Indulging the OCD

I’m sure it’s never apparent on here, but I can tend to over-think things sometimes. I get fixated on a particular topic and I have to flesh out every possible scenario in my head until I can make sense of each potential avenue. Control freak, much?
A little.

One of my most favoritest things to do is make lists. Pro and con lists. Shopping lists. To do lists. Wedding guest lists. Lists of every boy I’ve ever kissed in my life. Anytime I start to wonder about something, I want to organize all the thoughts and write them down in a neat little bulleted record for myself and all future generations to enjoy.

The last time I went to Europe, I made my packing list at least a month in advance. And preparing for my next departure in 4 ½ weeks has put me into full OCD mode. There are many lists circulating in my apartment right now and last night I began to consolidate them into the mutha of all written plans.

I made a clothing matrix.

Yes, I graphed out every top, bottom, dress, sweater and pair of shoes I was going to take to Europe and figured out how many outfits I could make with the pieces. It came to 58. But I bet there are more combos I didn’t think of. Then I started making another table of “at home in the UK” items vs. “traveling on the weekend” items. Because, you know, they don’t have stores over there so if I forget anything, I’m screwed.

The worst part is that I LOVE doing this stuff. Organizing and planning floats my little OCD boat like nothing else. Or maybe the worst part is that I was drinking wine and watching The Bachelorette with my 2 cats while I was doing it…that might be the worst part.

Do you guys find as much joy in indulging your OCD stuff as I do?

A Making Peace Piece

I can’t remember if I’ve written about this before, but Mr. W isn’t sure whether he wants kids. I knew this early on, and like any red-blooded female, thought, “He didn’t say he doesn’t want them. Maybe we’ll end up on the same page eventually.”

Flash forward a year and a half, and this is our biggest sticking point. He has never given me a definitive “no,” but has said that if I didn’t want kids, we might be further along in our relationship.

I always pictured myself having kids. When I was in my early twenties, I had a deadline to have kids before I turned 30. That quickly passed, and the deadline morphed into a hope that I would have kids while I was still relatively young and capable of delivering healthy babies.

But the older I get, the more stressed I seem to feel when I picture kids in my life. I can’t imagine giving up quiet Friday nights with Oprah magazine. I can’t imagine devoting leisurely Saturdays to soccer games and play dates. I can’t imagine dealing with a child who’s been hurt or betrayed. It all feels very overwhelming. When I was younger, it didn’t feel that way.

This weekend, I spent about 30 hours with my nieces. 14, 10, 9 and 1 ½, each of them has something unique to offer. The little one cuddles and does all those cute, mesmerizing baby things. The 9 and 10-year-olds act silly and remind me how wonderful it is to have an imagination. The 14-year-old entertains me with teenage cynicism and intelligent conversation. I love them all to pieces.

And sometimes, I think they might be enough.

Being an aunt enables you to have children in your life without actually having the full responsibility. You get to enjoy them, then give them back to their parents. It's like all the good without the challenges. But then I wonder if this is like renting a convertible for the weekend. It’s a fun experience, but you don’t get to fully appreciate what it’s like to drive that sort of car every day. To feel the sun on your face after too many hours at the office, or smell the salt air as you’re cruising up the coast.

I feel so torn. So uncertain. Are nieces all I need? Or is a baby or two a necessity to round out my future?

I’ve been trying hard to reach a mental middle ground…and I think maybe I’ve found it.

It seems to me that the universe should decide what my path is. If I’m meant to have kids, I’ll have them. If I’m not, I won’t.

I used to think I would go through fertility treatments or adopt if I couldn’t get pregnant. But I think, now, I would just accept that as being my path. Accept that I’ve been given four beautiful nieces to guide and help raise.

I proposed this idea to Mr. W. He didn’t seem fully ready to let go and let the fates decide. But hopefully at some point, he will be. I’ve come this far with the good energy of the world looking out for me, I think I can lay my parental fate in those same hands. I think I can be at peace with whatever is meant to be.

I Don’t Recall Snow White Talking Like That

Last night, my dear friends from Arizona came over with their two-month-old son, W, and three-year-old daughter, SJ. They were in California to take the kids to Disneyland for their first time, so SJ was all decked out in a Snow White dress when they arrived.

I forgot how funny three-year-olds can be, and found SJ’s random bursts into song and silly observations quite entertaining.

At one point, her daddy was telling us about a game they like to play where they try to come up with the grossest meal they can think of. We all decided to join in the fun, throwing out ideas like:

“How about green beans dipped in peanut butter?”
“How about a hot dog with honey and sauerkraut?”
“How about a brownie with sushi on top?”

Then, quite exasperated, SJ chimed in:

“How about a chocolate-covered fart?!”

Clearly, she was the winner.

Screwed

Not sure if I ever mentioned it here, but I was an accident. My parents weren’t expecting to have another kid—10 years after the birth of their first one. Being the youngest by a long shot meant that all of our family friends thought of me as their surrogate daughter or little sister. I inherited all of my siblings’ friends, and was parented by dozens.

I may not have also mentioned that I live minutes from the town in which I grew up. Almost my entire family is in the immediate vicinity. A lot of old friends live in the area. It’s great most of the time, but when it comes to thinking about a wedding?

I’m screwed.

For about the last decade or so, I’ve been dealing with people asking me when I was going to get married, telling me they can’t wait to come to my wedding, and giving me advice on how I should handle the whole shebang. It stresses the sheet out of me.

I love the idea of having a small wedding—just family and close friends. But given my upbringing and “small town” environment, the lowest number I can get my count down to is 90. Yes, people, I made a list. Years ago. Without an engagement ring. Simply because the thought of making that list sent me into a panic. So I went ahead and did it just to see how bad the damage would be.

That number includes only 4 high school friends and their dates, 2 college friends and their husbands, and about 5 couples I’ve met in my working life. Everyone else is a family member or family friend. And it doesn’t include any kids outside of my nieces, which is a whole other issue. If I allow kids, I have to allow EVERYONE’S kids—and that would add between 14 and 22 more to my list.

Why don’t I just elope? I’ve thought about it. Mr. W and I have talked about it. But I honestly cannot imagine saying my vows without my family nearby. Why don’t I have family only? Because some of my friends feel like family. Why don’t I just put myself into major credit card debt and spring for a $50k wedding? Because I see absolutely NO sense in that whatsoever. It’s ONE day. An important one, yes. But not one worth $50k. I want to use that money for a house or travel or college educations for my imaginary children.

It’s so funny how little girls never think of the immense pressure and have-to-please-everyone nonsense that comes with a wedding when they’re dreaming about their day as a princess. How do people make it through this?

I guess I should stop worrying altogether…I’m not even engaged…just trying to think ahead…

Old Enough to Be Your Mother

Saturday night I went out for drinks with my girlfriend after oh I don’t know about eight hundred and fifty years. I honestly can’t remember the last time I went out for girls’ night in LA. Clearly, it’s been too long. So I was quite excited by the prospect of it.

We went to Father’s Office in Culver City first, enjoying a beer and some sweet potato fries. Then it was off to Saints & Sinners, a charming retro little spot with 60s décor, a bizarre vintage horror flick being projected on the wall, and bartenders who dimmed the lights and blew fire and one another a couple times while we were there.

As my girlfriend and I discussed the latest film her company has been working on, a young chap in a too-big trucker cap that covered his ears interrupted us with a drunken salutation. He introduced himself as Richard, so I of course said, “Richie, how old are you?” Twenty-three. Practically a newborn.

“I’m old enough to be your mother,” I told him.

My girlfriend laughed and asked if that would have been physically possible. Considering I didn’t hit puberty until about 25, the answer to that was no.

“You don’t seem 33, but you do seem tense,” Richard slurred back at me. “You need to laugh more! You need to learn to have fun.”

“Oh, I know how to have fun,” I corrected him. “You should see the rugburns on my back.”

And those, mom if you’re reading this, are only there because I slipped on a banana peel in Tampa and scraped my back on the carpet when I fell down.

Naïve about the Norm

During the years I lived at home with my parents, both houses on either side of theirs got robbed at different points. I remember thinking it was sort of incredible theirs never got hit. Not once in 40 years. Somehow, our house was impervious.

And the older I get, the more I think our family was, too.

Our immediate family unit never had any scandal. No infidelity, no addictions, no abuse, no illness. We were like the Keatons, the Huxtables, the Seavers. And I thought that was the norm—that every family was like us. There were kids around me whose parents were divorced, but I just thought they were oddities. Mutations within my bubbled population of perfection.

Then I grew up.

And watched my siblings and their friends get married and start families. And watched my friends get married and start families. And learned secrets about my own extended family, and the relatives of all the various guys I dated. And I realized that my own immediate family was an anomaly.

The majority is not scandal-free. It seems like more people are born—or end up—in homes colored by cheating, drinking, gambling, abuse, or physical or mental illness. It’s the norm.

And I have to wonder why. Is it because people don’t know how to take care of themselves? How to cultivate and protect their self esteem so that they don’t rely on others for it and then punish them when they don’t deliver? Is it because we don’t have the capacity to develop healthy coping mechanisms when things get tough? Is it because we don’t really communicate? Or we’re incapable of moving past pain created by our predecessors? Or is it just human nature? Is it just in our DNA to cheat, lie, overindulge, disregard our own health and wellbeing and that of those around us?

Whatever it is, it’s so much more prevalent than I ever realized. And although it sends me spinning a bit, it also amazes me the way people can rise from the ashes of hardship and heartache to go on and produce grounded, functional families.

It sort of begs the question: Is it all just a crapshoot in the end?

The Naked Truth

In every relationship I’ve ever had, I’ve found it intriguing and satisfying to study the way my men act with the different people in their lives. It always seemed to me that there was some new facet being revealed, some side of them that only came out in the presence of their old friend from childhood or their big brother.

Mr. Wonderful has not let me down once in this capacity. Every time I meet a new family member or friend, I feel like I know him a little better. And every time, it makes me love him a little bit more. It’s amazing how I keep thinking my Mr. W cup is full and he just keeps dripping more drops into it.

When his stepdad picked us up from the airport, it was my first clue-in to his feelings for this man, and what lay ahead for us over the weekend. He was so affectionate, it melted my heart. I hadn’t seen him that way with anyone but me and his nieces. He was equally cute with his mom, teasing her and nodding reluctantly every time she called him “her baby.” (She loved me, by the way).

What a treat it is to fill in the gaps surrounding the person you love. To make them more real, maybe a little more vulnerable. And realize that the more you learn, the more you adore them.

Mr. W’s mom gave me the lowdown on the entire family history, so I feel like I’m coming away knowing so much more about him. It’s funny how you can spend a year and a half with someone, and still not know everything.

She got to know me a little better too…not just through our many conversations out on the lanai, but carnally. Yes kids, I was kneeling on the floor (thankfully in the dark) with only my underwear on (yes, it was a thong) before I got in the shower. It was the day we were leaving, so I was quickly checking my flight itinerary before skipping into the bathroom. And suddenly, the bedroom door whipped open and she said, “Just making sure you guys were awake,” and I just froze and tried to cover as much areola as I could, smiling and replying, “Yes, we’re up!”

When Mr. W came back into the room, I told him his mom had just seen me naked. He chuckled and said, “Better you than me!”