The other day I drove 26 miles home from work at lunchtime because I was certain I had left the iron on. I know everyone has had the experience. Turning the iron off, locking the door and other mundane tasks are such an instinctual part of the morning routine you can easily do it without thinking about it, and then it does not register in your brain.
On this day, I simply could not remember turning the iron off. I could not concentrate on work because I kept calculating how much damage an iron could do. Would it ruin the room, or the whole side of the house? How would I know my house had gone up in flames? My neighbor does not have my phone number. Given we have no drapes I think the damage would be relatively minor. Aren't window treatments always the first to go? At least in those old PSAs they were.
Thanks to a forgiving boss who has her own neurotic behavior related to the straightening iron (Turn off, tell yourself you turned it off, unplug, check again) I was able to head home at lunch.
Of course, the iron was not on.
I found this blog post from Apartment Therapy on things to do in order to remember you've turned off an appliance.
Saturday, January 31, 2009
Monday, January 26, 2009
Missing the Icy Patches
I went skiing yesterday for the first time this winter. You are probably surprised that a neurotic wife enjoys strapping sticks to her feet and pointing them straight down a mountain. It's actually a therapeutic exercise in overcoming neurotic thoughts. In fact, skiing provides a perfect snapshot of how I manage to overcome my worries and live a normal life.
The fear I feel when I approach a steep drop (the type where all you see is blue sky, not the ground below you) is nearly paralyzing. But as gripping as that fear is, the euphoria when I've reached the bottom is just as great. I put aside my worries, have faith in myself and my ability, and then I rely on a little bit of luck in missing the icy patches on the way down --- sounds a lot like my general approach to life.
The fear I feel when I approach a steep drop (the type where all you see is blue sky, not the ground below you) is nearly paralyzing. But as gripping as that fear is, the euphoria when I've reached the bottom is just as great. I put aside my worries, have faith in myself and my ability, and then I rely on a little bit of luck in missing the icy patches on the way down --- sounds a lot like my general approach to life.
Sunday, January 18, 2009
Brown Baby No More
My Italian mother used to mix iodine and baby oil and rub it on her skin before sitting out in the sun. The same mother who is responsible for my worried nature was also a main participant in the "brown baby" contest every summer. My mother and her friends would compete to see which elementary school-aged child could get the best tan every summer. For the record I never won, my dad is fair-skinned Irish.
Despite all of the neuroses I have learned from her, lathering myself in sun block was not one of them. In her defense, the message that the sun kills really only hit the airwaves in the past 10-12 years. (And "Kudos" to you Coppertone public relations team.) Over the past few years I have become a diligent member of the 30 SPF brigade, but from 0-27, I burned until I blistered at least once a summer.
Which brings me to my current worry: skin cancer.
The other day I discovered two freckles on the underside of my right breast. (Note: I have never sun bathed naked.) How would sun get there? Upon making the discovery I made a mental note to ask my new primary care at my appointment next week, and also schedule an appointment with the dermatologist for me and my husband. The freckles are not discolored, raised or otherwise suspicious, so I did not rush out to the doctor that morning. (Yes, very level headed, indeed!)
As I scanned the Internet for information on freckles, one of my closest friends was dealing with an uncomfortable skin situation of her own. She is translucent and a diligent member of the 45 SPF brigade for as long as I have known her. Her doctor found two suspicious freckles right on her bum, which were removed, requiring stitches. As she sat precariously on her sore tooshie we debated this new phenomena of freckles in the most unlikely of places. Could it have been seat warmers in cars that caused her situation? A hot metal bleacher? Nothing really made sense. There were even fewer possible causes for my under-breast freckles.
Never mind the cause, as neurotic wife I am focused on prevention. The only possible solution to sun exposure is more prevention. I am good at this! Rather than putting my bathing suit on first and then applying sunblock, I'll apply before I dress. Also, I always love the look of sun hats, and I think I can find one that is large enough to cast a shadow out over my chest. Let's face it, I should have embraced the beach cover up years ago, here's one more reason to do so.
Despite all of the neuroses I have learned from her, lathering myself in sun block was not one of them. In her defense, the message that the sun kills really only hit the airwaves in the past 10-12 years. (And "Kudos" to you Coppertone public relations team.) Over the past few years I have become a diligent member of the 30 SPF brigade, but from 0-27, I burned until I blistered at least once a summer.
Which brings me to my current worry: skin cancer.
The other day I discovered two freckles on the underside of my right breast. (Note: I have never sun bathed naked.) How would sun get there? Upon making the discovery I made a mental note to ask my new primary care at my appointment next week, and also schedule an appointment with the dermatologist for me and my husband. The freckles are not discolored, raised or otherwise suspicious, so I did not rush out to the doctor that morning. (Yes, very level headed, indeed!)
As I scanned the Internet for information on freckles, one of my closest friends was dealing with an uncomfortable skin situation of her own. She is translucent and a diligent member of the 45 SPF brigade for as long as I have known her. Her doctor found two suspicious freckles right on her bum, which were removed, requiring stitches. As she sat precariously on her sore tooshie we debated this new phenomena of freckles in the most unlikely of places. Could it have been seat warmers in cars that caused her situation? A hot metal bleacher? Nothing really made sense. There were even fewer possible causes for my under-breast freckles.
Never mind the cause, as neurotic wife I am focused on prevention. The only possible solution to sun exposure is more prevention. I am good at this! Rather than putting my bathing suit on first and then applying sunblock, I'll apply before I dress. Also, I always love the look of sun hats, and I think I can find one that is large enough to cast a shadow out over my chest. Let's face it, I should have embraced the beach cover up years ago, here's one more reason to do so.
Sunday, January 11, 2009
A Setback
A few weeks ago I blogged that I had overcome "slow cooker neurosis." I was able to go shopping while leaving the slow cooker on. I was proud. Like anyone dealing with personal demons, I battle everyday to overcome my neurotic behavior. Each day is its own challenge. Today, I lost. If only I had a sponsor I could have called, maybe I'd be at Pottery Barn debating between nickel finish and stainless lamps right now.
I had gone out for errands-- the post office, The Container Store and Pottery Barn. I only made it to the post office before the slow cooker compelled me home.
I'm not making excuses for my self, but I am trying a new recipe and I don't think it has enough liquid in it not to burn.
I had gone out for errands-- the post office, The Container Store and Pottery Barn. I only made it to the post office before the slow cooker compelled me home.
I'm not making excuses for my self, but I am trying a new recipe and I don't think it has enough liquid in it not to burn.
The Structured Life of a Neurotic Wife
As much as I hate to admit it, my husband and I live a very structured life. Our mornings follow a strict schedule. He wakes up at 7:03 a.m. and around 7:14 a.m he exits the shower and I wake up. I chat with him from bed as he gets dressed. When he goes downstairs to make the coffee, I get in the shower. My bathroom routine is a bit longer than his "11-minute-express hygiene special" and so when I am in the bathroom, he leaves for work.
The significant snow and ice we have had in Boston has altered my routine, just slightly. Now prior to getting in the shower, but after teeth brushing, face-washing and using the toilet, I scurry out of the bathroom to look out the side bedroom window. Peeking out the window I make sure that my husband has not slipped and fallen down the stairs or tumbled on a patch of ice on the driveway. A quick check that the car is gone relieves this fear.
What a terrible wife I would be had I showered, dressed, applied make up and blew dry my hair while my poor husband was lying on the icy driveway, in the cold, with a broken back!
The significant snow and ice we have had in Boston has altered my routine, just slightly. Now prior to getting in the shower, but after teeth brushing, face-washing and using the toilet, I scurry out of the bathroom to look out the side bedroom window. Peeking out the window I make sure that my husband has not slipped and fallen down the stairs or tumbled on a patch of ice on the driveway. A quick check that the car is gone relieves this fear.
What a terrible wife I would be had I showered, dressed, applied make up and blew dry my hair while my poor husband was lying on the icy driveway, in the cold, with a broken back!
Tuesday, January 6, 2009
New Doctor, New Worries
My 2009 resolution was to switch from my old home town doctor to a new primary care physician more conveniently located to where I live today. I accomplished this on December 31, 2008, making this the first time I had ever made good on a resolution. (Although I am not sure what the rules are given I accomplished it in the previous calendar year.)
Since changing doctors I have been consumed by medical worries. My main fear stems from a concern that at some point over the past 31 years my old doctor missed something significant, and I've been living in faux-health for many years.
I can just picture the conversation with my new doctor, "I assume you are already on the list for a kidney donation?"
As a result of this fear I have been acutely aware of my symptoms this week. Below I have listed ailments that have worried me in the past week, as well as the "symptoms" of them.
Since changing doctors I have been consumed by medical worries. My main fear stems from a concern that at some point over the past 31 years my old doctor missed something significant, and I've been living in faux-health for many years.
I can just picture the conversation with my new doctor, "I assume you are already on the list for a kidney donation?"
As a result of this fear I have been acutely aware of my symptoms this week. Below I have listed ailments that have worried me in the past week, as well as the "symptoms" of them.
- Blood clot - A random spot on the middle of my thigh hurts.
- Diabetes - I felt dizzy and light-headed one day.
- A glandular problem-- swollen glands in my neck.
- High cholesterol - I haven't had any symptoms. I'm not even sure there are any. I've just thought maybe I have it. (A quick check of WebMD confirms there are no symptoms)
- Brain tumor - I had a headache last night.
Friday, January 2, 2009
My Neurotic Sister-- Not Neurotic Enough
As a neurotic wife I check to make sure the oven is off at least three times after using it. My sister, born and raised by the same neurotic mother, claims the same obsessive-compulsive habit.
On New Year's Eve I attended a small party at her house, and slept over. Just before midnight, my sister pulled delicious molten chocolate cakes from the oven, and then joined us to watch a very depressing Dick Clark count down the New Year. As we ushered in 2009, the oven remained on at a toasty 400 degrees. As my husband and I went to bed in the guest room we joked that my sister and her husband heat their condo to Grandma-like temperatures.
We awoke the next morning to my sister's shocked exclamation, "I left the oven on all night."
This leads me to two realizations.
1. I am going to have to worry about my sister leaving the oven on every night. Should I text her a reminder every night?
2. Someone should invent an oven temperature detector that beeps if the oven remains on after food is removed. There could be a weighted measure on the oven rack that signals the alarm. I'd buy one for me and one for my sister.
On New Year's Eve I attended a small party at her house, and slept over. Just before midnight, my sister pulled delicious molten chocolate cakes from the oven, and then joined us to watch a very depressing Dick Clark count down the New Year. As we ushered in 2009, the oven remained on at a toasty 400 degrees. As my husband and I went to bed in the guest room we joked that my sister and her husband heat their condo to Grandma-like temperatures.
We awoke the next morning to my sister's shocked exclamation, "I left the oven on all night."
This leads me to two realizations.
1. I am going to have to worry about my sister leaving the oven on every night. Should I text her a reminder every night?
2. Someone should invent an oven temperature detector that beeps if the oven remains on after food is removed. There could be a weighted measure on the oven rack that signals the alarm. I'd buy one for me and one for my sister.
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