Gargamelandazriels Blog

For those who know my history with cats, this should come as no surprise.

Guy Smiley and I went to the Petsmart one day in May 2007 to purchase our dog Fenway’s expensive all natural dog food.  We got a cat.  And no, not to feed to the dog.

Guy and I didn’t know much about cats, but it turns out, they are nocturnal.  Yeah, who knew?  For the first few months of his life, we called him “Cat”.  After all, he was Fenway’s pet.  Naturally, he didn’t need a proper name.  However, soon enough, we nicknamed him “Ninja” as his nighttime activities began to include clawing and attacking us in our sleep.  Good kitty!!

Things didn’t progress very well from there, and we got used to warning house guests, “Yeah, don’t touch the cat.  He will cut you like a bitch”.  This apparently scared my 4 year old niece.

When little Baby Gargamel came along, the cat began to exhibit some signs of “distress” which led me to begin to exhibit signs of wanting to get rid of Ninja.  After a disastrous trip to the vet, we were told that perhaps we should declaw the little guy.  Afterward, he continued to exhibit “behavioral issues” such as defecating on anything that Baby Gargamel had touched.  Also know as our entire home.

We took Ninja back to the vet.  Our “sweet” cat (whose veterinarian file includes a large neon orange sticker that reads “USE CAUTION”) had lost his fight.  He waited sadly for his urinalysis, and was proclaimed to be as healthy as could be.  Oh, except for being crazy and needing Prozac.

The vet suggested we put Ninja on Prozac for his “anxiety issues” stemming from the baby’s birth.

Gargamel: So, essentially, you are telling us our cat has post partum depression?

Vet:  (sheepishly) Well, anxiety related to the baby, yes. Pretty much.

Gargamel: Well of course, taking care of a tiny human is extremely stressful for a cat.  So can you give us this prescription to try out?

Vet: Yes, I can give you script.  Just take it to your pharmacy and have it filled.

I could just imagine picking up my new birth control prescription as well as my prozac prescription.  I worked at a pharmacy in high school. I know the thoughts of the staff when filling a script for Prozac, Adderall or Viagra.  And to make it even better, the script was for “Ninja” who is, of course, not on our Federal healthcare plan.  I guess we need to wait for open enrollment in January to add as dependent?  Must check…..

Hmm, well that didn’t quite go as planned.  Remember my no-spend rule this month??  Well…..that was just shot to sh*t.  

We bought  a condo.  That was not on my wish list. Woopsie daisy. 

Now, technically speaking- I did adhere to my no-credit card spending rule.  The down payment has to be cash, you see.  And I didn’t buy it on the internet- we went straight to the source.  I feel like this is a step in the right direction.

And now that we have annihilated our savings, I feel pretty strongly that I won’t be tempted by “found soda crates”.  They won’t go with our new house anyway.

Ooh! Dollar Bill spectacles! Where can I buy those?!

Or maybe, judging by my monthly credit card bill, not so much.  Yipes!

In which case, I have decided that April will be the “NO credit card month”.  It doesn’t seem so difficult, but I have a little tiny problem with the internets.  And the purchasing of things on the internets. I’m a greedy gus. And I like immediate gratification. It’s why I heart the Target.

Personal Finance bloggers (self righteous bitches that they are) recommend you keep a “spending  journal” to keep track of your expenses. This isn’t truly my problem- see what I need to do is keep a journal of my “wants”.  These, I’ve learned, are a wee bit out of control and tend to add up.  Our monthly expenses are pretty reasonable. Rent, cable, internet, car insurance, student loans.  None of these can be truly considered extravagances (well maybe the cable, but as my college friend who came to visit noted, “you’re a TV girl”.  And I am. I love my tv(s) and the delightfully awful television programs they bring to me).

So here it is- my list of “wants” for the month of April. Luckily, my birthday is in May, so payoff will be sweet and merciful. 

1. Gold watch from fossil. So much gold jewelry, no watch to match. Boo! ($125)

2. White converse sneakers.  Already have in gray. ($45)

3. Pottery Barn ANYTHING. Though, on the wishlist- their “found soda crates” ($15)

4. Short coat rack for the entry way. (who knows, can’t find one. Shouldn’t look now)

5. Quick trip to Key West.  ($1,000)

6. Quick trip to Bermuda ($1,200)

7.  New mattress ($1,200)

8. Hot stone massage and facial from Aveda ($300)

9. Dwarf meyer lemon tree  (or Key Lime! Yummy!) ($50)

I am sure this list will keep growing. I am sure I will find it eye opening.  So much so, I might delete this entire post from shame and guilt.  They are two of the best motivators out there!

Guy Smiley and I used my bonus this year to pay off the balance on our car.  We are, after many trials and tribulations, interest payments and hefty down payments, owners of an automobile.  I know, I know. You’re thinking, “eh, big deal”, but if you knew our history with the auto industry, you would realize, this is, as The Trump would say, “yoooge”.  And you might also wonder how the auto industry is so under water, when we alone have purchased three cars in as many months.

If you’ve read the blog, you know the backstory: Guy Smiley and I met in NY. In quick sucession, we got a dog, moved in together, and realized there wasn’t enough space for the three of us to live in harmony. But we liked eachother, so what could we do?  I made the first unilateral decision of many during our time together: it was time to move.

We decided to look around lower Manhattan. Gorgeous green style apartments with bamboo floors, brand new kitchens, floor to ceiling windows overlooking the Hudson and plenty of space.  And they only needed $10,000 down. For a rental.  Oh did I not mention that?  We seriously considered doing it, too. That is how f’ed up Manhattan rentals are.

Well, the Gargamel express was running, so get on or move out of the way, friends. We were moving, dammit. I decided that a nice day trip to the NJ suburb of Montclair was in order.  A straight shot into the city on the train or bus, and plenty of space.  We found a cute place and decided to go for it.  We’d be saving a boat load of dough, which was perfect, since we now required a car.

I found a used Saab for sale in Brooklyn.  Guy accompanied me to the fine borough one evening.  We beat the seller home, so we decided to scope out the car while we waited.  While I was busy checking out small rust spots (”What? Why are you looking at me like that? It’s not that bad! What do you expect for $2000?”), what can only be described as a “ruckus” began unfolding around us.

Two police cruisers screeched to a halt across the street from where we were investigating the car. Immediately, Guy and I both panicked, automatically assuming guilt.  “But we were only looking at the car!  We weren’t going to steal it! We have an appointment!”. Oh wait, they weren’t there for us.  Obviously, they were called in for the domestic dispute across the street in what can only be described upon closer inspection, as a crack house.  Two men were escorted out in handcuffs, with a “loose” looking woman following behind them. Before we knew it, the cruisers were gone, and peace descended again upon the street.  Looking back and hindsight being 20/20 and all, we probably should have taken that as a sign.

Well our recent college grad craigslist buddy finally arrived. We took the car for a spin around the neighborhood, while he spewed some crap about fine swedish engineering.  Too bad I already saw that commercial the other day.  I may watch too much TV, but it helps when one might be swindled.

Nonetheless, it seemed to be in fine working shape and we decided to buy the car.  A week later, we were crusing across the Hudson, headed for our new digs in the Garden State.  And as we crossed the border while cruising through the Lincoln tunnel, the Saab turned into the Sob.

At first, the Sob began to slouch and pucker, much like a petulant child.  His appearance became slouchy and careless, much like that of his previous owner.  And as we began to notice these things, I fought all the harder for his faults. “We can just tack that ceiling back up! It’s cosmetic! Don’t be like that!  Why are you rolling your eyes at me!? This is a good car!”

The Sob continued to test me.  One day as I walked out to our driveway, I noticed the muffler hanging quite low.  As I bent over to investigate, I noticed that only part of the muffler that was intact, was that which I could see.  The rest was a gaping hole.  Such fine swedish engineering! 

But in the end, the demise of our relationship came on a rainy day.  When we just so happened to have a friend in town who needed a ride to the airport.  As I shifted into reverse, the windshield wipers ceased to function. How odd.  Upon further investigation, we realized a fuse had blown.  So we quickly drove to the store, sans windshield wipers, and bought a box of fuses.  We put the new fuse in, started up the car, and…oh shit. The car needs to be in reverse to start. Woops!  Good thing we got this box of fuses, huh!?  Okay, this time, I’ll start the car with the old busted fuse, and then once I am out of reverse, I’ll just pop open my door, take this here fuse box panel off and just take out the old fuse, and then just slide the new one in, just like so…all the while being pelted with rain.  Obviously, I spared myself any needless parallel parking or any other driving that required one to kick it in reverse. 

And so in the end, we had to part ways with the Sob.  Which, was only the first of three cars we owned in as many months that year…….stay tuned for the Santa Fe.

This is the scariest thing I have seen in a while

This was a quick email exchange between me and my sister today:

Dr. Evil (sister):  Get a load of this.  Be sure to see all four pictures and read the reviews and note the pictures that people sent in.  I just lost it.  People are too much.  Why didn’t I get one of these at my baby shower?!
 
http://www.toysrus.com/product/index.jsp?productId=3079356#ReviewHeader

Gargamel: Well the REALLY scary thing is that they have actual places to do this FOR A FEE!!  WTF?  Though in these troubled times, one would imagine that belly casting studios are the first to be hit by such tough economic cutbacks.  Especially belly casting cutbacks. I know that is the first area Guy Smiley and I cut back.  Now I have no excuse for my belly fat!! JK.
 
And I can’t think of anything worse than papier mache proof of my saggy tatas.

Dr. Evil:  This whole email cracks me up but the last line kills me.  Right on sista.

Well, since I’ve gotten my Gargamelian rant done with, let’s spread some love:

{Heart}:

This is from one of my favorite vendors, Demotivators Take a look. You will be laughing out loud.  I especially love the “Pessimist’s mug” and the despairwear. 

{Heart}:

Vanity Smurf has begun to write his own blog!  Read it, and do a “Crestview Spit Take” as my sister Lizzie would say.

Allow me a Gargamelian rant, would you?

My co-worker and I recently moved floors within our building and have subsequently gotten some new “neighbors”. For the most part, they are pleasant- they share their Girl Scout Cookies (though, may I ask: where are the SAMOAS, you greedy bastards!), offer a nice breakfast spread on Fridays, always smile and say hello. But then, as always, there are “a few”.   These few, I shall call the “un-neighbors”. As in, they are most “un-neighborly”.  And now I hate them. It’s war, bitches.

Our new un-neighbors have spacious offices with windows.  I have but a cubicle. Facing a wall.  And not even an exterior wall. A wall solely built in order to keep my cubicle from being part of the interior hallway that leads to a drab little kitchenette, complete with 1980’s microwave and water bubbler. Needless to say, one has very little privacy in cubicle land, and only the dignity they brought with them.

There have been a few “un-neighborly” displays, one of which, I am sure OSHA would be all over.  One neighbor has access to a shared balcony, located directly outside of my cubicle, and insists on taking his smoke break there, every day. Not only is this lazy to the nth degree, but it makes my area smell like doo doo.  So much so, that I know one day I will bring in the nastiest smelling air deodorizer I can find at the dollar store and casually walk into his office, spray it in his face and then leave.  Open the window in your private office and smoke from there, if you have to, ya lazy bones. And don’t forget to close your damn door.

Which brings me to my real grievance.

Now, if there is one thing I know about myself, it is that I am loud. Very loud. And obnoxious. Can’t forget to mention that.  But it’s hard to be loud and/or obnoxious when you rarely talk.  I have to speak very little at my job, and when I do, it’s mostly with my boss or clients via telephone in very short spurts (and only increasingly by telephone due to my mid-year review which highlighted my preference for “short, abrupt emails” when a more friendly phone call would be appropriate).  I try not to take personal calls, or make very many.  Instead, I spend company time emailing my friends and family, usually using my work email.

More than that, I hardly get to talk to my co-worker anymore.  This is due mostly to the fact that our discussions center around our hatred for our new un-neighbors.  Instead, we IM each other to complain about how noisy our un-neighbors are. Yes, that’s right. The same un-neighbors who filed a noise complaint with the office manager. Allow me to present in one act, “Why I Hate My Office Neighbors”, presented in stereo:

Office neighbor 1 (in office, on conference call): BLAH BLAH BLAH. I AM SO IMPORTANT THAT NOT ONLY DO I HAVE AN OFFICE WITH A BALCONY, I AM SO LAZY I HAVE TO USE MY SPEAKER PHONE TO TAKE CALLS WITH MY DOOR WIDE OPEN. BLAHDY BLAHDY BLAH.   

Office neighbor 2, across the hall: I AM ON THE SAME CALL!  BUT I INSIST ON SITTING IN MY OWN OFFICE WITH MY DOOR OPEN.  AND I ALSO LIKE TO PUT IT ON SPEAKER!!  I LOVE THE SOUND OF MY OWN VOICE 

{CLICK, CLICK. DIAL TONNNNNNE}

Office neighbor 1:  (calling office neighbor 2) HEY MAN. SO LET’S DEBRIEF! BUT NOT BRIEFLY!  LET’S TALK FOR THE NEXT 30 MINUTES ABOUT HOW WE ARE BETTER AND SMARTER THAN EVERYONE ELSE ON THAT CALL.

Office neighbor 2 (in stereo). OKAY- LET’S  DO IT AS A CALL EVEN THOUGH WE SIT ACROSS THE HALL FROM EACHOTHER. YOU KNOW HOW I HATE TO GET OFF MY LAZY ASS.

Now, of course, I have allowed myself a bit of creative license in my play.  Office neighbor 2 never directly acknowledged his disgusting and shameful laziness, but when you look at him, you can see the self hatred poring from his soul. Or at least, I can.

Sartre believed that hell was other people. I’ve always been inclined to agree, but this environment has thusly illustrated for me in ways that Caravaggio never could, what my hell will be.  A land rife with tensions and war: Speakerphone wars.

#1 on Tripadvisor.com. Your eyes don't fool you, the sun loungers are submerged in water.

I love to travel. On top of that, I love to research and plan.  Whenever we decide on a vacation, you can be sure that I have cross checked tripadvisor.com versus realtravelblog.com and so on.  I love vacations- I love taking them, planning for them, packing for them, telling all my jealous friends about them. You get the drift.

While I am somewhat open as to where I travel, I have a definite check list. I prefer warm climes to cold, especially in the summer.  I prefer to stay at smaller intimate boutique hotels, preferably with sun loungers half submerged in the hotel’s immaculate pool.  I shy away from mega resorts, or anything that Lonely Planet describes as a “deal”, which to many an untrained ear is code speak for “hostel for crusty backpackers”.  I’m old to enough to only get three weeks of vacation; these weeks will not be spent in squalor, no matter how “real” or “authentic” it makes the experience. If you can afford a $1k plane ticket, let’s not cut corners on accommodations. Am I right? Of course I am.

I have become this way due to a trip that Guy and I took when we first began to date.  As I mentioned before, Guy and I had a trip planned to Costa Rica, which then became a trip to Greece. In the end, it became a trip to the South of Spain, with a side trip to Greece.  I was excited to enjoy warm weather, some cocktails by the pool and a week of R & R.

My brother was renting a villa with his wife and friends on the Southern coast of Spain in March- as it happened, it was the same week that Guy and I had tickets to fly to Greece.  The pictures of the villa were gorgeous- it had a pool that overlooked a beatiful valley that headed down to the little coastal town.  Please refer to checklist in paragraph 2.

We rearranged our plans to fly into a small airport in the city of Malaga, Spain.  Emails were exchanged, everyone was so excited!  So excited, that maybe we forgot to get the actual address of the villa.  Woopsie daisy.

The one issue is that I didn’t realize this until I was packing the evening before our flight was to leave.  I was looking through the various print outs of the villa, and when looking closer, I realized, no, that wasn’t an address, that was simply a location- no specifics were mentioned, just the town.  We were headed to Andalucia, Spain.  Nice!  I tried to contact my brother, but he was already abroad, and was not as diligent in checking emails as I would have hoped.  How dare he not check his gmail three times a day while on vacation from B-School. Damn him!

Guy could not have been more pleased unless you had told him we were going to re-enact “Into the Wild” with no more than our ill-conceived plan, a bag of rice and a backpack.  This was his idea of an adventure! He loves the idea of buying a plane ticket and seeing what happens once you get there. Which as it happens, is my worst nightmare.  I decided to be a sport about it since, really, I had gotten us into this.  We hopped in a cab and headed to JFK to catch our flight to Malaga.  I was confident that upon landing that we would have a shiny, happy email from my brother, replete with address and mapquest directions.

When we arrived in Malaga, I was torn.  We had a car rental reservation, but still, no address. What to do, what to do.  Guy suggested we camp out that night in Malaga.  This sounded reasonable enough, so we went to the concierge desk at the airport. Guy asked her for a hotel recommendation, we hopped in a cab and headed into the town of Malaga. 

Malaga is really quite gorgeous.  It’s a port town, with old-city charm and cobblestone streets. If one were to be stranded, one could do worse. That is, until we pulled up to our hotel.  Let me set the scene:

Gargamel: {looking straight ahead about 100 yards) Ooh, look at that pretty hotel!  It’s so nice!!!

Cab driver:  Estamos aqui!

Gargamel: Why is he stopping?

Guy Smiley:  This is our hotel. NOT that one.

I looked up to see what American college students refer to as a hostel.  Or what Lonely Planet might label a “deal”. Not the beautiful 4 star resort farther down the street, but a hole in the wall hostel.  As Ms. Houston would say “Aw, hell to the naw!!”

We took our bags up the three flights of stairs (elevator was broken, obviously) and checked into our room. What a lovely view. Of an alley. Through bars. And so 13 hours after taking off from New York, I burst into tears in a hostel in Malaga, Spain. 

Guy rightfully decided that my breakdown was due to being hungry.  I was in “foreign country -with-no-plan shock”, and needed a meal.  Luckily, as any Lonely Planet pothead backpacker knows, when staying at a hostel, one can always find cheap eats nearby.  In Malaga, this is known as McDonalds. And Gargamel was never happier to see a McDonalds in all her life.  I just needed that little bit of America to pull me together. 

As I stuffed my #2 down my gullet (mmm, #2…..), we tried to hatch a plan.  I needed a plan. A plan that did not include me staying in the hostel. I was employed dammit.  Not living off the grid.  After we finished off our delicious milkshakes (McDonalds does taste exactly the same no matter where in the world you are), we headed over to the 4 star resort and ventured up to the reception area. 

Guy Smiley: Hi!  Do you have any rooms available for the evening?

Receptionist:  Yes sir. But our accommodations are very expensive.

Gargamel: (Incensed! then, looking down at self and Guy Smiley, realizing that after now 14 hours of travel, we indeed looked like Lonely Planet off-the-gridders)

Fortified with good ol’ Mickey Dees, I was not ready to give up on heading directly to our destination, whereever that may be. I figured it made more sense to at least head to the city we were to stay in and stay overnight in a hotel there, then in this city 100 miles away.   We had the name of the town.  Why not just take a cab there and cross our fingers that we run into my brother when we arrive? (When in stressful situations, I pretend my life is a movie, where it all comes together in the end, just like so).   So we headed back to the hostel, grabbed our bags and hailed a cab. 

 When we showed the cab driver our ultimate destination, he nodded and said “Si!”.  Guy and I looked at eachother in confusion. Wait a minute!  This guy knew how to get us to the villa?  Incredible!  He motioned for us to wait one minute and got out of the cab.  He started to converse with the driver behind us. For ten minutes.  Finally he came back in the cab and asked us a series of questions in Spanish.  We just kept pointing to the print out.  He insisted back “Es muy grande!! Andalucia es muy grande” (or whatever the proper Spanish grammar equivalent is).  We could not agree more. Andalucia does look great! Can’t wait!  Can you drive us there?

And so we drove. And we became increasingly confused when he drove us back to the airport.  And he looked confused when we wouldn’t depart his cab.

We headed back to the concierge desk, asking in desperate tones for her to help us get transportation.  In perfect English, she kept asking for the address. To which we replied by pointing to our printout and saying “We just need to get here. To this town.”  And she replied, “That is a region of Spain.  That is like asking a cab to drive you to New Jersey from New York.  But where in New Jersey!? You don’t have a town listed here”. 

The whole time we had thought we had the town and region, when really, we were basically pleading in our sad Spanish for our cab driver to take us to “Rocky Mountains, USA”.  That whole “stupid Americans” stereotype?  Alive and well in Malaga, Spain.  You’re very welcome.  Think nothing of it!

The next few hours were a blur of internet cafes and gmail checking, but in my desperation, I went back through all of the emails I had received about the trip. And that one I never read.  The one with the address.  Woopsie!

No time for “I told you so’s” - we were headed back to the taxi line.  A couple of hours later, we came upon the picturesque town of Salobrena. Or so it seemed in its pitch blackness.  Good thing we hadn’t planned on staying in “town” as there was really none to speak of.  It consisted of a restaurant (closed) and a hospital.  Which we pulled up to. 

Gargamel:  This doesn’t look like a villa.

Guy: At least we know where the hospital is, should we need it.

The cab driver hopped back in the cab and explained to us, that yes, this was the town of Salobrena. But our address was unfamiliar.  So he asked in the hospital and they informed him that across the highway, there was a new development, which must have been where the villa was located.

We looped our way up the hill in total darkness. No street signs to speak of.  We were thoroughly lost, even five minutes away from our destination.  We headed back down the hill.  Located at the base, we discovered a worn painted map of the development, but no “calle de las montanas”.  Finally, a car pulled up and asked us if we needed help.  We told them the address, and they responded “Oh, you never would have found that on your own. Follow us”.  And we looped back and forth back up the mountain, and finally, happened upon a private driveway, also known as “calle de las montanas”.  We had finally made it.

A few days later, my brother cut his finger badly on a broken shard of glass and would require stitches.  Guy and I were happy to tell them we knew where the hospital was located. 

In the end, some classic stories came out of that week.  How it rained more than it had in 40 years, and we were stuck with solar powered heat.  How members of the group almost came to blows and cliques were formed.  Besides these memories, what stays with us is that Guy got an adventure in a foreign country and I learned to always plan, plan, plan.  And then I plan some more.  Which brings me to our sidetrip to Greece……….

So Guy Smiley and I are planning our annual summer vacation.  Due to work related reasons, we are limited to taking our summer vacation in August, which wouldn’t normally be problematic, but I enjoy all things beachy and caribean-y,  and August is Hurricane season in them there parts of the world. 

As we were trying to decide where to go this year, we threw out a couple of ideas, finally landing on taking a surf trip to Costa Rica.   This has now become a thrice planned, twice canned trip for Guy and myself.  Allow me to explain.

We’ve discussed the joys of being part of a large family.   When G.S. and I started dating, he really embraced being part of such an extensive family (to be fair, he still does, despite being burned).  That is, until I dropped our plan to go to Costa Rica in favor of joining my brother and his wife at a villa in Southern Spain.  That story is long and involved. Obviously, I will tell it later.

Fast forward two years.  Guy and I again think about heading to Costa Rica to learn to surf.  I did my research, picked out a decent hotel, and told Guy to set aside time the following evening so we could book our tickets (how lame- we need to “set time aside” in order to plan our vacation).  Then my other brother called.  Would we be interested in joining him and some other members of the family on a cruise that same week to celebrate his 40th?  “Sure thing!” I excitedly told him.  Equally excitedly, I told Guy of this new development.  His response was not as positive as his usual sunny disposition would lead you to believe.  

Both vacations ended up being a blast- time spent with siblings in foreign lands is always a good time.  But this year, we have booked our vacation as of today- yup, a whole 6 months in advance.  This is the year We Will Learn To Surf!  We Will Go To Costa Rica!

Here’s hoping that Costa Rica doesn’t plan to cancel on us.

I grew up as the youngest in a large family.  I had to wait until my sister, Lizzie, took off for college before there was room for me at the lightbulb-shaped dinner table. By then, I was old enough to answer the phone which was directly located beside my highchair.  Perhaps a slight exaggeration, but only because there was a strict “no telephone during dinner” policy at my house.

As any child of a large Irish Catholic family knows, there is no such thing as the word “mine” in your vocabulary.  Well, in my case, there was, but only because everyone else had already worn my hand-me-downs and were all too pleased to be rid of them.  I was taught to share and play well with others. I was taught at a young age to compromise with my brothers and sisters.  We tried as best we could to keep the family peace.

However, I have learned that as I’ve grown older,  certain habits have become, well, loose, and like an athlete who has forgone practice, I’ve become a bit out of shape in terms of these qualities. Other personality traits have become Frankensteinian monsters, feeding on themselves and growing into very very bad traits.  I’ve become a stubborn, selfish, closed off, policing bitch of sorts.

I am married to an only child who shares beautifully and compromises well. He lives by the rule “What’s mine is yours!” and ”live and let live”.

I don’t share these sentiments.  What’s mine is MINE.  Get your own.  While he loves to be close, snuggle and share his personal space.  I require about five feet of what I like to refer to as “Back the F up!” space.  I like to tell people to imagine a bubble surrounding me and not to pierce its shell.

Also, as I’ve grown older, I’ve noticed that I “police” other people.  I stick my nose where it doesn’t belong. I have a need to set the record straight to complete strangers.  For instance, I despise line cutting.  If someone tries to cut me in line, I make no bones about it.  And I do so loudly and without remorse. Unlesss they are apologetic. Then I feel slightly guilty.  But if they are oblivious or worse, sneaky, I put on my hat, take out my nightstick and regulate, Jersey-style.

And like Carrie Bradshaw, I can’t help but wonder:  how did this happen?  And really, I only wonder because every time I whine to Guy “I need some space!”  or get into an argument with a stranger about where the Silver ticket line at the Inauguration really starts, he asks me “How did this happen?!”.

I contend that his mother ignored him too much as a child, leaving him to listen to NPR or Car Talk on his AM radio (the only form of entertainment he was allowed).   Thus, he craves attention and closeness. He was left on his own to do whatever he wanted, never having to negotiate whether to play Lincoln Logs or House first, and then getting rudely shafted when his turn came around.  What turn? As an only child, he never had to wait for “his turn”.  His favorite story is of his Halloweens growing up.  He was the only child on his street, and so as he completed his tour at each house, the lights would turn off behind him as he made his way on to the next.  No entitlement issues there!

I on the other hand, never felt ignored, but always surrounded, and often by enemies or traitors, ready to pounce on me with a head slap or steal my halloween candy. There was not a lot I could do about it.  “It’s not FAIR!” was a common reprise in my family.  And it wasn’t.

When Guy wonders why I need so much personal space, I like to relate to him one of my childhood memories: Back in those days, they didn’t have fancy SUVs with third row seating.  Today’s “third row seating” was called the “back-back” of the station wagon we owned.  And though the ”back-back” was second class seating, I was a third class citizen in my family by virtue of being the youngest.  So where did I sit on those long family car trips to Maine, you ask?  Well, on “the hump” in the back seat. Not on the seat itself, but along the floor, in the middle, where the brake shaft formed a hump on the flooring of the car.

And so when we compare childhood memories, Guy no longer wonders why I hate carpools and get car sick if I sit in the back seats of vehicles.  He understands why I always complain that I need new clothes. He knows to let me choose my seat first at restaurants, and, well, to choose first in everything, really.  And I’ve always got backup when I take on those evil line cutters.