organized chaos

Usually care packages are reserved for kids away from home. My Man is an only child and his parents have never really accepted that he is a grown man and since they live two states away, technically he is a kid away from home.

So we’ve always received care packages full of goodies the likes you’ve never seen. I thought you’d like to share in the bi-monthly excitement that is “The Box From Grandma Diana.” But a disclaimer from My Man: We don’t ask for the box. We never have. It’s a free will offering that only a mother can provide, lest you think him a spoiled child. Which he is not.

Join me.

First we have the usual shipment of office supplies. As you all know, I need these desperately. Sometimes I ask for specific things like three ring binders, but mostly she just has closets full of this stuff and it’s luck of the draw. That glue stick in the front? It’s about as thick as the fat end of a carrot. I’m still not sure what I’ll use it for. Maybe I can glue Jackelope to his chair at dinner so he’ll stop getting up and performing Jedi moves all helter skelter in the middle of devotions.

I can’t remember the last time I bought toothpaste. It’s one of her favorite things to send. And heck, I’m not picky, so it works out fine. Unless it’s sandpaper flavor. I’ve found that to be a bit–grating.

Oh, and that allergy medicine is supposed to be for My Man who sneezes 15 times in a row at times, but according to him, medicines are all placebos. That actually might come from the fact that his parents still buy their medicines across the river (Rio Grande River) and use out of date penicillin for colds and viruses. I’ve told them it’s not really effective for that, but you can’t buck tradition.

And The Box would not be The Box without the necessary snackage for the gremlins. She also thinks I use a lot of splenda because there was this one time when I did, but I’m out of that phase now. I just didn’t have the heart to tell her, so I keep getting sandwich baggies filled with splenda packets. And coffee mate that My Man and I would rather gag than use in our coffee. I’m all about the coconut cream people. Don’t judge me.

Then there’s my special sack inside the big box. The photo’s a bit blurred from my excitement over all that loot. Usually I get beef jerky, a special notepad just for me, some cash!, and a pain reliever of some sort to rid the gremlin induced headache. And apparently The Cuteness does not get his own sack yet, because all his baby junk was in my sack also. It was a bit of a let down, to say the least, when I opened my goody sack and pulled out baby plates and cutlery. But again–I got cash, so I’ll stop my moaning. And that blue comb?

Who knows where she found this jewel, but do you guys know I have always wanted a fancy blue comb with my very own name on it? Well I have! Don’t judge me.

Now here’s where I broke the rules a little.

This is officially Charlie’s bag o’ goodies, but I peeked in to give you nice folks the first look and the vast difference between the golden boy’s goody bag and my own. Notice the George Strait CD circa 1980’s. I think the puffy vinyl coat gives it away. And yes, Charlie was very excited about this goody. What a nerd. He also got some cool pencil leads and a Coleman watch for all his OCD treks out to the backyard.

And then there’s his second goody bag.

Now, I’m not much for chocolate. I’m weird like that. But she could of sent me a big bag of avocados or nachos supreme. I suppose that would get messy. Even so.

Ten chocolate bars for mom’s little sweetie. I think I’m tearing up. With tears. Actually I might need some of that pain reliever now that I think of it. For the throbbing headache of injustice.

Still. I’m grateful for the cash. Did I mention that? I am.

O.C.D. as in Obsessive Compulsive Disorder

As in, “I need to turn the light on and off 6 times before I leave a room.

As in, “If I don’t scrub my hands raw, the germs will form a coup.”

As in, “Tiny pieces of trash that most people would ignore seem so big that they threaten to overtake me.”

Any guesses on what exactly My Man is doing with that Shop Vac?

If you’d like to know, read on. If this seems a little too much for your faint heart, try this.

Every time we go through the back yard to get into the house, My Man, Charlie gripes about the state of the yard. It sends his mind into pandemonium and makes him ever so cranky. Even when I thought it looked passable, his mouth would froth a little and we’d have a heated debate over his expectations. After all, we live with these guys:

But really the culprit is the lack of grass due to the rocks, and the numerous rocks preventing any nice grass to grow, and because of those two interchangeable facts, you can see every bit of the torn blue tarp from the trampoline. Shreds smaller than my fingernail. It happens with normal wear and tear.

So this year Charlie decided to tackle that yard and actually do some labor on Labor Day. He’s not really an outside kind of guy. He grabbed the gremlins-minus Stripe; he was on his coffee break, and gave them plastic sacks and spent about an hour sitting on the ground picking up these pieces smaller than my fingernail.

Then he came in, and informed me that he was taking my vacuum outside.

To vacuum.

The yard.

I did try to protest, but folks, I’ve lived with this OCD crap for 11 years, and I’m just a bit apathetic at this point. I merely informed him that were he to break my vacuum, I would be purchasing another right away.

Not long after that, he and the gremlins, complete with mournful, pathetic faces were back to picking up the pieces by hand. I just kept to my inside tasks and tried to think about raindrops and roses.

Then Charlie came in and informed me the task was futile. My heart might’ve stopped for a wee second. Was this a breakthrough? Was this the beginning of the end? What was this momentary sanity?

Out of his next breath he proclaimed that he needed a Shop Vac. And besides he would need it for when he paints the house.

I said, “Charlie. Nobody vacuums their yards.”

He said, “Carrie. There’s just no other way to do it. How am I supposed to get all those little pieces?”

I said, “You’re not. Most people cover them with dirt. Or rake them into the dirt. Or just ignore them and let God and nature take care of them.”

He said, “Most people’s yards don’t look like crap.”

I said, “Why don’t you take a quick tour of the neighborhood and look a little closer at people’s yards, then.”

He said, “Nothin’ doin’.”

Ok not really ‘nothin’ doin”, but something like that. I gave up. I secretly hoped our handy man neighbor would happen home at the same time Charlie fired up that vacuum and started sucking up dirt and rocks and little blue tarp. I wanted so badly for another man to call him on his odd behavior.

While he went to Walmart to purchase the instrument that would take away what tiny shred of dignity I have left in the neighbors eye’s, I called my sister. She cracked up. Of course.

She told me what I already knew. Just let it go. Let him do what he feels he needs to do. I told her, “I’m taking a picture of this. And I’m putting this on my blog. But I don’t think anyone will believe me.”

So now, we’re back to this:

And the answer is yes, he’s actually vacuuming the yard. The tiny shreds of torn blue tarp fallen from the trampoline cover. I should’ve known that someday it would come to this. And no, he’s never been officially diagnosed, but I present this photo as hard evidence for my case.

And to prove what a good sport he is, and that he does have a sense of humor about the whole thing, he said I could tell all the internet folks all about our crazy day.

Maybe someone else is out there with a person suffering from a crazy need to vacuum their yard, or counts every step they take, or checks the locks compulsively. If so, you’re not alone.

And if you need to borrow my shop vac, just let me know.

(looking for this week’s Letters From the Friendly Cashier? Scroll on down)

As a new homeschooler when my gremlins were really young and didn’t have many playmates, I worried. I fretted. It consumed my thoughts and filled me with guilt that I should be filling my gremlins week with quality playtime interacting with other gremlins, under heavy supervision. After all they are gremlins.

And then, like now, I was short of the cash it took to participate in Mommy’s Day Out or other such nonsensical programs. I’m not bitter. Part of me really wanted to be part of the cool mom’s club that these groups promote. As for neighbor gremlins, we rarely had little gremlin neighbors in the big city. So that option was out.

Then there were the church gremlins. For some reason, there weren’t a whole lot of options there either. At least not for everyday, last minute get-togethers. Because I am a very spur of the moment kind of gal.

And apparently most of the people I know with gremlins are let’s-plan-your-life-five-years-in-advance kind of people.

Now we live in a ‘hood with plenty-o-neighbor-gremlins. Not all exactly the same ages as mine. In fact, most of them are closer to the age of Socrates the almost 10 yr old. So now, that we’ve had some peer exposure, I’m not sure I like it.

Not only have they come home with some sour attitudes, but now they can’t seem to find anything else to do.

If another gremlin isn’t available to play, or their sour attitudes have granted them sweet blessed time alone for the week, then all other options that used to occupy their time have apparently vanished.

Poof! Legos are boring.

Poof! Drawing is for sissies.

Poof! Playing with my sibling gremlins is poison to my veins.

Poof! Using my imagination outside is too hard to even consider.

What is this madness? I’ll tell you what it is.

Torment for the mother.

The whining levels since my gremlins have had exposure to “socialization” have skyrocketed to the point of insanity. And I’m not good at balance. My only reprieve will come when public school starts. And then the socialization will only take place between 3:30 and 6.