I know, it sounds underwhelming. I can assure you it's not. Follow my lead here...
Over the last few days, I have spent an inordinate amount of time trying to figure out how to rid my mattress of the dog-piss stench that I'm pretty sure has taken on a life of its own.
I tried carpet cleaner (it's not just for carpets, you know). Didn't touch it.
I went to PetSmart and bought a spray bottle full of my very favorite pet-odor neutralizing agent, Nature's Miracle. Although it's certainly proved itself miraculous in the past, it just barely scratched the surface.
In desperation, I dumped more Nature's Miracle on the mattress and mixed it up with a nice big pile of baking soda, which has always worked for me before. Can you guess what happened...or better yet, what DIDN'T happen?
In a last-ditch appeal to save the Stearns & Foster, I asked Alex to try using an industrial-strength carpet machine on the bed - he did. And it didn't work.
I am led to two possible conclusions: 1) My dog has toxic pee and I will obviously need to get a Hazardous Waste symbol shaved into her side, OR 2) The urine has soaked very deeply into the mattress, in which case I will probably have to buy a new one.
Why does this have anything to do with my spendthrift husband?
Well, as wonderful as he is in so many ways, he has far more material needs than I. Yesterday I arrived home at 9pm to find a bummed-out Alex - the elliptical machine we bought from a guy on Craig's List for $100 broke. The whole thing didn't break, but something semi-critical to its operation broke - the display, a wiring harness, whatever the hell is inside those things.
When stuff like this happens, my instinct is usually to say, "We'll get it fixed," or (if need be), "We'll live without it for awhile."
Not so with the Hubster. He wants his elliptical and he wants it NOW.
I understand his pain - he uses the machine on a daily basis and has lost quite a bit of weight over the years through a regular exercise routine. When someone GAVE us an unbelievably nice (and new) treadmill, we bought the elliptical and set up a mini gym, in which he works out all the time. I get the terrible sense of loss he must be feeling at the sudden inoperativeness (inoperability??) of his beloved elliptical.
And yet...for some reason, I'm more concerned about obtaining a mattress on which I can sleep without nightmares of drowning in dog piss or being eaten by the mighty monster living deep inside the foam core under me.
Of course there is also the fact that Thanksgiving is coming up, which means we have to buy plane fare for Syd to get to and from the southern region of the U.S., where she lives most of the time.
And there is this camping trip that hubby arranged as part of our anniversary celebration in two weeks.
Not to be ignored is the tiny little issue of shodding our feet with wearable shoes, keeping a roof high and dry over our heads, and occasionally consuming edibles.
Don't misunderstand me - Alex has made many sacrifices over the years and he generally does not go out and buy things for himself, even though I know there are some things he wants more than anything in the universe. He is always careful to place the needs of others first and he does have a good sense of priorities - of course his daughter visiting us for the holidays and of course our traveling anniversary celebration is more important than a new elliptical. Still, it's hard NOT to sense his dissatisfaction with the way things are sometimes, and it's REALLY hard not to feel bad about it. Which then has the residual effect of making me grumpy.
I know there is poverty in the world and Alex and I certainly aren't the face of it - we generally live comfortably within our means. The problem is that for Alex, "within our means" has a slightly different ring to it. He's notorious for "needing" nice things, although admittedly he has picked up some very nifty cheapskate tricks from his feet-on-the-ground, realistic wife. I'm proud of his progress, but I wholeheartedly curse his need to REPLACE rather than FIX things. When I bring this maddening habit to his attention, though, I am immediately labeled with that great scarlet letter - N. For nag, of course.
I don't like being thought of as a nag, especially since if it was up to me, I would buy him everything his gigantic heart desires - he takes care of me well and I can't complain about that. But I sure do wish instead of having that giant N plastered on my chest, I could have a big S, Supergirl-style - S for Savior or Saint, S for Sane or Sensible, maybe even S for Sagacious or Shrewd.
But no. I get the N. Always with the N.
Alex, I love you, but you drive me batty sometimes. I know your dream life includes a lot of nice things around you, but in my dream world there is only you and a piss-free dog and a not-morbidly-obese cat in a small cabin in the woods.
Who needs STUFF anyway?
I have a feeling I'm going to be trying this vinyl-cover-for-the-mattress thing today. And I have a feeling it won't work. Then what? Only time (and money) will tell. I know one thing - if I have to replace this mattress again, I'm getting the cheapest one they've got. AND the vinyl cover.
t.
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
Friday, September 24, 2010
No, I'm not dead.
I was just on hiatus from blogging for awhile. But, ahhhhh, it's good to be back in the blogosphere, where nothing is as it appears and there is much fun to be had peering into the little windows of other people's lives.
Yesterday was my birthday. I am an indeterminate age, at least to my growing body of students. When I taught my first class at Atlantic Cape this fall, I assured my all-freshman audience that I was indeed old enough to be teaching the class. No one believed me, but rather than entertain a discussion about my actual age, I pointed out that it was irrelevant anyway because someone thought me experienced enough to teach the class and someone thought they were intelligent enough to be in the class, so in our own respective ways we both hold critical roles and age has nothing at all to do with them. Yeah, it was a weasel's way out, but guess what? I adore them and I think they like me pretty well, so in the end it doesn't matter much.
I caught myself reflecting on age yesterday, as birthdays are wont to make me do. It's strange to spend so much time working at a college and to feel so far afield of what students like these days. It wasn't THAT long ago I was one of them, was it? But there's a lot of difference between then and now, I guess, because I can't make heads or tails of guys wearing skinny jeans or girls bringing back the absolute worst trends of the 80s. (Look, kids, I was there and although I will never get tired of The Breakfast Club or Pat Benatar, from what I remember, I can assure you there's an absolutely valid reason that side-ponytails and leg warmers went the way of the dinosaur.) But that's okay because they don't get my pop culture references, which at least in my own age group, are still funny and, dare I say, even a little kitschy. (Can you believe that kids born in the 90s don't even KNOW about She-Ra?! And I will never get over the fact that they don't know about the 50-lb "cell phone" Zach Morris looked so cool using. Don't even get me started on Carmen Sandiego...broke my heart, that one did.)
But then, in the midst of my contemplation, I started thinking about how my parents probably felt the same way as they got older. And maybe my grandmother and her mother did, too. I guess this is what they meant by "getting old."
I don't really feel old. I mean, except every time I sit in class as a too-old pre-med student surrounded by freshmen who wear silly bands and had AP Calculus just last year. But other than that, I'm a spring chicken...
Probably the hardest thing to deal with as I get a little older each day is the fact that I am now THAT woman - not that cute girl in the back of the class who wore a size zero; oh no, not THAT girl...ever again, sadly. Nope, now I'm THAT woman who sits in the front of every class so she can take copious amounts of notes and actually SEE the board. Yes, I'm THAT woman who gets aggravated at the incessant tap-tap-tap of little tiny Droid keyboards all over the classroom, transmitting messages from desperate 18-year-olds making plans with other desperate 18-year-olds to get hung over for class tomorrow morning.
I'm THAT woman who talks about her husband and her stepkid and her dog and her cat and her adorable little suburban house with a green lawn and a picket fence (okay, well actually it's a split-rail, but do THEY know the difference?).
I'm THAT woman who until now didn't really know what she wanted to do with her life but who, now that she's decided, is hyper-focused on making the dream a reality and trying her best to enjoy it along the way. Do you know, I think I might actually be learning to LOVE science? After years of studying soft disciplines like literature and philosophy and counseling, I am actually becoming passionate about molecules and amino acids.
So I guess what I'm saying is that it's hard sometimes to sit with people much younger than me, whose lives are so very different from mine, and think what all those "old" people probably used to think about me:
"Don't be so desperate to have people love you. Enjoy your time on earth without giving your integrity and self-respect to people who don't respect themselves, let alone you. Don't let someone who broke your heart destroy your ego or your joy. Because one day, you'll wake up and find that you've matured, that you're actually a grown-up with grown-up thoughts and a lot less time to worry about what other people think, and that even though you're not that old, you're finally old enough to know better. You might not want a picket fence or a stable life or a dog - you might want a life on the road with a pet iguana to keep you company - but you'll find SOMETHING that you want enough to drive yourself all the places you wouldn't (or couldn't) find the energy to go as a younger person, and all the rest of it - the drama and time wasted and hours spent in misery over some person or other - just doesn't mean what it used to. You might even be happy."
I suppose this might be my way of saying to my elders, "Thanks for all the advice I didn't trust you to give when I was a kid." And I'd probably also agree that yes, 50's the new 20 and you're only as old as you feel and age is just a number.
t.
Yesterday was my birthday. I am an indeterminate age, at least to my growing body of students. When I taught my first class at Atlantic Cape this fall, I assured my all-freshman audience that I was indeed old enough to be teaching the class. No one believed me, but rather than entertain a discussion about my actual age, I pointed out that it was irrelevant anyway because someone thought me experienced enough to teach the class and someone thought they were intelligent enough to be in the class, so in our own respective ways we both hold critical roles and age has nothing at all to do with them. Yeah, it was a weasel's way out, but guess what? I adore them and I think they like me pretty well, so in the end it doesn't matter much.
I caught myself reflecting on age yesterday, as birthdays are wont to make me do. It's strange to spend so much time working at a college and to feel so far afield of what students like these days. It wasn't THAT long ago I was one of them, was it? But there's a lot of difference between then and now, I guess, because I can't make heads or tails of guys wearing skinny jeans or girls bringing back the absolute worst trends of the 80s. (Look, kids, I was there and although I will never get tired of The Breakfast Club or Pat Benatar, from what I remember, I can assure you there's an absolutely valid reason that side-ponytails and leg warmers went the way of the dinosaur.) But that's okay because they don't get my pop culture references, which at least in my own age group, are still funny and, dare I say, even a little kitschy. (Can you believe that kids born in the 90s don't even KNOW about She-Ra?! And I will never get over the fact that they don't know about the 50-lb "cell phone" Zach Morris looked so cool using. Don't even get me started on Carmen Sandiego...broke my heart, that one did.)
But then, in the midst of my contemplation, I started thinking about how my parents probably felt the same way as they got older. And maybe my grandmother and her mother did, too. I guess this is what they meant by "getting old."
I don't really feel old. I mean, except every time I sit in class as a too-old pre-med student surrounded by freshmen who wear silly bands and had AP Calculus just last year. But other than that, I'm a spring chicken...
Probably the hardest thing to deal with as I get a little older each day is the fact that I am now THAT woman - not that cute girl in the back of the class who wore a size zero; oh no, not THAT girl...ever again, sadly. Nope, now I'm THAT woman who sits in the front of every class so she can take copious amounts of notes and actually SEE the board. Yes, I'm THAT woman who gets aggravated at the incessant tap-tap-tap of little tiny Droid keyboards all over the classroom, transmitting messages from desperate 18-year-olds making plans with other desperate 18-year-olds to get hung over for class tomorrow morning.
I'm THAT woman who talks about her husband and her stepkid and her dog and her cat and her adorable little suburban house with a green lawn and a picket fence (okay, well actually it's a split-rail, but do THEY know the difference?).
I'm THAT woman who until now didn't really know what she wanted to do with her life but who, now that she's decided, is hyper-focused on making the dream a reality and trying her best to enjoy it along the way. Do you know, I think I might actually be learning to LOVE science? After years of studying soft disciplines like literature and philosophy and counseling, I am actually becoming passionate about molecules and amino acids.
So I guess what I'm saying is that it's hard sometimes to sit with people much younger than me, whose lives are so very different from mine, and think what all those "old" people probably used to think about me:
"Don't be so desperate to have people love you. Enjoy your time on earth without giving your integrity and self-respect to people who don't respect themselves, let alone you. Don't let someone who broke your heart destroy your ego or your joy. Because one day, you'll wake up and find that you've matured, that you're actually a grown-up with grown-up thoughts and a lot less time to worry about what other people think, and that even though you're not that old, you're finally old enough to know better. You might not want a picket fence or a stable life or a dog - you might want a life on the road with a pet iguana to keep you company - but you'll find SOMETHING that you want enough to drive yourself all the places you wouldn't (or couldn't) find the energy to go as a younger person, and all the rest of it - the drama and time wasted and hours spent in misery over some person or other - just doesn't mean what it used to. You might even be happy."
I suppose this might be my way of saying to my elders, "Thanks for all the advice I didn't trust you to give when I was a kid." And I'd probably also agree that yes, 50's the new 20 and you're only as old as you feel and age is just a number.
t.
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