Happy Fourth...

...from our little firecracker.

(See you all tomorrow!)

Is that not the best short fiction title EVER?

I was not kidding.

I've recently begun a new project.

Which means I've been talking about it nonstop and whining about it to my big sister.

But not so much actually "doing" it. (We all have our process, right?)

And it's a big undertaking; I'm going to attempt to scan and file every single document of importance ever, so that future generations can marvel at my utter inability to throw away a napkin.

Picture this- I've kept a scrapbook binder of STUFF since middle school. One for each year. I am now 31. And I've been keeping one for Nora since her birth. She's gonna be two this year. Now, I'm no math expert, but I'm getting some pretty scary exponential numbers in my head here. (Okay, on my fingies.)

Plus, I've been watching an awful lot of Clean House lately...and it's always the same. Women who don't have a problem, confronted with their problem, crying about how they didn't know they had a problem, and later yelling at the people who are trying to take their problem stuff away to the Salvation Army. Television magic, sure, but it hit a couple of crowded nerves. (My elbows were resting on binders and scrap boxes at the time. Scrap boxes, you ask? Oh, that's when she's too lazy to actually rubber cement or three hole punch something- and just shoves it into a random shoe box for later sorting. I could open the worst Foot Locker ever.)

It got me thinking. This kind of keepsaking is a type of vanity, isn't it? Like I'm thinking to myself, not only is my stuff amazing, but the trajectory of my life has been so unreal awesomesauce that people I don't even know will want to analyze my dating history. And who thought I was great enough to send me a postcard from Rome that one time. Or ponder the significance of the one Highland School Field Day ribbon, circa 1987. (None. Everyone got one.)

Not to mention all the room this stuff takes up. I already have a lot of- er- collections. Teacups. Handbags. Leather boots. Books n' books n' books n' books. Quantum Leap fan fiction- whatever- we don't have to psychoanalyze it. The point is, I've always entered into any relationship with a bucket o' parts. I married this last guy and we darn near completed a wedding registry. (That's expensive stuff!) And now that I've passed a good chunk of my childhood possessions onto my kid (provided she plays with them correctly), I'm starting to see what's important and what isn't.

Starting to.

My new guideline is this: if- God forbid- there were a mammoth fire tomorrow, what personal documents would I be devastated to lose? (I have to keep this hypothetical situation strictly to random documents. The idea of a real, Lose Everything kinda fire makes me want to run around screaming with armloads of knicknacks, Ender and Bean, and that new pink armchair I love. Nora's got new sneakers- not only can she follow me outside, but she can grab my Kate Spade china mugs as she goes.)

The problem- beyond a culture that prides itself on ownership- is that I have an eighth grade-esque love for every single thing I own. It's true. There are very few things in my home to which I'd give a disinterested shrug. (Which would also be odd to see.) I love dreaming over things, organizing them, moving them around, and telling other people how much I adore them. (The things, not the people. If the people don't know how much I love them, well- one can only do so much.) And I realize that we are not our possessions. I know this. I do.

Baby steps.

So. Yes. My plan is to copy every document, save and tag it, and file it on a big ol' external hard drive. That way I can take a walk down memory lane without getting beaned in the head by 1998. (A good year for memorabilia.) Hopefully, that will free me up to toss out napkins and movie stubs, saving room in my ONE scrapbook for truly important things.

I have not yet narrowed down what that may be.

Pretty sure all of my writings penned around second grade need to be immortalized in hard copy. Especially the ones where I was also the illustrator. Double especially the ones with a foreword- by me, obvie- and credits. Which was...all of them.

Definitely yes. Those need to stay.

I can sense that I may run into some difficulty, here.

Cause And Effect

(Well, I did make her faster.)

(And yes- she does read Reader's Digest. That my husband stole from his folks' house. I didn't want anyone to have to find out this way.)

(p.s. Yes. Pirates.)

(Also, I am TERRIBLE at "wordless.")

The One In Which P.J. Almost Offs Himself.

Friends, I was almost widowed this weekend. 

And it would've been painful. Painfully embarrassing, that is. For me. 

In less stressful times.

On Friday night, after Peej's show opened, he returned home and complained of having lower region pain. At first he thought he was dying of a hernia or something else that I didn't take entirely seriously (because a- he is either completely fine OR on death's doormat with no middle ground ever and b- he later told me that my Braxton Hicks contractions were "sympathy pains." For him. Yes).

So he took a bath- another oddity, for he is A Man who only lies down in pain when something heavy is pressing upon him, like an anvil.

Side note: I remained in the other room, still reeling from the movie that we accidentally watched in its entirety. Killing Me Softly, ever heard of it? Joseph Fiennes and Heather Graham? Aw-ful. With an emphasis on awe. As we shuffled through the channels, we landed on this "erotic thriller" (which sadly, was neither) and watched five minutes as a joke. Then we literally could not look away. We were stunned into watching the masterpiece in one fell swoop. (What kept me going was that the plot line was almost exactly that of So I Married An Axe Murderer, sans Mike Meyers, Nancy Travis, comedy, or haggis.)

Huge digression, I realize, but I need to set the stage for why such a long period of time passed before I went to check on Peej. I needed a Cheers marathon to wipe away all of the poignant looks and incredibly trite dialogue.

Anyhow. Opened the bathroom door a while later to see if he needed anything for the triage...and heard "Careful!"

Because my husband, the love of my life and half of my kids' DNA- was in the tub with a plugged-in laptop sitting on the edge.

"WHAT ARE YOU DOING," I CALMLY ASKED.

"Work."

"Why is the computer plugged in?"

"It's dying."

I informed him- pleasantly- that he was being a moron. He politely disagreed. I pointed out that our insurance policy would not cover acts of stupidity. He rebutted that sitting in a tub with a computer wasn't exactly like jumping out of a plane. (I agreed with him on this one. 'Cause at least one would've made a better tragic death.)

Afraid I hadn't made myself clear, I told my husband that I would dispose of his body in the neighbor's recycling bin if he killed himself so idiotically. (Why the neighbor's? Because the city hasn't yet given us our own blue bin. Sorry Anita, I didn't want you to have to find out this way.) P.J. agreed that this was fair.

I told him that I wished I could blog about stuff like this- but had, until this very moment, refrained out of kindness towards my spouse. He gave me the green light, asking what 'being nice' had ever gotten anyone? (Besides respect, integrity, and a sense of humanity, I kinda had to agree with him.) He then went on to quote an episode of Blossom in which her Dad dated a stand-up comedian who used him for material. The Dad was rightfully upset, but then realized that the woman was who she was. And to change her would be wrong. (I had been SO READY to ridicule him...but then remembered that I had also seen this episode. Wind= taken out of sails.)

As he didn't want me to be tired and stressed out(!), he told me to go on up to bed, feeling confident in his abilities to both a) not die and b) also impart a life lesson.

I fell asleep wondering a) if my husband was going to die horridly and b) when he had ever watched Blossom, since he had grown up without cable. College? Was he watching Blossom with his roomies?

All ended well, even though P.J. ended up falling asleep, too.

In the tub.