counting down . . .

Halloween is almost here, and I still have a ton to do.  The annual Halloween party, which we normally have at my sister’s house, will be at my house this year.  This will be the very first time I have ever hosted a party that didn’t have “bridal” or “baby” in front of it.  So, this will be the very first time that I have hosted a party where the only draw was my company.  Until now, my fear of throwing a party where no one bothered to show up prevented any such get-togethers.  Actually, I still have that fear.  It’s irrational, I suppose.  I didn’t invite a ton of people (mostly because I don’t know a ton of people), but I am fairly certain that at least three people will show up.  I’m a believer in quality over quantity, anyway.

No matter how many people are there, I still need to clean the house, put the final touches on the decorations, buy snacks, make snacks, fill my blood bag with wine and load my pumpkins with candles.  Yes, real candles, not those flickering, plastic, LED things.  Fire safety be damned.  Plus, my pumpkins deserve the real thing.

I love carving pumpkins.  Sometimes the pumpkin tells you what kind of face it wants, like the one with the worm hole in it up top.  Gotta find a gummy worm to poke out of that hole.  I’m kind of a purist in that I’ve never used one of those templates where you  punch all the little holes first.  I think they are cool looking, but I’d just rather do a quick sketch and start stabbing.  I mean cutting. 

That’s how we roll in Dethlehem.

i can’t even decide on a title

Don’t ever ask me where we should go for dinner.  I’m one of those annoying people who will say, “I don’t care.  Where do you want to go?”  Yes, I’d rather risk being beaten savagely about the face and head than make that decision.  Thing is, I really don’t care where we go for dinner.  I’m not a picky eater and I like trying new things, so no matter where we go I’m sure to find something tasty that I’ll enjoy.  Anyway, usually it’s the company that’s most important during dinner, not the food.

Did you buy any of that?  No?  Good, cause it’s a load of crap.  Fact is, I hate making decisions of any kind, not just those involving food. 
What color should we paint the living room?
What do you want to do this weekend?  
Which movie should we see?  
Where should we go on vacation? 
Please don’t ask me.  I don’t know!  Whatever you want is fine!  Argggg!

It’s not that I don’t have preferences.  I like things.  Lots of things.  But, when my preferences are called upon to determine what others will be doing, I freeze.  What if what I pick sucks?  If the restaurant over-cooks everything or red tide closes the beach, it will be my fault.  I can’t handle that kind of pressure!  It’s lack of confidence, not lack of opinion, that causes my indecisive nature. 

One situation that really shakes my confidence to its foundation is giving presents.  I’ll walk around a store for hours or search the internet for days stressing about finding the perfect present.  Not only must the present be something that the recipient will enjoy, but it also has to reflect how much thought and care was invested in its selection.  The item I choose must be the best thing they’ve ever received.  If the gift does not change the recipient’s life for the better in every possible way, then it simply will not do.  That’s a lot to ask of a set of glassware from Crate & Barrel, isn’t it?

Because of this, as my beautifully wrapped present is handed to its new owner, I’m hyperventilating.  It’s too late, but I start second guessing my choice anyway.  Inside I scream, “You should have gotten the blue one!  You know she loves blue, you idiot!”  As paper is ripped, I have to grip my chair to keep myself from snatching the present away then running out of the room with it while yelling over my shoulder, “This isn’t good enough!  I can do better!” 

Gift cards may be impersonal, but they save me untold amounts of anxiety.  So, it’s up to you.  A gift card or a wrapped present that will cause me to curl up in the corner and mutter incoherently to myself? 
Really? 
Fine, what’s your favorite color?

What, me worry?

Within 24 hours of saying “I do”, my husband added a whole new dimension of anxiety to my life.  It started with him almost being shot and/or arrested by a Louisiana cop on the way to our honeymoon (tip: if you get pulled over for speeding in LA, be sure you’re not carrying a concealed weapon). After the honeymoon, he developed a “trick shoulder”, managing to dislocate it about six times in 3 years.  Luckily only one of those times was without health insurance. 

Then, there was the traffic accident right before Thanksgiving.  That phone conversation started with him telling me innocently enough that he would be late coming home from work and ended with me asking which hospital they were taking him to.  He’s still picking glass out of his head from that one (tip: wear your seat belt). 

He quit one job for a better one, and instead of keeping his stock from the old job or rolling over any profit from selling it into an interest bearing account, he just cashes it out.  We owed the IRS over $5,000 in taxes that year. 

We buy a house and all is grand until the day I come home to find he was fired from his job.  His boss may have been a prick, but he was still the boss.

Then, I get a call at work from a nice lady informing me that my husband had set himself on fire while refueling a hot lawn mower and at this moment he was in an ambulance on his way to some hospital I’d never heard of (tip: stop, drop and roll works, people). 

But, then there was the time we got our first dog, and he held her in his lap and stroked her to try to stop her shaking even though she was beyond filthy.  Or the time he drove all the way to Kansas City to help is sister move.  Then all the times when pipes burst or seals leaked or cars wouldn’t run and he was there with wrench or hammer or fuse ready to make it better.  And then the day almost thirteen years ago when he took a chance and asked me to marry him without the aid of any prior discussion to gage what my answer might be. 

There hasn’t been a trip to the hospital, lost job or wrecked car that has made me regret my decision.  For each of these stressful incidents, I can count hundreds of times when I never had to worry about staying out too late with the girls, how short I cut my hair, what I was wearing, who I was talking to or asking permission for anything.  I also never had to worry about where my husband was, who he was talking to, if he was coming home, if he still thought I was pretty or if he would rather spend time with me than anyone else.  No insurance company or even the IRS can put a price on that kind of security.