Welcome to the Funny Farm (7 page)

But they don't get it. They think they're indestructible. They think I'm being Mrs. Killjoy. But when they get sick or hurt, suddenly I'm NURSE Killjoy and their favorite person in the world.

Not that I mind. I love my girls, and I'm happy to be there when they need me. I just wish they'd listen to me more often. I can't spare them from every virus, bug, or accident, but I sure could steer them clear of more than a few.

Some things, as we've said, are just easier to avoid than fix.

Same thing goes for other areas in my kids' lives, and in my life and yours too.

Like this one friend of mine. She told me talking to men in chat rooms is just fun, and nothing'll come of it. She didn't know that I thought that too, but that it started leading me down a scary detour. I had to cut through some brambles to get back to the main road, but I'm back where I want to be and wiser for the wear. I told her about it, but she says she's fine. She's in control. She's handling it.

Just like someone else I love. Someone I knew in college. She had it handled too. Just a drink now and then to relax. Now she's downing three or four a night and wondering why she feels so trapped.

Just like another friend. There were a few months at the beginning when her affair felt preventable, not that she tried very hard because, let's face it, it felt pretty good at the moment. Now she's in the fixin' stage, trying to put back the pieces of her life, and she never dreamed it'd be this hard.

Just like you. I don't know the details of your story, but my guess is that you've got one. Something you could have prevented, maybe still can. I have two things to say to you:

First, you're not too late. Getting ahold of whatever is ailing your spirit today—no matter how long it's gone on—is terrific prevention against creating more sorrow for yourself tomorrow.

Second, whenever it is you jump in and say, “This is it! I'm going to get ahold of this attitude/affair/addiction/habit/feud/temptation right now before it goes unchecked another minute!” (whether you say it when you've merely lost control of your thoughts or whether your actions have jumped into the fray as well), one thing doesn't change: You're loved just the same with a passionate love by a holy God.

My friend Linda once told me, “I'm just now realizing how much God loves me, and that there's nothing I can do—NOTHING—that will diminish that love.”

I said, “Then why not just live however we want? Why worry about holding back?”

Linda said, “Because I don't want the wounds that sin creates in my life.”

Yeah, those wounds. I've had them. They're no fun. And, if you ask me, that's the best reason of all to buy an ounce of prevention. But as for God's love, well, that never wavers. And if I end up needing that pound of cure after all, he loves me even then.

As for Walter, he's feeling much better, thanks for asking. In fact, I'm so stirred up by all this “ounce of prevention” stuff that I've taken a few steps to keep Walter from future ailments.

He didn't seem to mind the vitamins, but trust me when I tell you he's not at all happy about the mittens.

14

Clutter Management 101

I'
M GETTING
T
HE
U
RGE AGAIN.

It hits me every year. Maybe it's brought on from thumbing through Target ads and seeing all the plastic storage boxes and closet dividers on sale.

But whatever the reason, every January I get this urge to organize my home.

Some years, I'll admit, I take two aspirin and watch reruns of
Sanford and Son
until The Urge goes away (I suspect this is because, compared to their home, mine looks like it belongs between the covers of
Better Homes and Gardens
).

But other years I get really motivated and make an effort to tame the jungle of clutter in my home.

Of course, this is easier said than done. Sometimes I get the feeling my house is a little like the Eagles' Hotel California: Things check in but they don't check out. (Or is that the Roach Motel? I can never remember!) What kinds of things? How about clothes that haven't been in style since I had to have my pet rock put to sleep, or my collection of Barry Manilow songs—on eight track—or the two dozen plaques I own that try to assure me that “A Messy Desk Is the Sign of a Creative Mind” (all gifts from friends who know me a little too well).

The only good thing about clutter is that, indeed, one woman's junk is another woman's treasure. One month I managed to clean out two closets and hold a garage sale. I made $400. (I figure if I clean out the rest of my closets I can probably put one of my children through college.)

I'm not sure where all the clutter comes from. Oh sure, junk mail is a big chunk of it. Happy Meal toys comprise another large portion. Half-used tubes of abandoned makeup and facial care products are another hefty category. And what about those wire hangers? Have you ever once in your life actually purchased a wire hanger? Me neither. I always buy the plastic tube hangers.

So why, even as we speak, are my closets being held hostage by legions of hostile wire hangers?

I have this theory. I have a theory that while my house looks, on the outside, like a perfectly normal single-family dwelling, there are, in reality, sinister forces at work here. I have reason to believe that my house has been hexed and, as a result, any family who lives within these walls will be forced to contend with the Curse of the Copulating Clutter.

I know this sounds far-fetched, but I don't know quite how else to explain the fact that every morning I wake to twice as much clutter as the night before. The stuff breeds during the midnight hours, I'm certain of it.

What clutter-management techniques have I acquired? Well, sometimes, I try to recycle. Over the holidays, for example, I enlisted the artistic talents of friend Gavin Jones to craft a wire metal hanger into a hat from which a sprig of mistletoe could be hung four inches above the head of the wearer.

But we were lucky. Not every unwanted household item can be recycled into something quite so useful.

Which gives me an idea. I've always had a crush on Richard Dean Anderson in his role as MacGyver. I'm thinking they should produce a reunion show, and tape it at my house. Think of all the useful things MacGyver could invent from the clutter in my home. Why, put him in one room alone, and he could build a space shuttle. Or a minivan. Or best yet, something I could REALLY put to good use, like Rosie, the robotic maid from the Jetsons.

But the tangible clutter in my home isn't the worst of it. Old magazines, mugs featuring pictures of state capitals, a tray of bobbins belonging to the sewing machine I gave to Goodwill seven years ago—these things may be annoying, but they're manageable.

It's the other clutter in my life that I can't quite get a handle on, the stuff even MacGyver can't touch. Stuff like bad habits and old hurts and painful memories, not to mention lingering lusts and dusty grudges and broken dreams.

Stuff I should have gotten rid of a long time ago.

Maybe I should forget Anderson's Hollywood agents and put in a call to Someone who can REALLY help. There is, after all, a Master Recycler, someone who promises that he can take ALL things in my life and make them work out—somehow, if I let him—for good. His awesome lemons-into-lemonade abilities even prompted one Bible hero, Joseph, to look into the eyes of the brothers who betrayed him and admit, “What you meant for evil, God meant for good.”

God doesn't recycle overnight. Sometimes he takes years. But I'm realizing that he can't even get started on my clutter until I unclench my fists and hand it over.

What he'll make of it all is up to him.

I know it's not very spiritual, but I'll go ahead and say it anyway:

I'm hoping for at least one Rosie out of the whole mess.

15

Say Good-bye to Good Intentions

I
FINALLY DID IT.

I thumbed through the phone book, found the number, dialed it, and made an appointment for two weeks from today.

I'm going to see an electrologist.

I've been meaning to make an appointment for months. Lots of months. Actually, dozens of them. But can you blame me for procrastinating?

You've heard of electrolysis, right? It's a way of getting rid of unwanted hair on your face and body. The way I understand it, I'm paying about a dollar a minute to have a certified technician stick a miniature cattle prod into my hair follicles, then turn to a hunchbacked assistant and shout the words, “Throw the switch!”

I think it also has to be a stormy night.

It's a drastic measure, I know. But you'll have to trust me when I say that I'm not taking this step lightly. I can either submit to these Mary-Shelleyesque electrical treatments, or I can continue resembling Wolfman Jack. It's come down to this.

Actually, I've been battling these two dozen annoying chin hairs for several years now. The final straw occurred this past weekend. We had friends coming over Sunday afternoon to watch a Cowboys game on TV, and I was in the bathroom getting ready, and . . . well . . . I nicked myself shaving.

Not my leg, mind you. My face.

I stemmed the bleeding with a twist of toilet paper and looked at myself in the mirror. I thought, this is what happens to fourteen-year-old boys who borrow their dad's razor for the first time. They look just like this, with toilet paper spit wads on their chins. Of course, fourteen-year-old boys don't wear Caffe Latte lipstick by Estee Lauder, but other than that, the similarities were striking.

It was time to take permanent action.

Even though I haven't had my appointment yet, it feels good to have made the call. There's something about finally getting around to a long-intended project that feels really great.

In fact, I'm so inspired by how good I feel right now that I'm wondering what other loose-end projects I can tackle. What else have I been putting off that I could get out of the way?

Oh. I just remembered one. Okay, I'll admit this one's no fun. In fact, having my follicles electrocuted by a mad scientist ranks higher on my list of favorite activities than this next project.

You probably know what I'm thinking about. In fact, my guess is that you're overdue as well.

I'm thinking about The Dreaded Well-Woman Exam.

Who came up with this process, anyway? I mean, a total stranger tells me to wear nothing but a paper towel, plant my feet in metal stirrups that feel like they've been stored in the freezer, and then I'm supposed to relax and chitchat while he maneuvers a Buick around in there? I don't THINK so.

Sigh.

But it's a necessary evil. I'm going to stop procrastinating and make the call. You should too.

Let's see. What else have I been intending to do? I'm going to make it something fun this time. Oh, I know! Have lunch with Jeffie Burns. She's the Children's Ministry Director at my church, and she's got a wit sharper than an electrolysis needle. Time spent with Jeffie always gets me laughing and leaves me uplifted. We've been promising to “do lunch” for months. I think I'll nail something down.

January seems to be the month for grandiose new schemes and resolutions. But you know what? I'd love to spend it just catching up on old plans and good intentions.

Something else I've always intended to do has been to read through the Bible in a year. In fact, one of the Bibles I have is already divided into 365 readings. I've just never cracked the cover. I'd have to do a little catch-up here at the beginning, but I know it would be an enjoyable journey.

You know, good intentions and a buck'll buy you a cup of coffee. Maybe it's time to turn some of those good intentions into reality.

Wanna join me? Call your OB-GYN. Have lunch with a friend. Dust off your Bible.

And if you've been battling unwanted hairs, take heart. I hear Dr. Frankenstein's available for evening and weekend appointments as well.

16