"I'm Not a Hoarder, I'm..."

First, let me go on record to say this post is NOT about me! Well, of course, everything that happens here is all about me, so I guess what I'm saying is that I don't want anyone to think I'm a hoarder from the title. But I AM fascinated by the hoarding mentality. Ooh, I have so much to say! I'm rubbing my editorial hands together in anticipation!

There have been two major hoarding shows available to the viewing public. TWO. That's a lotta lotta episodes on hoarding. Why do you think they're so popular? I've thought about this, and there are a couple of standout answers. One, there are lots of hoarders out there, so it's nice for them to have a show that brings them some kindred spirits, kind of like having My Super Sweet 16 for bitchy teenagers to watch, or My Strange Addiction, so people who like to snack on the foam in their sofa cushions can feel like they're not really so odd after all.  Two, there are lots of people who want to look at these trash-filled, totally horrific homes and think, "Well, at least mine's not THAT bad."  Me? I use it for inspiration. Sometimes I like to put an episode of a hoarding show on when I clean house. It turbo-charges my work. It makes me move the sofa to clean underneath it when I don't feel like it, prompts me to pull my refrigerator apart and make it sparkle, makes me shoo all the rats out of the basement so I can mop the floor... (Just kidding about that last part. I don't mop the floor.)

It breaks my heart when people choose their junk over their kids; that children are ashamed of their homes and can't have their friends over; that they can't find their parents in all the newspapers. I can't understand how someone could hoard so much they have to leave the house to use a bathroom in a gas station - I mean, really... is that easier than cleaning out a 4x4 space? I was astonished by the handsome, well-dressed guy who lived in Alexandria, VA - so close to me I might have passed him on the street one day - who finally, after months of dating his pretty, well-dressed girlfriend, let her see his house, where he had to climb over piles of stuff (starting at the front door!) to get around. Yeah, you guessed it - that romance was over shortly after the show aired. Then there was the woman who hesitated to call 911 when her husband had a heart attack because she didn't want the paramedics to see the house (yikes! don't marry a hoarder if you have a bad heart!), and the homeowner who found a missing cat -  not only expired, but flattened - under a stack of magazines. I could go on, but you get the gist. 

Here are some of the things I love: When they show a lady in front of mountains of debris, and she says, completely without guile, "I'm not a hoarder, I'm a collector." Or they'll film a guy talking, and as he's saying something like, "It's messy, but it's not dirty," the camera pans so you see bugs crawling through the food-encrusted pots in his kitchen, and moldy bags of bread in the mound of litter on the counter. I love to see the crazy chaotic homes in the beginning of the show, and again when they're all cleaned up and liveable at the end. I was surprised when the lady who had almost gone broke buying Barbies and Barbie accessories but hoarded her own elderly mother out of her room found out her doll booty was worth $500,000 - that convinced her to let the show clean her house and her poor old mama got her room back. And I really, really, really love it when small children who have never known anything but hoards get a tidy house and their own space, and from their big eyes and stunned expressions, you'd think that the most amazing magic trick has just been performed in front of them - that is the BEST. I always send a thought out with the hope these newly organized homes will stay that way, but I know that some of them won't, because as we are reminded throughout the show, this is an illness.

I don't know who would want anyone to know that they live like that, that they would be okay with all their junk and their shame being dragged out on the front lawn for all the neighbors to see, but I guess if I could get thousands of dollars of cleanup work done, and a team of people to purge and polish my house top to bottom in two days, and all I had to do was to be publicly humiliated on national TV and forever after in reruns, I might be open to it. And I know just what to say when my embarrassing stash of shoes is exposed, too: "I'm not a hoarder, I'm a collector."


Editor's note: This writer is neither a collector nor a hoarder, and in truth, sometimes her house is a little disordered...but she always knows where her cat is.


© 2015 A Bit of Brie/Anitabrie

The Difference in the Lumps

I've said a final goodbye to two friends in the last month - one with whom I regretfully lost touch other than some recent connections on social media, and another who couldn't speak on the phone in the last few months but emailed steadily with me, almost right up until her death. It's hard when we start losing friends with greater frequency: not only can we not live out our intentions to connect with those individuals "someday," but we are reminded strongly of our own mortality, and how brief our time here really is.

It's easy to feel untethered at times; to fail to see the humor and the energy and the lightness in the moments we own. I was having one of those mornings recently, and at the perfect moment, I heard my phone ding... and found this reminder from a friend who must have sensed my mood from Maryland to Massachusetts (thank you, K!). From author Robert Fulghum, author of "All I Really Need to Know I Learned in Kindergarten," this gem: “If you break your neck, if you have nothing to eat, if your house is on fire, then you've got a problem. Everything else is an inconvenience. Life is inconvenient. Life is lumpy. A lump in the oatmeal, a lump in the throat, and a lump in the breast are not the same kind of lump. One needs to learn the difference."

Time to get my head on straight. I've been thinking about lumpy oatmeal entirely too much. 

© 2015 A Bit of Brie/Anitabrie

I (Used to) Love the Smell of Chlorine

I love my time in the pool. LOVE IT. I go almost every day to swim and run in the blue, sparkling water. Until recently, my heartbeat would quicken when I smelled chlorine, I love it that much.

A story that hit the news in June ruined that for me. Oh, there were lots of clever titles about it, so let's just pick one at random. Okay, here we go: What Makes Your Eyes Red in the Pool? Hint: It's NOT the Chlorine. 

Yep, that's right. Turns out the more we smell chlorine, the more people have not exited the pool for - well, you know. THAT. And this isn't just any old survey, either - the Centers for Disease Control (CDC) says it's so. The science behind it, says the CDC chief, is that "nitrogen in the urine combines with the chlorine and it forms what's known as chloramine." Which, though "chloramine" sounds much better than "pee+chlorine," it isn't as palatable a name fusion as, say, Brangelina, which while unoriginal and overused, at least doesn't have anything to do with anyone's pool water.

The news doesn't stop there: Travelzoo told us this summer that 64 percent of Americans, 58 percent of Canadians, 46 percent of Britons, 44 percent of Germans and 41 percent of Chinese admitted to relieving themselves in a pool or the ocean. (There is a "while on vacation" qualifier for these stats, but really - do you think it makes a whole lot of difference in the numbers?)

I want to thank the CDC and Travelzoo for delivering information for this very important pretend file of mine: Things That I Would Rather Not Know About. 

I haven't noticed fewer people at my indoor or outdoor pool, so I guess everyone has decided that they can live with a little chloramine. But I will say that I'm starting to look sideways at the grownups  and children near me, and I keep a close eye on whether they're visiting the restroom or not. Because I swear, once those Travelzoo figures get above 75 percent, I'm outta there.

© 2015 A Bit of Brie/Anitabrie
 

When Your Anesthesiologist is a Mean Girl

Did you hear the one about the anesthesiologist who made fun of her patient and added a bogus hemorrhoid diagnosis to his chart?  By now, almost everyone has. And we also know that our suspicions about medical personnel mocking us in the operating room when we're unconscious aren't unfounded after all. (Makes me really glad I got that mani-pedi before my surgery seven years ago.)

Here's the quick recap: this guy in Virginia goes in for a routine colonoscopy, sets his smartphone to record the doc's instructions and never turns it off. It winds up in his pants pocket, and the pants are placed beneath the operating table. After the procedure, headed home, he hits play...and finds out that the female doctor who put him under also put him under the microscope: she gave a running dialog on what she saw as his questionable manliness and low aesthetic appeal. Riffing like a 10-year-old, she lobbed insults ranging from his lack of courage when she was giving him the magic sleep potion, to intimating that a rash the poor fellow had was syphilis. She was the worst offender, but not the only one. A few other people in the room thought they were comedians, too.

You can guess what happened next: he sort of gave HER a colonoscopy. Well, he cleaned her out of $500,000, thanks to a sympathetic jury that probably imagined themselves the butt of some other doctors' jokes (sorry about that - it had to be said). It appears that her office is now closed for business, too. And I'm pretty sure that if she ever practices again, she will keep her big old piehole shut about the patients.

I'm kind of sorry about that, because I'm missing a great opportunity, and so is she. I would have let her make fun of me for $250,000.


© 2015 A Bit of Brie/Anitabrie

Sweet Baby James: Hymns for Agnostics

If you grew up when I did, and leaned more toward folk than rock, you probably wanted to be James Taylor if you were a guy, and wanted to be with him if not.

That voice - that easy, silky, rangy, fluid voice - was the backdrop to much of my teenagehood, along with the likes of Carly Simon, Carole King, Joni Mitchell, Roberta Flack and Gordon Lightfoot.

The lyrics, too, were as comfortable as your favorite pair of sandals; they were simple and straightforward, and could lift your heart and soul without a lot of show. That's why, when I read a JT interview in a flight magazine two days ago, something he said popped out at me: that some of his songs are like "hymns for agnostics, an attempt at some sort of spiritual food, at finding spiritual satisfaction."

I've heard a few of the songs on the just-released album, "Before This World" (his first new collection of work in 13 years), and they don't disappoint...it's the same sweet, sweet baby James; clear and true and yearning. And once again, though he's not that cool young guy with the guitar coloring my daydreams, and I am not that fresh-faced young girl in a peasant blouse wondering where life would take me, I still want to be with him. 

© 2015 A Bit of Brie/Anitabrie

Tough Mudder

Even polka dots can't make mud look fun.

I liked the idea of it: all the promos about mudbaths laud their calming nature, the warmth, the way your body is suspended and floating and drinking in all the nutrients from the mud, which is made from volcanic ash and peat moss. Yep, that's what I said...peat moss! I think you might see where I'm going next. 

Though I was told by many friends I would love a mudbath, I couldn't get past the aroma. It smelled like cow poo. It looked like it, too! And I willingly stepped into it and sat down! And guess what else? You don't wear a bathing suit, like I thought. So you can bet your volcanic ash there were a few thoughts in my head that weren't very restful. 

Once I was "installed," the attendant put cucumber slices on my eyes and a cool towel over that. Before she left, she said something that sounded like "Enjoy your mind," which I always do, so I kind of resented being told to do that, and then I realized she probably meant "Enjoy your mud." I think the employees cover your eyes so you can't see them all go in the back room and laugh and laugh about how many people are spending a fortune to be slathered in oozy dirt that smells like a barnyard. 

I should be fair about this: They DID spray lavender scent around my head after they "blindfolded" me, and it was so much better! For around 10 seconds! And then the poo smell came back. And of course my nose started to itch, so I had to pull my arm out of the ooze (it made a sucking sound...I swear that mud was starting to absorb me) and I scratched my nose, and got some of the mud on it, and after that I was pretty sure I would never smell anything but that for the rest of my life. 

It was a long 10 minutes, during which I counted to 60 for what seemed like a million times and I was certain they were leaving me in too long, but finally I was released. Past the shower to remove the remaining mud, then the mineral bath which was pretty nice, and then the steam room - fine, too. Then they take you to another room and and wrap you up all cozy like a baby in a big soft cotton towel-like sheet, and put more cucumber slices on your eyelids (which you should never do to a real baby, because they probably wouldn't care for it). Anyway, that last part was the nicest. I could have stayed there all day, but they don't let you hang out for too long because other people need to get over the trauma of their mudbaths, too.

I'm not sorry I tried it. After all, it was an experience, and writers need to have lots of experiences, or else they have nothing to make a big deal about and get a blog post out of. Would I have another mudbath? Well, since this happened in California, where they specialize in experiences, let's just say it's right up there with ingesting appetizers from a display where a live model is the hors d'oeuvre tray.

© 2015 A Bit of Brie/Anitabrie 

What I Really Want for My Birthday

I didn't wake up and put on a party hat, but it's firmly planted on my head for the day - you just can't see it.

No matter how, um, "old" we get, there's always something just a little more special about our birthdays than all the other days in the year. And this one's finding me in an even mushier frame of mind than my normal. (I am admittedly pretty high on the sentimental scale as a matter of course.)

Once we've experienced a few decades of these events, there's not much we need or want in the way of presents. Except the "people stuff." That's what I want. And I have a lot of it! I am rich in what really matters. Like a close and caring family who can make me crazy at the same time they solidly have my back. Like unbelievably supportive, funny, smart, goofy, sweet and generous friends who make me better every day and are, for all intents and purposes, also my family. Like a remarkable network of colleagues (who, let's face it, usually end up being friends!). That's a pretty great trifecta.

Some of those friends are facing challenge I simply cannot fathom without going through it. They received a diagnosis, and subsequent treatment, and sometimes more disappointment on top of the original sadness. And they dig down and find more strength and courage somehow, even when they thought they'd used theirs up. One of these amazing souls is terminal, and talks about living past her "expiration date." She's spending some of her time teaching me what it feels like at the end of her life, what she is proud of, and worried about, and what she thinks I might want to consider while I have time to make some changes. And I know it's not just for me - she's doing it with others in her life as well. For her, and for my other health-challenged friends, I would love to plop a party hat on top of their noggins and say, "make a wish." And to a person, I'm pretty sure they would use that wish for someone other than themselves. These are the kind of people I know: what a gift they are to me.

This is why, even when I start to feel "mature" or "experienced" or any of the other ways we describe getting older, I will treasure whatever age I reach - because there are so many people who would love the chance to get there and might not.

I know it's time to stop writing when I start to get teary, and that's not what this is about. It's my BIRTHDAY, for crying out loud! Put those party hats on, and let's have cake.

© 2015 A Bit of Brie/Anitabrie