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The Downy Ball Theory of Life

08 Sunday Jan 2012

Posted by cmistwrite in Uncategorized

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Due to extreme fluctuations in both my private life and my laundry habits, I have become more of a dryer sheet kind of girl.

The dryer sheet, both a plan and a substitute for a plan, provides that last-minute hope for slightly soft and somewhat wrinkle-free laundry which, in the end, is better than a wad of crunchy clothes with more wrinkles than Cher’s surgeon’s floor.

Though only marginally satisfied with my half-hearted effort, I have always been a little suspect of those Liquid Fabric Softener Girls. I envision them standing by the washer, watching and listening for the cycle change, Downy bottle dangling from one hand, pre-measured cap clasped in the other, pinky poised and pointing.

I confess: I once envied – even coveted – the ways of the Liquid Fabric Softener Girls. I, too, could swoop from room to room, tinkering away on The Great American Novel, feeding the children – mine and the world’s – achieving a new plateau of soft, smooth and fresh smelling laundry. I would be the New Millennium Martha Stewart, minus the drab wardrobe and legal woes.

But it simply wasn’t meant to be. I’d rather be at the bookstore, chasing the perfect cappuccino or walking my dog – anything except worrying about the rinse cycle. Sure, I long for a softer laundry and a softer life. But I can’t seem to stop my own spinning long enough to stop the spin cycle.

Enter: The Downy Ball.

Yes, I’d seen the commercials. I’d heard the giddy testimonials. Yet, I remained skeptical. How could I trust that the half-inch of blue liquid trapped inside that giant pacifier will be magically released during the rinse cycle? How can I be sure it won’t pop open in the washer as soon as I walk away, leaving me with baby-blue tie-dyed everything? I just wasn’t willing to risk that level of trust.

Until recently.

I’ve been so singular in my focus that I’ve lost all vision. My laundry has  been stacking up in direct proportion to my personal challenges. Both reached such a critical mass that new and drastic measures seemed my only hope – for fresher, softer laundry and for a kinder, gentler life.

The Downy Ball made its way into my shopping cart and, after a week-long purgatory on the kitchen counter, finally found its way to the laundry room. After several loads during which I periodically lifted the lid to spy on the state of the mysterious blue ball, I was free to tinker away on The Great American Novel and catch up on my reading with the simultaneous promise of softer, less wrinkly clothes infused with an April Fresh scent.

As it happens, the Downy Ball bounces happily about during the wash cycle, stubbornly holding hostage its magical contents until it takes such a beating that the rubber cap finally pops off and the softener is purged into the rinse water.

Because I often lack perspective on my own life and doubt my ability to make things softer and more appealing, I, too, had to take a beating recently before my solution was released. I’d been spinning around in my own cycles, a whirl of worries and doubts that threatened to consume me, just as piles of dirty laundry threatened to envelop me.

In the end, I discovered that my own fears and worries were fueled by a lack of trust. In myself. So, in a pathetic attempt to make my pity party a bit less pitiful, I plunked the Downy Ball into the wash with blind faith. Crying into an exceedingly fresh and soft pillow, I reasoned, is better than crying into a stale, stiff pillow.

So, I put my trust in the Downy Ball and in myself. I closed the washer lid and I opened my mouth. I confessed my pain and my fear and my needs (ugh, that one is tough, April scent or no), and I let myself beat against reality until the solutions began spilling out.

Nothing is magically solved. I have a long way to go. But at least I’ve stopped spinning.

I am a strong woman with ridiculously soft sheets, and I intend to conquer the world. One load at a time.

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Mouse Hunting in the Nutmeg State

08 Sunday Jan 2012

Posted by cmistwrite in Uncategorized

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Connecticut is the Nutmeg State. Sure, your middle school civics teacher told you that Connecticut is the Constitution State, but that was just to make your teenage life a tad more miserable. You would have remembered Nutmeg on any pop quiz.

People here are proud to be called Nutmeggers. That’s a much kinder nickname than I wanted to give the three Connecti-cats (Connectici? Connecticeese?) who gave me lousy directions when I got lost on the way to buy a computer mouse this morning.

I readily admit that I can get lost anywhere, anytime, regardless of my familiarity with the terrain or the number of times I’ve traversed it. I am directionally challenged. Maps, while a great idea on paper, in practice only further confuse me.

I am at peace with my dull spatial skills; I have razor-sharp compensating strategies. I always have pen and paper handy, say “please” and “thank you,” and certainly am not above bribery or over tipping. I smile nervously, give a little shoulder shrug, and turn my palms to the sky – universal sign language for “I have no idea where in the hell I am.”

But the thing about getting lost in the Nutmeg state, I found, is that Nutmeggers aren’t sure where the hell they are either.

Oh, they’re eager to help. They rush up, one by one, nodding self-assured noggins while spinning the map first clockwise, then counterclockwise, and then conferring in a Nutmeg huddle. They debate the shortcut vs. the long way, the highway vs. the back roads, and offer traffic pattern predictions and possible delays along each route.

 In the end, the Nutmeggers project just the right combination of confidence and determination while I frantically take notes and rue the day I  decided against taking that shorthand class in high school.

“Okay, I’ve got it,” I say to the Nutmeggers. “You’re sure this will get me there?” I ask, slipping back into my car. Through my dusty windshield I watch the self-congratulatory look in each Nutmegger’s eye as they shake hands and pat each other on the shoulder. I read their lips to see if they’re planning a parade or a celebratory picnic.

I drive two miles down the road and there are no promised markers, no “Big sign, can’t miss it.” Nothing matches my notes. I’m lost again. Lost. Again. I stop, ask another Nutmegger. Rinse and repeat.

Hours later I am finally home, only to discover that I purchased a mouse that will have nothing to do with my cheesy computer. In a moment of conspicuous consumerism I bought a wireless model. Sleek and snappy. The Nutmegger at Best Buy assured me the gadget would work on my Dell, that it was a simple matter of “plug it in, pop in the batteries, that’s it.”

Not exactly. There’s a bit more to it: a CD ROM and a 50-step set-up matrix and, as luck would have it, the mouse is not compatible with my PC. I should have known. A mouse without a tail … well, rats!

So, it’s back in the car, back to Bust Buy, back to trusting Nutmeggers along the back roads of eastern Connecticut. I knew I would get lost again. I did.

This all happens on a day when my Sidekick is on the fritz. I’m driving aimlessly with no internet or email access, no cell phone. Just me, my mouse-in-the-box and a notebook full of directions leading directly from Point A to Point Nowhere.

It’s just as well. The only people I know to call are Nutmeggers.

The mouse-capade is over, I only swore twice while installing the basic model, and I rewarded myself with the Sarah McLachlan CD Afterglow. She lives in Canada. I’d like to get lost there sometime.

But I’d probably never find my way out of Connecticut.

(With apologies to the good people of Connecticut, which is also known as The Provision State and The Land of Steady Habits. I kid you not).

Snow In Connecticut

08 Sunday Jan 2012

Posted by cmistwrite in Uncategorized

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Snow is on the ground in this little Connecticut hamlet. It’s just a light dusting,  already melting in spots. This will be my first winter in the Northeast, and they’re still wearing shorts in Tulsa, Oklahoma, where I spent last winter.

There was one significant snowfall in Tulsa during the winter of 2002. It blew into town suddenly and trapped my nephew Tyler and me in my house. We were all alone with a Playstation 2, the highly addictive Palmer X snowboarding game, a mountain of sugary, hi-carb snacks and no phone service.

Life doesn’t get much better than that. We were set. It was on.

The Playstation 2 was slick, black and new, our addiction to its hypnotic blue light and sleek black cover reaching critical levels. The pressure to interact with the rest of the family was off. We were alone, we didn’t have to eat real food, showering was optional and sleeping, well, that was for wimps.

We played Palmer X until we saw hip, edgy snowboarders swooshing on the backs of our eyelids. So we stopped closing our eyes. Nightly sleep sessions were replaced with power naps and only when hallucinations threatened our ability to land a decent 360 or Rodeo or Japanese Air on the half-pipe.

We silently regarded the first person to fall into a coma-like power nap as a complete wuss. It went something like this:

Me: You tired?

Ty: (Fingers still flying over the game pad) No way. Not me. You?

Me: No. Not unless you are. I’m not going to bed. I’m gonna kick your butt again.

Ty: Bring it on!

He was nine; I was 40 going on seven. But I had those wild college years to draw upon when sleep deprivation threatened. It was an even match.

Tyler settled into his gaming gear: shorts, a T-shirt and a Nike cap. I chose my workout clothes: flannel pajamas and a pair of loud but warm socks. With black circles under our eyes, a grey fog over our stinky heads (the PS2 addiction steals all consideration for conventional hygiene), and a side bet on who would spill the most soda – counting  spills was more fun than cleaning them up – we gamed our gamey way through some 96 hours of winter storm nirvana.

On Day 3, when our vision was blurred, our necks stiff and we had both toggled up worker’s comp-worthy cases of carpal tunnel, we agreed that an extended power nap was in order. We had been sleeping in shifts, one person giving in to fatigue while the other skied solo, learning new tricks to show off.

Neither of us wanting to be the sucker who slept first, we agreed to set the alarm and get a full four hours of sleep. We woke up some seven hours later in a panic, looking at each other incredulously, like two cartoon characters late for the office.

This can’t be happening!

The alarm had failed us, we agreed, shaking our heads and mumbling. Only the PS2 was reliable, our trustworthy electronic friend. We splashed water on our faces, did a quick courtesy tooth brushing, resumed talking smack and headed back to the couch.

But soon the snow melted, the cell phone started ringing and going out in public seemed unavoidable. I needed to go back to work.

There were PS2 games to buy and we’d discovered Jones soda and a new flavor of Doritos. We needed supplies for the weekend. I had to get back to work. We would need another fix soon.

It takes a little pocket change to chase that PS2 dragon.

Adult Supervision Optional


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