Leigh Ann Northcutt

Archive For: My Personal Pandemonium

Who Knew What “I Do” Would Do?

In May, my husband and I will have celebrated, achieved, accomplished, persevered, survived, endured 32 years of marriage. (Insert the verb that best describes your marital experience. Frankly, they all fit mine.)

I have spent some time thinking about all the ups and the downs; the easys and the not-so-easys in our marriage. I have realized that when I walked down the church aisle and spoke the two words that would change my life, I had no idea what “I do” would do or for how long it would do it.

I left the house where my mother carried the loads of life and laundry and we moved into an apartment where most of the carrying, loading and laundering in our lives was done by me. Not a problem after Greg realized that real men wear pink socks.

I also bought a “how to” book that taught me to speak the love language of a newlywed and began sounding out a few of the more difficult phrases like, “Yes, I’ll find you attractive when you’re bald,” and “Oh, a shower massage. What a perfect gift for our first anniversary.” Difficult, but doable.

What I was not prepared for were the changes in all those small, insignificant pieces of life that were intrinsic to my first 19 years. Greg and I spent weeks flipping over the toilet paper roll until I finally gave up and learned to pull from the top.

Before we got married, I slept on the left side of my bed. On our honeymoon, my new husband rolled me to the right and staked a permanent claim on my spot causing me to get up on the wrong side of the bed for the rest of my life.

The temperature in my house has dropped from a comfortable 72 degrees to one that will freeze your saliva in three minutes if you happen to drool during the night. I haven’t been warm for an extended period of time in the last 32 years.

We started eating supper two hours early. We watched dumb stuff on television. And we put blinking lights on our Christmas tree! (Due to advances in computer technology,the flashing speed of our tree lights can now bring on epileptic seizures in perfectly healthy people.)

Why don’t marriage counselors talk about these things? Why don’t mothers give their daughters a list of these lesser known issues to discuss with their future spouses? Why don’t our marriage vows include, “In sickness and in health, in boxers or in briefs, with thick crust or with thin, until death (whether accidental or intentional) do us part”?

I’ll admit that all these little botherations can heat my emotions to their boiling point . . . until Greg coolly walks in with a bag of Chinese food, a James Taylor CD, and the promise of a good back rub.

Don’t we all know that it is the small things in a marriage that can break . . . or make it.

Get Out of my Way. I’m Going To Jail.

In order for you to know me better, I thought I ought to tell you a few of the personal facts about myself that friends like to share with each other. My favorite color is blue. I love James Taylor music. I hate salmon patties. And there was once a warrant issued for my arrest.

The Crime: About 12 years ago, I was stopped for driving 15 miles over the speed limit.

The Appeal: I stuffed the box of dry cereal that I had been eating for breakfast under the seat and wiped my mouth with our infant’s spit-up rag. It was the only faux napkin available other than the used tissue on the floor and the ketchup-covered Burger King bag in the back seat. Then, I appealed for leniency with the best smile and slight eyebrow flirt that I could muster after 20 years of marriage.

The Denial: Evidently the police officer wasn’t impressed with my grinning grimace or the Coco Puffs/baby puke odor on my breath, because he gave me a ticket and a three figure fine.

What My Lawyer Said: Actually, I can’t tell you what my husband, the lawyer, said without being censored, but his last words were, “Don’t pay the fine. I’ll take care of it.” A couple of weeks later, a warrant was issued for my arrest for failure to appear in court to pay that fine.

My Response: I never considered suing my lawyer since that would come back to bite me in the bank account. I did, however, consider bringing some actions against him that would turn him into a Sue with a high soprano voice.

But then, I began to see possibilities in the situation.

What would happen if I welcomed the deputy into my home, took the arrest document from his hands and willingly went to jail? I would either have some time to myself or the opportunity to make new friends. Of course, the policeman would have to stay and take care of my kids, but he did agree to hazardous duty when he pinned on his badge.

In the end, I was a little disappointed when my husband got the warrant dismissed. A part of me was looking forward to an encounter with the police. I had decided that I would not remain silent.

“Hello, deputy. I’m ready to go but you’ll be needing to stay here with my children.

Load all the kids in my car, and take #1 out for practice driving time. Make #2 do her bathroom chores. When she finishes, stick your head in the toilet to make sure she cleaned under the rim. Number 3 has a model of the solar system due tomorrow. Do not, under any circumstances, let him help but make it look like fourth grade work. Make two dozen cat-face cupcakes for #4 to take to school in the morning. And #5 is sitting in a diaper that is so wet, she is treading water.

I’ll be needing to borrow the keys to the squad car so I can drive myself to jail. Could you handcuff me so I won’t be tempted to stop and pick up stray toys on the way out?

And by the way, I’ll be running the siren in accompaniment to the Hallelujah Chorus that I’ll be singing as I leave the driveway.”

I’m Just SAD

After experiencing several weeks of general lethargy and sluggishness brought on by a lack of energy that borders on acute blah-nemia, I researched my symptoms on the internet. Its seems that I have Seasonal Affective Disorder (SAD), a chronic condition brought on by the dreary days, the depressive nights and the debilitating temperatures of winter.

SAD has taken every positive thought and pleasurable emotion that might have allowed me to enjoy February and siphoned them off with a slushy spoon-straw and a bug sucking sound; leaving me . . . well . . . sad.

And apparently, it is a life threatening disease, because it has caused me to threaten the lives of my husband, my children, and every other shortsighted simpleton who spent July and August praying for a long winter.

The symptoms of SAD are boredom, depression, lethargy and muddled thinking.

Now, there’s some good news. I’m going to underline the words, “muddled thinking” with a wide-tipped marker and superglue them to my competency file. When the nice people in white coats ask me why I can’t remember what I was going to say, or why I entered the room or where I put my children, I’ll assure them that I am not losing mind. I’m just a SAD person.

The information I read said that people with Seasonal Affective Disorder also tend to crave sweets.

Well there’s a literal and figurative big, fat “DUH”. I am positive that this new and enlightening bit of information was written by a man. Every woman alive has known since entering puberty that the natural treatment for problems related to boredom and depression is chocolate.

Now, you probably wonder, as did I, how does one begin to recover from SAD? Well, according to the doctors at the mayo Clinic, arguably some of the best educated and most qualified physicians in the world, the preferred way to reduce the lethargy and depression caused by the dreary and dark days of winter is . . . to get more sunshine.

That inane advice has caused me to doubt the validity of much of what I’ve been told by a professional with a stethoscope hanging around his/her neck.

Therefore, I am officially asking for a partial refund on all my medical expense payments for the last 10 years.

Me and James

I’m confessing to all of you that there is another man in my life. He comes to my house early in the morning after Greg has gone to work. He is dressed in his uniform and I meet him at the door in my gown and robe. He comes inside and I give him full access to my home. He knows things about me that I don’t share with even my closest friends. His name is James and he is my Terminix man.

I realized today that our relationship is way beyond appropriate.

When people show up at my house before 10 a.m., there is a good chance that they will find me in a pre-shower/make-up free/morning-breath state of being . . . that is if they can find me at all. The last time the Jehovah’s Witnesses came to witness, I ducked below the line of sight from the front windows and crawled behind the couch. I have no desire to discuss eschatology, millennialism, and the divine trinity or to field invitations to their local Kingdom Hall in my gown and robe.

(I’m hoping that the angel who plays trumpet in Heaven’s band has a late gig the night before the rapture and doesn’t show up to sound the coming of the real Kingdom until about mid-afternoon.)

My neighbor came by early a few weeks ago and I sent the kids to the door while I picked up the phone and carried on a conversation with a dial tone in my laundry room.

Image my panic one Saturday morning when my pre-showered/make-up free/morning-breath self looked up to see a preacher friend walking across our porch. I sprinted to the bathroom and stayed there for 20 minutes while he talked to Greg. After he left, I spritzed a little windex around the bathroom to make it smell like I had been cleaning and pretended that I hadn’t heard the man’s voice from 15 feet away.

But when James showed up unexpectedly this morning, I just cinched the belt of my robe a little tighter and met him at the door with my best crud-breath smile. The man has seen me in my gown and robe so many times, he could catalogue my sleepwear by size, color and state of threadbareness. Way beyond appropriate.

I also realized that I’ve let James into areas of my life where no one, other than immediate family, has ever gone. . . like my kitchen after the remains of a 50-person Christmas party were left to compost overnight . . . like my bedroom after littering it with two weeks of dirty clothes and the vacation debris of seven people . . . like that same bedroom in the same shape four weeks later . . . like Peter’s room any day of the week . . . like Peter’s bathroom where he likes to collect toothpaste spit and small, chin hairs in the sink.

(This is disgusting; but could be useful if we were to ever leave him somewhere for a period of years and needed DNA to prove his identity.)

You can bet that what James has learned about me and mine as he has crawled over our messes and wandered through our mayhem is more than any man who I’m not legally or genetically tied to ought to know.

Boxers or briefs? James has seen them all laying (clean and not-exactly-clean) on the floor of every male bedroom in the house. Do I or don’t I color my hair? Only my hairdresser and James know.

If James has looked under our beds, he knows that Peter sleeps with a stuffed animal named Bubba, Micah has a crush on Rosemary Clooney and Greg hasn’t thrown anything away since 1980. This information passed inappropriate a long time ago and is closing in on mortifying.

I can only hope that our contract with Terminix includes a confidentiality clause.

Running Away With Alz

Recently, The Today Show did a segment about Alzheimer’s Disease. A specialist in the field said normal aging can cause a person to temporarily forget a word but she should eventually be able to recall it. The effects of Alzheimer’s cause you to totally forget things like where you laid your keys.

I panicked.

I tried to turn off the show but I couldn’t remember where I had put the remote. As I watched the rest of the segment, I decided that it would be prudent to plan for my future with Alz. So, I made the following list. When I feel the first urge to wander the town in my gown, robe and house shoes, I will be mailing it to everyone I know.

1. I need a good handyman to come to my house and put special latches on all the doors to keep me from running away. If you see me swipe a screwdriver and walk off with it, follow me. There’s a good chance you’ll find my keys and the remote control.

2. I need someone to lock up our sailboat, move our horses and put a tracker on all our vehicles to keep my husband from running away.

3. When I find a way to disable the door latches, I will need a woman with an eye for fashion to color coordinate my gowns, robes and house shoes. I’d hate to look tacky on the days that Alz and I run off together.

4. I need all my friends to take up a collection and put my beautician on retainer. She’s in charge of keeping my hair colored. And the moment I crawl into my death bed, help her push it over to the kitchen sink so we can all do a quick dye job. If I have to go through eternity with gray roots, I’m holding every one of you responsible.

5. I need the women who are under 40 and can still see well, to check my makeup when you find me wandering. Wipe and blend, girls. Wipe and blend. Feel free to lick a finger if you have to.

6. I need the women who are over 40 to step in and take care of the children I still have at home. It shouldn’t be hard. Just feed them, force them to clean something and occasionally leave them somewhere so they feel like I’m still in charge.

January Diet: I Usually Have Mine With a Big, Fat DIE and a Little Tea.

Did you know that the think-tank guys who graduated in the bottom half of their think tank classes and didn’t qualify to think about the tanking economy, world hunger or nuclear disarmament have thought instead that we should declare the month of January to be National Diet Month?

If this is the same January that follows November’s Thanksgiving holiday and December’s Christmas season, then I’ve got a little thought to throw back at them.

DUH!!!

I don’t need a calendar to tell me that it is time to end the two month Gala of Gluttony, clean the feast out of my fridge and stop eating puppy chow mix for breakfast. (Since the two major ingredients in puppy chow are crispix and powdered sugar, I figure it is basically a sugared cereal and therefore, a perfectly legitimate breakfast food.)

The waist choking, butt binding, hip crushing things going on in my jeans at this time every year do a dandy job of letting me know that it is time to diet.

The first week of January, I procrastinated and didn’t do anything to lose weight other than to sleep through breakfast on New Year’s Day.

I didn’t procrastinate during the second week of January. I just decided to wait a few more days before seriously trying to slim down.

I began to diet last week. I joined an online fitness program, exercised regularly, counted a few calories and gained two pounds.

This week, I’m pondering the validity of National Diet Month. With some research, I have found that January is also National Bath Month, National Mail Order Gardening Month and National Dried Plum Breakfast Month . . . which I believe is just a more appealing name for National Prune Month.

So, it seems that January just doesn’t have the muscle to motivate me. A little more research has told me that February is Wise Health Consumer Month, Return Shopping Carts to the Supermarket Month, and National Boost Your Self-Esteem Month.

If I wait until February to begin a weight loss program, I should be able to consume some smarter snacks, get a little exercise at Walmart and boost a few things. Self-esteem isn’t really at the top of my list but I’ll take what I can get.

Toilet Training for Dummies . . . and Men. (Same Principles Apply)

I just cleaned all the bathrooms in my house and I have a couple of questions. Why is it that boys who can hit a round basket in a school gym can’t hit a round bowl in a bathroom? And why is it that men who can look up and hit a bird in motion with a bullet can’t look down and hit a stationary object with a pee stream?

For those women who are as frustrated as I am with the lack of urine control in our men and boys, I have a few thoughts on the subject.

1. Our guys aren’t hygienic idiots. They have learned to shower a few times a week and change their underwear occasionally. Maybe they just need extra coaching. Perhaps they have a urination disability and never became pee-pee proficient. If that’s the problem, then we should simply hire certified tinkle trainers.

2. Or it could be that what they need are better methods of motivation. I gave my boys what we called “Potty M & Ms” as a reward for learning to use the toilet when they were two. Maybe now, at age “Old enough to know better”, we could still use bribery to motivate our sons and their fathers to hit the toilet. We could reward good behavior, or in this case, good aim, with “Leave the commode clean candy” or “Piddle in the middle money”.

3. We might try requiring that they clean the bathrooms they use. We could teach them that if they can’t take a bathroom break without spraying down the four walls, they can take a rag and clean it up. This makes the most sense but it would require that they be at home for more than the time it takes to eat, drink, and (at my house) watch UK play basketball. It seems that they only have the time to relieve themselves and rum. But ladies, don’t you think we should at least require that they finish relieving themselves before they start running?

4. My personal, creative solution is to take the UK over-the-door basketball hoop that my son got for his birthday and superglue it to the toilet rim. If my guys won’t try to hit the bowl for me, maybe they will score their shots for the University of Kentucky. They could get points every time their shot goes through cleanly. We’ll call the game “Wee-Wee for the Wildcats”. So far, I think this has the most potential for success at my house.

Last Resort: If all else fails, I think we should seriously consider supergluing some other things to the toilet rim.

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