll just have to continue cleaning my little abode and hope that I never answer a knock at the door to find the “Clean House” people standing there waiting to attack my mess. Meanwhile, I’m going to enjoy my clean and empty fridge.

I suspect, however, that Vince is planning an imminent trip to Costco. Sigh…