03.30.09

We Interrupt This Recession To Bring You: A Brief Dissertation on Middle Class Consumption

Posted in Meh at 9:14 pm by jeci

You know what I loved back when Kieran and I were engaged? Um, other than simply being engaged and planning a life together? The planning books. I appreciated very much the fact that someone far more organized and experienced than me in planning a wedding had broken down what needed to be done into manageable chunks and provided a handy budget estimate to boot. I basically would like all of the facets of my adult life to be broken down in this manner: checklists, to-dos, timelines, budget percentages. Because…please? PLEASE? I give up. I GIVE UP. Daily, weekly, monthly, yearly—I need help.

Anyway, I’m just going to be perfectly honest despite the risk of having people hiss at me for being materialistic and THE RECESSION, etc.: the guide I appreciated the most was a little pull-out section from (yes) a Martha Stewart Weddings magazine that provided a checklist of household items you should register for, complete with suggested quantities and (AND!) a brief explanation of how they arrived at those numbers. Go ahead and roll your eyes. I’ll wait.

Now, I know that the world is divided into two camps: those potential wedding guests who deeply appreciate the bridal registry, as it saves them from having to figure out what in tarnation to give as a gift and in what colour, and those who think it’s unspeakably tacky and gauche to openly acknowledge that people, as a general rule, bring gifts to weddings and that, no, you do not want a potato clock (true story that, by the way). So, yes, I am familiar with the arguments, and to that I say: Open. Bar. Now leave me alone.

Anyway, the checklist. I actually gave the checklist a fairly thorough examination, eliminated a number of items that seemed ridiculous and particular to a Martha Stewart existence (see: matching luggage) as opposed to a jeci and Kieran existence (”Honey? Did you put the Louis Vuitton bags inside the tent? I don’t want sparks from the campfire to ruin them!”), but mostly followed what seemed to be rather sensible advice. Like I said, it was relieving to have someone who’s taken the time to figure out such things, because, tell me readers,  how many towels do you need in a household? Have you ever thought about it, the specific number of towels the average household needs? Yeah, me neither. But there’s a formula and it involves you, the laundry hamper, and surprise house guests. And all of a sudden, Martha Stewart’s ridiculously anal little list is looking pretty awesome when you are able to hand your guests nice, clean towels that you never once had to use to dry off an irate cat you had to wrestle into the tub after it gave itself diarrhea from eating the houseplants.

At the time, I wasn’t sure about the list. For example, are 12 dishes instead of eight really necessary? It felt a little gluttonous to bleep in the extra four plates with the little registry-making zapper, but the explanation that some will break over the years seemed sound. And here we are. It’s been three years and some change, and my faith in the list is slowly building. For example: three years and change appears to be precisely the amount of time for your linens to begin to disintegrate, and I’m here tell you that, indeed, Martha Stewart was right. First to go were the sheets. I don’t know how many sets of sheets Ms. Stewart recommended, but I remember deciding to ignore her advice and registered for only one set. I further ignored the brisk treatise on thread count and registered for the one (1) set of sheets that came in the colour I liked best, despite the fact that they were a polyester blend. I believe this decision was based on the notion that we were already in possession of sheets, however dismal, but not so much in possession of a roomy linen closet. Fast forward three years and the pretty, inexpensive sheets are sporting various and sundry stains* and, now, an enormous spreading hole. The backup sheets, now 10 years old, are in a similar state. And, guess what? We have a series of house guests lined up in the coming weeks and, suddenly, the role of guest sheets is coming to light as I contemplate the notion of my guests flipping back the covers and pretending to be comfortable climbing into…someone else’s stains**. So, yes Martha, I am going to buy guest sheets and they will be 100% cotton this time and will have a midway respectable thread count. I am also cheap, and not nearly as materialistic as this post may imply, so I will not be replacing my wedding set entirely, but will instead be casting about to find a new fitted sheet that somewhat matches the existing set. Or a fitted sheet that is on sale. Whatever.

I did, as I alluded to before, follow the guidelines for towels and—you know it’s coming—well, Martha Stewart was right. One of our towels has mysteriously ripped (a good guess is that it fell from the towering pile of laundry and got caught in the closet door) and, upon discovering this this morning, I quickly did some calculations and, even when if I’m always behind on laundry, guests can pop in and still count on receiving a respectable towel. No, really, guys. I promise.

So, I’ve been appreciating that list all over again and I’ve come to realize that I want more. Lists like that, I mean. Lists from people who are experienced and knowledgeable and far more detail oriented than I such that they actually take heed when a pair of tongs go missing and anticipate the impact this may have on their household. And more than any other list, I would LOVE a list that details just the right number and kinds of clothes the average person should have. For example: How many jeans is just the right number of jeans? You’ve got to have your basic, everyday, favourite jeans that you wear to the grocery store and the like, but then you also need something dressier for going for drinks or for casual Fridays (but not too casual—oh, misnomers), and there’s always laundry day that has to be accounted for. And what about sweaters? Is there a magic combination of cardigans, turtlenecks, and sweater vests that cross-references all the possible weather conditions with your slacks and shoes? I want to know, because I hate shopping. Hate. I want an efficient, failsafe, time-proven system that maximizes my dollar and minimizes my time in the shops.***

And here is where I get to the crux of the issue: it’s not because I love stuff so much that I want these lists. It’s because I hate clutter and waste so thoroughly that I want them. I want to be guided through making well thought-out selections with an eye towards quality and longevity and, moreover, towards just enough. Yes, in all honesty, the wedding registry is a rather shameless exercise in conspicuous consumption. And yet…we all need towels and sheets and plates (and jeans!), and there’s something rather beautiful in having a home full of carefully selected items, none of which are in excess of what you need. I rather wish I could say the same about my closet. But, sadly, my closet is a hodgepodge of misfires: shirts that have lost their shape because they were too cheap; too many brown dress pants because…I don’t know why, actually; one sad pair of black dress pants that languish unworn most of the time due to an untrustowrthy fly; and five pairs of jeans (definitely too many), none of which I like and all of which contributed to my overconsumption of jeans in the vain hope that the next pair would be the winning ticket. It all seems to be such a thoughtless waste—of money, of space, of (oh, dear God, but it’s true) child labour—and I just wish that I could cut to the chase and figure this muddle out before wasting any more.

And, finally, just because this is very much on topic: I thrilled when I saw this and suspect you might too. Yes. YES. TELL ME EXACTLY WHICH SPICES I NEED AND WHICH ONES ARE USELESS so that I may never again have a spice jar launch itself from my bursting cupboard, cracking me on the side of the head, showering me in cinnamon, and causing my right ear to ring for nine hours. Because, HAHAHA, wasn’t that swell?

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*Before you start blushing and pretending I didn’t just say that, please know that I’m referring to an ink stain (who even knows anymore how these things happen), a large milk stain from when I tried to soak the ink stain in milk (usually works if you get to it right away), and (sexy!) some hairball stains from the trinkets that the cats occassionally leave as a lovely bedtime surprise. Really, Martha Stewart would become apoplectic if she knew.

**I will not be able to provide the above footnote to my guests when they climb into bed.

***This is all supposing a world in which a) I actually have spending money and, also b) there is no recession and I am not in danger of getting laid off. But, you know, hypothetically speaking.

03.09.09

So. How was YOUR February? And, also the return of Top Five Tuesday!

Posted in Meh, Top Five Tuesdays at 10:21 pm by jeci

I did not write for the past month because I was gravely ill. Except not really ill so much as…something really bad happened and, due to nothing but the complete assholery and neglect of the Vancouver Coastal Health Authority and its band of egomaniacal, dismissive, God-complex-endowed ASSHATS, I got a severe infection that I was forced to live with for SEVERAL WEEKS until finally granted permission to lurch, crippled with pain, into the hallowed office of the elusive Specialist. The Specialist treated me to another dose of disinterested scepticism until she actually SAW said severely infected Serious (Now) Condition, at which point the mood shifted rapidly to one of containing the emergency that all the other doctors had refused to acknowledge lo those many weeks prior, and I was treated to…emergency surgery. Yes. Fun for everyone!

And she really meant business, too, when the words “emergency surgery” were uttered, as I had thought that we would surely wait until Kieran would be off work to come hold my hand or at least for me to digest what the Specialist meant when she asked if I am afraid of needles (which: shrug, no) before procuring a sizable, rather stabby looking needle and explaining where it would go (which: I take it back—I am afraid of SOME NEEDLES. Namely, THAT ONE). Anyway, I should have gotten a lollipop for being such a good patient, because after being presented with my options, I put my big girl panties on (truth be told, I actually took them off, but I think the humiliation in this tale is already complete enough as it is, so never mind) and opted to do the procedure with a local anesthetic so that we could get it over with right then and there and, also so that I wouldn’t die of septicemia while waiting for an O.R. Which, by the way, was only presented as a distant possibility and I was more so deferring to my paranoid policy of avoiding general anesthetic whenever possible on account of that W5 special I saw years ago about how a disturbing number of anesthesiologists are cracked out half the time from injecting themselves in the toes with varying doses of their own medicine.

Anyway. So what I’m saying is, I was cut open while conscious and no one was there to hold my hand and I did not cry or really do much of anything except provide a running commentary on all the things I thought would hurt more than they actually did. And then I left flustered and in a daze and forgot to call a cab and became disoriented out on the street and couldn’t find the bus stop either, so I WALKED HOME. ACROSS THE BRIDGE. While bleeding rather profusely. I still can’t get over the walking home because I was too weak and it was far too painful for me to so much as stand or even sit for the subsequent four days. Must have been a rather heady combination of local freezing and a good wallop of adrenaline. And, anyway, I dunno, maybe the doctor’s office should consider CALLING A CAB THEMSELVES on behalf of their patients after said patients are released from surgery. (Jerks.)

I am now living through the denouement of this particular saga and I am mostly healed, although not entirely out of the woods. Granted, I have a hunch a person pretty much feels like a million bucks no matter what they’re going through as compared to having a severe infection. At least so far as I can tell.

So, without further ado: Top Five Things To Do While Recovering From Surgery

  1. Rent all the movies on iTunes that your husband never wants to watch. This will include a viewing of The Notebook because you feel like you must have missed something when you were the only person you know who found it neither magically romantic nor tragically sad. While you still kind of think it’s a tad saccharine for your taste, you are perhaps in the right head space for a bit of self-indulgent schmaltz, and enjoy yourself anyway. Until the end when you have to pause it during the Alzheimer’s outburst scene in order to sniffle over Google chat with one of your best friends about how saaaaad Alzheimer’s is.
  2. Spend a great deal of time Google chatting with all of your best friends, not allowing neither the constraints of virtual real time nor a rather tiny text box to deter you from intensely detailed psychoanalysis of your respective life events. Realize tangentially while you’re dissecting the nuances of your relationships (boys!) that Google chatting is merely an updated version of the elaborate notes you and your friends used to pass one another in high school.
  3. Frantically Google your condition at various intervals throughout the day, at times spiralling into panicked and maniacal cross-referencing of possible complications and outcomes.
  4. Google mental health conditions that might lead one to obsessively Googling one’s health problems. (Diagnosis: Boredom.)
  5. Read the news. Wish there was something else to talk about other than the Global Economic Crisis of Never Ending Doom. Develop a sick fascination with the way things seem to find a way to get worse every time it’s universally declared that things couldn’t possibly get any worse and, despite yourself, devour all the coverage anyway.