Shiny and New

I woke up and stared in the mirror, reflecting. Reflecting on my reflection. Moments later the reflection showed Bryan's puzzled face passing behind me as I plucked gray hairs out of my head with a pair of tweezers. The same puzzled face that would tell me, "Six..." when I asked what time we were going over to his parents for dinner while my lips were covered in white exfoliating cream.

A reflection. Besides the myriad of overwhelming evidence against the contrary, it actually is whats on the inside that counts. Why is that so hard to remember? Outside of normal hygiene maintenance, I force myself to undergo the gauntlet of feminine beauty products. Creams, scrubs, scrubby creams. Despite the smell of melon, ginger and dead skin cells, I usually come out the same.

I constantly subject myself to criticisms of those who aren't the people who love me, or have even met me. Their unheard voice echoing just loud enough to drown out my husbands loving gaze. While he is telling me the almond chicken I made is actually kinda good, I see visions of Crest Whitening Strips. He laughs at my dry humor and I wonder about abs and glutes and how to get them 'rock hard', as that seems to be the most desirable way to have abs and glutes.

While I reflect on these things, I find myself saying a little prayer for the girls that face the endless struggle to be polished, waxed, tanned, taut, shiny and new. The world may not catch on, but the quest for visual acceptance of strangers is really unrewarding. And while my glutes may never, ever, be 'rock hard', I know my support system will be. And that, God willing, will be the reflection I will try to convey to the many beautiful women in my life.

Oh, brother

Last year my parents celebrated 40 years of marriage, and they are still blissfully in love. Likewise, my two older brothers are with their respective wives, and I with Bryan. Our happiness can only reflect the example set for us during our upbringing. Which, is why, our happiness is such an anomaly.

Every night, our family gathered 'round the table for dinner. We sat in the same seats every time, and followed, for the most part, our nightly routine.

I would stare at my glass of milk dreading the eventual point in the meal I would be asked to drink it or I could not leave the table. It would be close to room temperature at that point, making the task all the more revolting. My mother would yell to the top of the stairs for my oldest sibling to get out of the bathroom and join the family, now please.

"Hey Carrie,"

I glare at Matt, knowing what he would say. He said it every night.

"Hey Carrie,"

"WHAT."

"Mom hates you. You were left on the doorstep by gypsies." Patrick joins Matt by laughing until his milk almost escaped through his nose.

I grin, "The government paid Mom to take you. No one else wanted you."

My mother would sigh, "Stop that. Carrie, you eat like a bird. Finish your broccoli."

The meal would continue with more accusations of alien abductions, forced adoptions, and intentions of our parents to sell us. I had no bones, only thick skin, and my teachers were secretly demons sent to invade my soul. This illustrious nightly education was our routine.

While my mother was horrified by our unending sarcasm, announcing it was 'rampant in this family' often, my father chuckled along with us. He, like us, showed affection through merciless teasing and dry, dry humor.

At the end of the meal my mother would accuse my father of trying to kill us through expired mayonnaise, to which he would agree that was the most effective tool. Us three kids would laugh at my mother's expense and she would throw her napkin down and announce "I quit." She quit her job as our family leader nightly, but always managed to get promptly re-hired before Jeopardy began.

These days when I have dinner with my in-laws, my father-in-law will raise his glass in a toast.

"I'd like to thank my lovely new daughter for being such a blessing in our lives." And I will stare at him blankly, waiting for the punchline.

Recently one night I rang up my parents at their home and my brother answered, he was visiting from out of town. We caught up a bit, talking about our jobs, our houses, and movies we think are hysterical. The conversation winds down and he asks if I want to talk to Mom. Yeah, sounds good, I say.

"One more thing," he says, "Carrie, Mom hates you."

Smiling, I respond, "Love you too, Matt."

Back in Black

Love. The true measure of happiness. Though we may not all admit it, we all need it. Today I have come to understand that one has never felt unconditional love until you have had someone pick you up by the armpits and steady you as you painfully grimace your way to the bathroom.

Many, many years have come and gone with many, many trips to the Emergency Room. The uncanny ability I have to injure and render parts of my body unusable has not waned in my grown-up years. And so the tradition continues as I made the regrettable decision to wash both of my dogs on the 4th of July.

I had the distinct warning sign that this was a bad idea as I finished with Hannah and the unbending of my back resembled the opening of an rusty lawn chair from my grandma's shed. But my mind, the traitor it is, told me "No! Ignore that, Carrie! That feeling is the goodness of summer!"

By the time I finished washing Indie I looked like Gollum from Lord of the Rings. My back a twisted, bent, lurching cousin of its' former self. Now I sit bedridden, unable to retrieve my hair tie, thinking about the ring around the tub I can't clean, and wishing the sweater I had begun to take off to offset the air-conditioning I couldn't reach wasn't now stuck at an awkward mid-way point.

My appreciation for bending has grown over the past two days, as has mobile communication. When I need to put on pair of socks, I can text Bryan in the living room. To which after several more texts and a phone call, he comes promptly blundering in the room saying "I'm awake! I'm awake!" Then mumbles with confusion when I am not bleeding.

Nonetheless, he is a Godsend. He helped me get up when I needed to, sympathetically furrowed his brow when I cried, brought me Advil and put socks on my feet. All the while I was awkward to move around, frustratingly weepy, and a bit melodramatic. And now, after all that, Bryan has two clean dogs and a wife unable to bathe herself.

Love makes you do crazy things, that's how the saying goes.

But in this house, love makes you do things for the crazy.

First Woman of the Cabinet

I like to think that cleanliness is not Godliness, but more akin to sanity and reasonable public scrutiny. You never want to be caught with toilet rings or lumpy pillows. Metal bed frames deserve, and should receive, a bed skirt. And books should be ordered by collection, not size. I mean, c’mon, there is no sense behind placing The Truth About Chuck Norris next to The History of Ephesians. But still my college of thinking is not always widely received. What I refer to as “decorating” others call “obsessive compulsive disorder.”

If you were to peek into my pantry, you would notice that, if I can help it, all my labels face outward. Why not? If a label was created by a reputable ad firm, and it looks so nice in the grocery store, it should be viewed as such in my home. Am I too busy to worry about such things? To take 2 seconds to spin a can of Campbells in the right direction? Embarrassingly, no. But I like to make sure that all items in the kitchen cupboards are attractive and well-maintained. Wine glasses, highball glasses, champagne flutes, flatware, china, tortilla chips, etc. Sue me. (You could, in fact, likely litigate this matter in a more liberal Southern California court and possibly win.)

I picture the matter of my cleanliness and organization as one that will come up in a much more public forum one day. I will have suffered some injustice associated with a political agenda popular in the news at the time. This will of course be covered by Anderson Cooper-I envision my story having no other qualified reporter-and he will speak solemnly into to camera about the tragedy involving Carrie Boutwell, innocent victim of such and such propaganda. His intensity combined with a dashing silver mane will have you riveted.

Continuing his coverage, he will remark, “We’re reporting live from the Boutwell household-and, as you can see if you look behind me, her cabinets are impeccably organized. More on this after the break.”