Perfectionist. Competitive. Type A….
I’m completely fine with these terms when used to describe me and my quirky ways.
And I’m okay with the fact that not everyone obsessively organizes her cd collection alphabetically.
Or color-coordinates her closet.
While this behavior has made me a difficult room-mate, its just the way I am and you either accept it or you don’t.
But I will admit, there are some areas in my life where I am not perfect.
Where I don’t even try to be remotely successful.
Areas I don’t even make an attempt because I am too far from even being adequate that perfection would take up an enormous chunk of time and energy which I prefer to put towards other areas I’m busy trying to perfect.
I love practicing in our backyard or chipping balls in the front yard or watching the pros play or hitting the driving range or watching videos or reading about different parts of the game or talking with Alistair about that last shot or discovering a new golf course or just playing 9 or 18 holes somewhere!
My book is the same thing.
I love creating characters and their friends and families and hanging out with them at school or on the back of a dog sled as they grow and share and learn and discover.
I am totally motivated to finish my sequel and share the latest creation and adventures of Luke and Tabitha. I want to succeed. I am driven and focused.
And my adventure with Chloe + Isabel fashion jewelry has my perfectionist nature pushed into overdrive.
I am loving the monthly incentives and learning new things about social media and business marketing and jewels-in-general and the support from the company and my bling-siblings is fabulous!
But there are those other areas in my life where I just don’t bother to thrive.
In general, I am a pretty decent housewife.
A difficult roommate with my OCD-ness, as we’ve covered, but Alistair has his closet and I have mine.
And he knows the spices are also alphabetically arranged and where the white pepper should go.
I don’t eschew housework- that’s not my problem at all. We have a beautiful house and I take great care in keeping it looking lovely. Its my little deal with the house.
I will admit I’m not super close with the ironing board.
It might have something to do with the one time my mom took me aside when I was a little girl on a rainy weekend, probably right after skating, to “teach” me how to iron.
“You’re going to need to know how to iron your husband’s shirts some day, Tanya.”
Wrong thing to say to me, even as a kid.
I remember wondering why I had to have a husband or why he couldn’t iron his own damned shirts or who would iron my shirts if I was the one bringing home the bacon?
I’m a clever person.
I figured ironing out just fine.
I don’t do it much (hence the dog toys) but when I do, its typical Tanya OCD fashion and I iron for a few hours with the Hawaiian music station blaring through the speakers.
Don’t get me wrong- I do make mistakes.
The road to perfection is littered with potholes and low shoulders and poorly marked detours, which makes the journey that much more enjoyable.
Like the time there was “that smell” in our kitchen in Hazen for a couple of days late in the summer.
I discovered the source in front of the high school hockey coach we were assistant-coaching with when he was over for supper.
I opened the microwave to ‘bake’ some potatoes and found the pound of raw ground beef I had taken out to thaw a couple of days prior.
In our non-air-conditioned house during a warm North Dakota autumn.
Not so perfect.
But the most glaring area of housewife imperfection involves needles and thread.
I don’t sew.
I CAN sew.
I just don’t.
Oh, I sewed up my husband, a friend, your cat, a neighbor’s horses, our dogs… wounds, cuts, spays, neuters, intestines, stomachs, paws, shins, fingers… tumors, lipomas, shin gashes, gastropexies, foreign bodies, dog fights and Grizzly Bear slashes.
But I sent my physician-husband to work in slacks that were hemmed with a stapler one time.
And I am faced with a dilemma over my favorite pair of jeans that I have only worn once because the zipper broke.
Its busted in some weird way and it has nothing to do with the size of my ass.
I am at a loss as to what to do.
I don’t even know where one goes to buy a zipper, let alone how to remove and then replace one.
Are there zipper stores?
And so, my lack of an effort to master sewing means these uber cute jeans with very sparkly back pockets and cute boot cut hemlines sit in my color-coordinated closet (in the Jeans Section, not to be confused with the Tank Top Section or the Yoga Pants Section) not being worn.
I am appealing to my blog-reading friends for help and direction.
What is a girl to do?
In the meantime, I’m off to watch the Preakness with hubby and enjoy a hike in the forest with UB and Cleo.
Because life is too short to spend time stressing about my imperfections.
I’m okay with them and Alistair is okay with them.
Even when I’m striving for perfection I know I can get annoying if I comment on the pots and pans being misplaced or a Michael Jackson cd is next to The Script. So it makes me more imperfect.
I know that.
Just know that I will know if you’ve been screwing around in my spice cupboard!