Mother, Me and the Poo Goo Jug

It is a cool jug. The handle is easy to grasp. It holds a full gallon of liquid…believe me, I know. It held the wonder liquid that kept me in the toilet for six hours before a scoping. A full gallon. The lid is secure, equipped with a child safety cap, yet not too difficult to open. And my mother wants it. Yes, she was concerned about the results of my scoping. Yes, she was worried when I told her I had a problem and thank goodness I went in when I did…but…she wants my jug. Oh, sure, she waited a discreet amount of time before saying, “I want your jug.” Discreet as in, less than 12 hours!

After pondering her timing, I really think she was trying to take advantage of me while I was still under the influence of anesthesia. She figured if she approached me soon enough, she could slip that cool jug right out from under my nose. When I left the recovery room one of the last things the nurse said was, “Don’t make any important decisions for at least 24 hours.” Okay, Mother, that includes deciding the fate of my cool poo goo jug. And so I had to defer to medical advice and put off the poo goo jug decision.

The next day when my senses were fully recovered and I had the faculties to assess the reality of the situation, I made the call. “Mom, I know you want that jug. I knew the minute I held its perfectly balanced, easily grippable form in my hand that you would want it…” She interrupted, “It is just so nice for storing water for my plants…” I cut her off. “Yes, I know it’s just right. I’m still a little upset that you tried to take advantage of me at my moment of weakness…”

“But…” She tried to jump in and persuade me to look at it her way…not having it, Lady.

“But nothing, look, it’s my decision to make. I”m the one who emptied it, but I can forgive your indiscretion and move on so this is what I’m going to do. I am going to keep the jug for our big camping vacation. It’s the perfect size for water on the trip…BUT…because you gave birth to me, screaming and in agony, as you pointed out when you asked for the jug…AND…because of the Bible thing…the honor thing…I am going to give you the jug when I get home from the vacation.”

I know she was deeply chagrined. I could hear it in her voice. “Thank you.” Chagrined and just a touch snippy. “That is real big of you.”

Yes, people, we know it is just a jug, but in our family it’s just like the perfect box. You know deep down in your soul, there will be a perfect need for it and it must stay until that need arises.

The Good Clean Genes Skipped Me

I love my mother.  Really.  She is a fine woman.  She is busy and intelligent and caring…and clean.  Yet, there are things about her that drive me nuts.  Seriously nuts.  Most of those things are the same things I do…thanks to her and her impressing traits and habits on me as a young child.  I hate the way she taps her foot.  I do it.  I hate the way she rearranges the food on her plate and clicks her spoon on her teeth.  I do it.  I hate the way she has to go OVERBOARD on things she gets involved in.  I do it.  I hate the way she obsesses about the little details of every little thing involving her family.  I do it.  

What I really wish is that instead of all these irritating little things, is that I would have inherited the organizational clean gene she has.  She can usually find things…or spends many hours looking for them in all the categories and files she has stashed in the basement closet.  She cleans things.  Yah, dusts, vacuums, scrubs…a trait I seem to have skipped in my learning process.  

So where is my organizing, clean gene?  Well, I like to blame her for that, too.  As a child I spent weekends helping clean house.  It wasn’t hard labor or anything, but I learned early the truth of the matter is–I really didn’t like it.  I would rather be outside helping on the ranch, working with the animals, even throwing bales or shoveling manure.  I really wasn’t just lazy.  I just didn’t care to worry about the dust building up on the very top ledge lining the kitchen cupboards or the fact the washing machine hadn’t been moved and vacuumed behind for the past three months.  I sure as heck didn’t care about the mysterious place beneath the couch…a space my mother tended to be obsessed with. 

Now the organizing thing…well, I get off on that…as long as it has to do with other people’s stuff…It is kind of like going to a motel…if it is the slightest bit dirty…YUCK!  Disgusting.  It is other people’s dirt.  I have to wipe the floor and make sure I don’t touch the carpet more than I need to, but my own floor…well, where it can be seen…it’s dirty.  The carpet probably has dog hair even if I just vacuumed.  So, I obsess about other people’s office and workspace and closets.  I’m really helpful…a true talent at organizing THEM…the poor disorganized things. My own house…still guess I don’t care all that much about the dirt…it sure would be nice to pretend the office was someone else’s and dive in with gusto to get it organized.  Maybe I’ll try imagining I’m working for ME.  I am a bit of a workaholic…that makes me a good employee for anyone and for ME…It just might work…since I can’t do anything about the missing gene thing.  Thanks a lot, Mom.