Irrational-Sensibility

Like most people, I have a multi-faceted personality. From what I've observed, this is fairly normal...just some people get better traits than others. For instance, I got forgetfulness and social inadequacy, while my younger sister got likable and charming. What can I say? It's really just how the dice roll for the most part.

Though a single trait may be more dominant at one time or another, in general, they all keep each other pretty well balanced. However, every once in a while, personality traits within the same person clash horribly and create some sort of malformed offspring which really doesn't have a place within the carefully balanced human...kind of like a chocolate cake with chocolate frosting. It tries to be lovely and delicious, but is more or less just sort of overwhelming and gross .

In my case, irrationality and sensibility created just such a vagabond that has threatened my mental health more than once. I like to call this trait Irrational-sensibility...great name huh?

Irrational-sensibility is a characteristic that is sort of grotesque and it hits me over the head more times than I can count in a day and usually involves food...like the time it made sense to eat a whole coconut cream pie by myself. And the time it made sense to eat 18 out of the 24 cookies that I baked for other people. You see, it makes me do things that are irrational, but that I can twist into being uber sensible in the moment.

The I-S came upon me silently this morning when I was trying to be a good mother and feed my children breakfast.

I ended up feeding them a half a pan of brownies.

I KNOW.

Let me explain.

If I were gifted the single trait of irrationality, this morning it might have cheerfully said, "Feed your children brownies for breakfast." Hopefully you see how that's irrational. Irrational, but oddly free of any guilt because there is no sensibility to go along with it.

Whereas, the single trait of sensibility might have said something along the lines of,"Feed your children oatmeal. Children need a wholesome breakfast to start their day off right and nourish their growing bodies." See how that's sensible?

BUT, I don't have either of these traits. I have irrational-sensibility. Which sort of morphs the two into something that makes sense in my head, but is in all respects irresponsible...like what I did this morning.

See if you can follow the thought process.

"My children and I need to eat breakfast. I want brownies for breakfast. I'm allowed to eat brownies since I'm an adult and am fully capable of such decisions. But, my children will want brownies too and that's not a wholesome breakfast for children. I should feed them oatmeal. But, they will be upset if I get brownies and they don't get brownies. So, it makes sense that we should all eat oatmeal. I'm a good mom. I am happy."

And just as I was pulling down the oatmeal, my stupid personality swooped in and turned a good thing into this:

"Eating oatmeal makes me happy. Eating brownies makes me happier than eating oatmeal. I want to be happy so that I can be a good mom. I want my kids to be happy too. I should give my kids brownies so that they will be happier than if they ate oatmeal. So, it makes sense that we will all be happy and I will be a good mom if we have brownies for breakfast."

And that's what I did. See how it makes sense and is irrational at the same time...we all get brownies for breakfast, so we are all happy (sensible), but we all ate brownies for breakfast (irrational).

Ugh.

Any good ideas on forming new personality traits?

The One With All the Pants

In our house, we've made a non-verbal pact to only go clothes shopping for Chris once every two years. There are several reasons for this.

First, Chris. Hates. Shopping. (Let me rephrase that). Chris hates shopping for anything non-electronic or entertainment related. He would give up eating for a month in order to deck out his PC with a new power supply and graphics card, but he gives a compulsory mouth-vomit every time I mention the s-word (shopping) and goes into full on dry heaves if I tell him we are going clothes shopping for him.

Second, I hate shopping for Chris. Now, Chris is a manly man, a guy's guy and all that, but when it comes clothes, he can throw down the picky princess card faster than a 15-year-old girl. It always ends with both of us wanting to go postal on retail outlets and each other. It's just not pretty.

Finally, two years is enough time for hubby's clothes to wear out to the point that he is forced to buy clothes, by sheer lack of any other option, without me having to do anything at all. Our marriage wouldn't survive if we had to go any more frequently.

The week before Christmas our two year statute was up. One of his two pairs of pants got worn enough through the knee that we both knew the jig was up. I told him I refused to wash his one pair often enough for him to wear them every day and he, thank goodness, refused to just wear them out of spite, regardless of smell.

We loaded up the kids, went to Kohl's, and parked the car. I sent Chris in alone to grab the exact same style of jeans as the ones that were worn out and I sat in the car with the boys. (Luke knows all the stores in our area and refuses to go into a single one that carries only clothing or home decor).

I didn't encourage him to try on other brands or styles, I knew from previous experience that he wouldn't like them. He sticks with what works and I'm okay with that. After 45 minutes of trying on jeans, he came back with a single pair of jeans, exactly like the ones he already had. We were set for two more years.

The next day Chris wore the pants to go see Tron and when he came home he immediately told me that he didn't like the pants. "They just don't feel like the ones I had. They fit weird," he explained. I nostril flared him so he would know the extend of my disdain for what he was telling me.

We went back to Kohl's the next day and I sent him in alone to return the pants, while the boys and I waited in the car. Half an hour later he came back empty handed. "I'll get some another time. I'm too tired right now". Um kay, fine.

After Christmas it became painfully obvious that he needed pants NOW. We loaded up the kids for a third time and went back to Kohl's. This time, after much whining from everyone, the boys and I went in with Chris. The boys ran around the store like banshees while I gave Chris every single pair of jeans I could find in his size. He tried Comfort Fit, Relaxed Fit, Regular Fit, Boot Cut, Straight Leg, Low Rise, Mid Rise, and every other fit, cut, and rise available.

TWO HOURS LATER, battered, tired, and weak, we walked out of the store with his size in Relaxed Fit, Straight Leg Levi's, the exact same style and color of the jeans that had worn out.

"That's so weird," he said "maybe it was just that one pair that didn't fit right. Maybe something was wrong with them."

"Maybe something is wrong with you", I thought.

But this tale doesn't end there my friends. No, the next day when Chris went to work, he reached into the pocket of his perfectly fitting, fantastic pair of jeans and felt a piece of paper. When he pulled it out, it was none other than HIS ticket stub from the last time he went to see Tron.

That's right folks.

He bought the same pair of jeans TWICE! And for MORE MONEY!

And that is the tale of how it will now be four years before we go clothes shopping for Chris again.

The end.

Oh.

And Happy New Year from the Fruitcake side of town!

The Leakage Wars

Last night, only half-jokingly, I swaddled Luke’s bum in two diapers. I had accidentally ripped half-way down one of the elastic sides of the outer diaper earlier in the day and wasn’t willing to rely on it as a first defense. Ever the recycler, I was curious as to whether or not it would hold up as the secondary barrier to Luke’s usual leakage during the night.

You see, my son has this uncanny knack for holding in all liquid until the weary hours of the morning. I’m probably underestimating, but he will leak through a diaper about 4 nights out of every week. We’ve tried to stem the tide by restricting his drinkage before bedtime. It has helped to some degree, but even then, some unsuspecting diaper gets a gushing wave of terror during the night. Dams can only hold so much before they spring a leak, people, and these dams either leak yellow liquid or little gelatin-like beads all over the bed.

So, we nixed the drinks last night, made him go on the potty, and tucked him in with his two diapers. I thought, ‘for sure this kid won’t be able to leak out of TWO diapers. Right??’ Chris informed me Luke looked like a dork, but I didn’t care. I was going to have one pee-free night, dang it!

Well, dear readers, apparently even two diapers are no match for Luke’s overabundant bladder release. At five o’clock this morning, Luke could be found crying because he was awoken, yet again, by the wetness of his bed. I was crying too—inside my head. How?? HOW???

Well, I’ve put together a little theory:

The diaper companies are in league with Luke to keep me as grossed out as possible. That’s all I’ve got.

I’m going to have to start making him sleep in a bed of kitty litter so that I can get some sleep in the mornings. Poor kid, it’s really not his fault, and I would cry every morning too if I was cold from my own wetness. What's a little boy to do?

P.S. EeeGADS!!! Luke just got up from his nap and he was, you guessed it, wet! I swear the boy has Niagra Falls flowing through his pants.

Body-Mind Memos #76-77

Dear Body (bane of my existence),

I understand that you are tired…fatigued…exhausted. I do. I really do. But when I say get out of bed, I mean get out of bed. I don’t mean roll around listlessly, mutter nonsense, and cover your head with a pillow to try and get rid of me. I mean GET.OUT.OF.BED. OUT---of the bed---the bed you are in---get out of it. NOW!!! I know you can hear me and I know you know what I’m saying. I refuse to let you make me not do anything today.

Love From,
Mind

P.S. I will plague you.

Dear Mind (frienemy of my undoing),

Thanks for your letter and your generous consideration of my plight of debility. I understand that you are awake…alert…properly functioning in every way---mostly--- in which I wish you weren’t. Don’t take this the wrong way, but please, for the love of all that is holy…be quiet. And by be quiet I mean: Shut…up…shut up…SHUT UP!!! Just. Stop. Thinking. For once, let it go. Let me sleep, rest, rejuvenate---without the constant barrage of you telling me things I should be doing instead. I refuse to let you get me out of this bed.

Always a pleasure Just always,
Body

P.S. Plague away.

Luchadors

I grew up with all sisters and it was, needless to say, completely different than life as I know it now. However, I never REALLY knew what it was like to live with boys. Until today.

What did we do today that I've never done before in my entire life???

We put underwear on our heads and pretended to be luchadors. I'll have to cross that one off my list.

What's My Line?

It’s probably not a well-disguised fact that I have problems when it comes to speaking to people. The art of conversational flow has never been a strong talent of mine…unless they are conversations in my head. My imaginary chats are pretty phenomenal if I do say so myself and it’s really too bad all around that I can’t have those little dialogues out loud.

In real life, however, my thought/speech synapses are extraordinarily slow. I tend to be on the Twinkie level of conversational intrigue and I dread conversing with people because I know it is just going to painful for both sides. Painful. I’ve vowed, at all costs, never to start conversations and I’ve even devised ways to get out of having to continue conversations that have inadvertently sprung up.

For fellow speaking idiots, start taking notes now.

• If someone starts up a friendly little exchange, just shove food in your mouth really fast and pretend you can’t talk because social culture states very clearly that you are not allowed to speak when you have food in your mouth. Keep a stash of food handy because you never know when someone might try to “sneak-convo” you. Also, its preferable to have the food be something that is not pretty to watch someone else eat; black licorice, hard-boiled eggs, and veggie burgers do nicely.

• If there is no food around, yell loudly at your child to stop doing whatever it is he is doing. Proceed to badger the poor miscreant until he is crying inconsolably and then try and console him. If you don’t have a child, yell at someone else’s child.

• Avoid eye-contact at all costs. Nothing will start a conversation like a little bit of accidental eye-contact. If you have to, poke yourself in the eye constantly so you don't sucomb to this fatal mistake.

• If conversation just cannot be avoided, I recommend babbling some incoherent nonsense until the other party gives up all attempts at communication and sidles off with a fearful look in their eyes.

These tips have been tried (not necessarily by me) and are no-fail conversation stoppers.

You know, all of this mental maiming could be avoided if people were just allowed to have conversational teleprompters. I mean, it would give such hope to those of us doomed to idiocy if we didn’t have to do any of the actual thinking required for conversations. Before your little parleys with people, you could simply velcro the prompter onto the other party’s forehead and after they speak, it would tell you what to say. It would keep everyone who is normal from having to listen to disturbing things and it would keep you from having to say them.

For instance, instead of this:

Johnny: Suzy, how are you doing? I haven’t seen you in weeks, what have you and your little Lola been up to?

Suzy: Hi. Yeah. Uh-huh. (shovels whipped cream in her mouth and does the 'go figure' shoulder raise).

You could have this:

Johnny: Suzy, how are you doing? I haven’t seen you in weeks, what have you and your little Lola been up to?

Prompter: Well, hi Johnny. Lola and I have been swell. We’ve just been playing with puppies and making cookies every single day.

Suzy: Well, hi Johnny (squints with voracious focus)….Lola and I…swell…(tilts head to side)...we play puppies and …uh…something about cookies and day.

Johnny: .....Oh...... (sidles away fearfully)

Huh. That didn't go the way I expected. Twinkie anyone?

In a pickle

I have a problem, a conundrum, a pickle, if you will. (You know, I’ve never really understood the pickle thing. What is it supposed to mean when you are in a pickle? It makes no sense...)

Anyway.

This problem is in reference to online me. Now, normally, one shouldn’t have a problem with one’s online self because one’s online self can be anything one wants her to be. But that’s my problem. Online me is an imaginary version of real me: real me the way I would like to be and not the way I really am. And let’s just say I have a healthy imagination. This online me that I have conjured is pretty much flawless. She has millions of adoring fans who hang on her every word, just bating their breath for her next deeply humorous and inspiring piece of prose. She is, of course, intelligent and sophisticated; with a perfect manner of expression that engages everyone around her. She is never flustered in social situations, but confident that every word she utters is worth hearing.

So, what is the problem? She sounds fantastic doesn’t she?

Well, that’s just it. I despise online me. She’s too amazing and I don’t know what to do with her. She is always there mocking me with her perfect diction and witty sense of humor. She is much more friendly and approachable than real me and so everyone I know is going to want to be friends with online me instead of real me. I can see her in my mind’s eye and hear her voice whispering that she is slowly going to obliterate real me.

AAAGGGGHHHH!

As you may have guessed, this poses a real threat to my real me existence. But I have some moral issues with regards to how to “take care of” online me.

First, if I ice online me is that breaking the commandment, Thou shalt not kill? (Can real me even use the word ice in such a fashion?) I could just erase her completely and no one would ever have to know she even existed; just delete the files…on accident, of course. It would be a sad and untimely death, but I’m sure she wouldn’t even notice; and then her adoring fans would flock to real me and real me could have a chance to be in the limelight.

Second, if I do exterminate her, will I die as well because I created her and therefore she is a part of me, if only imaginary? Or will that imaginary part of me be gone for good when I kill her off in a fit of jealousy because real me wants to be what online me represents, but can’t quite get there? Or, if I do delete her, will real me take advantage of the opportunity to become better or will she be content to be the same monochromatic person she was before online me.

Finally, could I give her flaws just to make real me feel better; or does that mean that real me has flaws too and I would be better off imagining a perfect online me? She already has a slipping regard for good punctuation and grammar...I could just enhance those flaws and give her a good lisp.

Hmm…like I said, quite the pickle.

So I guess this begs the question, how do all of you deal with your online mes? Or are your online mes the same as your real life mes? And, if you tell me they are the same can I call you a rotten liar for not admitting your online me is in all ways at least a little better than your real life me? (And, for the love of my sanity, please tell me, how do you type up the plural form of 'me' without it looking weird?!!)

In Defense

Chris told me in no uncertain terms the other night that the title of my blog sucked. Okay, so I can't vouch that he said that actual word, but I'm going to play the woman card and take the liberty of twisting his words into what I heard. He claimed that it says nothing about me and therefore it is "dumb" (he did say that actual word).

In the heat of the moment I reverted to the 2nd grade classic, "yeah, well, you're dumb".

Nice.

The pathetic defense of my precious blog name has been a thorn in my side this week and so I have determined to exonerate my blog in letter form as follows.

Dear Babe,

I'm deeply disturbed at your boldness in telling me I suck. Deeply disturbed. I've got disturbed-ness coming out my ears. I'm writing this letter to you in true defense of "Fruitcakes".

First of all, it's Fruitcakes with an "s", implying not only that I am a fruitcake, but that you are as well...as is our little mini loaf. It's true, deal with it.

Second, do you know me but at all? Fruitcake is a deliciously spiced treat that is a little bit nutty, a little bit fruity, and a little bit whimsically eccentric. Funny, that is the exact diagnosis the shrink wrote up about me.

Finally, listen to this and tell me you don't love the name "Fruitcakes" afterwards. I dare you.

Your fruitcake forever,
Me

P.S. Jimmy Buffett rocks! Which is more or less, but leaning toward more...the reason I liked the name in the first place.

P.P.S. No, you're dumb...and I'm going to need my card back.

Illness and Hip Flexors

Allow me to share a little tidbit of info that I learned last night:

The road to insanity is paved with sick children and afflicted muscles.

Wow, now that I read that it sounds a little grotesque. But, grotesque or not its still profound. (I never write anything that isn't profound).

So, yesterday Luke came down with the misery after a virus decided to ravish him with a fever. And I came down with grieved muscles after the hateful instructor at the gym decided to go commando on my hip flexors with an excessive amount of lunges.

These two incidents converged upon my sanity last night when Luke woke up every half hour...let me repeat that in a whisper because its very important.......every.......half........ hour.....feverish, crying, and miserable. Do you realize that a half hour is just enough time to comfort a screaming child, collapse into bed, pull the covers up, and get THIS close to that deep peaceful sleep before you are unceremoniously jolted awake by anguished wailing???

That in and of itself was enough to make me want to pull chunks of hair out of my head. But then I had to hoist my legs up the stairs every time he woke up so that I could comfort him or get him a drink (this involved still more vexation to my aforementioned musculature). By the time 4 am decided to meander around, my mental capabilities were nil and my hips joints were shouting profanities at me.

Sigh.

On a lighter note, Chris and I did manage to celebrate Valentine's Day with a freakish amount of saturated fat and red dye number 3...both in the shape of hearts. Nothing says "I Love You" like a calorie fest and artificial flavoring. I love you babe. Thanks for staying with me through the inevitable insanity that follows. You're the best.