Controlling the Control Freak

Hi. My name is Cathy and I am a control freak. Here’s this week’s laundry list of frustrations I have to accept I cannot change:

My ’60s serving spoon.
  • The dirty clothes will drool out of the hamper in the bathroom. It’s ok.
  • The sneaky hole-ridden sock is not going to further escape from the hamper, either. It will be doomed to endure a ride in the washing machine eventually … a bad Kennywood ride for socks. It can remain flopped out the side until I get to it. A tongue taunting me by blowing me raspberries.
  • It’s guaranteed that every time I put my daughter’s half-full glass of water in the dishwasher, she simply will retrieve another one and leave the glass in its predecessor’s place. It is my fate to be stalked by various glass-shaped soldiers with varying levels of dusty water collected in them. Time to take it as a positive. If I forget to give the cats water, they’ll find this is a valuable source.
  • My dog cannot stop her shedding. First of all, she’s a dog. Secondly, she has no self-awareness. Lastly, she’s no match for mother nature. Though tempting, putting her in a baggie is not an option. She’s 80 pounds, so she’d never fit into a Giant Eagle bag to contain her malamute glitter. Succumbing to the truth, I have to make a fun game of it. It’s a tumbleweed hoover game. Vacuum attachment in hand, I’m a gunslinger in the west ready to suck up all the clumps of free-flying fur with the swoop of the wand.
  • Oh yes. And the LIGHTS. It’s intriguing to watch the routes that my family travels through the house by tracking the light patterns. Up the stairs. Down to the garage (must be hubby). Then a rogue light blazes on the top floor. Upon inspection, it’s just my kiddo bathing in the light of her laptop … in a dark room … with no other light source. I’ll allow it.  Not picking that battle right now
  • Oh, that serving spoon from 1960? That white plastic one that my mom gave me for when I started to adult? I understand I shouldn’t throw it away, so that spoon goes in the drawer. In the slot designed for longer silverware. It does NOT belong in the canister on the counter. It mismatches its stainless siblings. It’s plastic. Stainless and plastic don’t play together.
  • Ok, self. Stop. Breathe. Let’s think about this … the house is standing. Child is fed and clothed. Critters are comfy. Hubby has an ample supply of coffee. And I am breathing. Success!

I know this will all be here tomorrow. Then the next day. New things will crop up … unexpected gremlins tinkering with their little gremlin tools trying to wreak havoc on different aspects of my life.  I may as well sit back and enjoy the show. Life’s to short to do it any other way.

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