As baseball season approaches, as a New York Mets fan, I am reminded of one simple fact.
I am jealous of people whose teams actually produce winning records. You know, the teams who have fans who hold their heads high and make fun of all the losers (except for the Orioles. It’s like no matter how much they continue to lose, their fans get more and more hardcore). The fans who wear their team’s paraphernalia without fear of ridicule. The fans who look forward to October because it’s exciting, not depressing. The fans who don’t want their teams to suck so badly that they set new records for losses in a single season (seriously. I want the Mets to do that. If they’re going to be bad, let’s at least be the best at being the worst). The fans who know that the players’ elections to the All-Star team is due to good play, not the mandatory one person representative.
With that said, let’s go Mets! And please, don’t suck too badly this year. I live near Philly and it’s really getting embarrassing.
Twitter is perfect for people like me. I make observations. Lots of observations. In fact, a good friend of mine once told me that I need to write a book titled “You Know What I’ve Noticed” because that’s pretty much how I start off most of my sentences. And, thanks to Twitter, I can unleash those observations on the world. Provided they’re short. Which is way more difficult for a verbose person like me than you would expect.
Here’s an example of my finest (not sent from the official Jealousy Files Twitter handle. That one is still in development):
Pretty hilarious stuff, right? It took me at least 5 minutes to edit it down to that one sentence.
I think that when you sign up for Twitter, there should be a questionnaire that you fill out and your answers will determine how many characters you get to make your statements. Not everyone needs the same amount. To help create balance, I think that there should be a character sharing program where those who need less can donate to those who need more. You can sign up to be a donor or a receiver. Or maybe you could deposit your unused characters into a bank that you can withdraw on later when you need it. I totally think the head honchos at Twitter would go for those ideas. No? Well, then I guess I’ll just have to settle for being jealous of people who can be funny and entertaining in 140 characters.
You know the ones. Everything they say is witty and clever and totally awesome and make you wish you were that witty and clever. They have mastered the art of short, pithy statements. They’re the ones who have 18000000 followers and get featured on The Huffington Post’s “people to follow on Twitter” and Late Night With Jimmy Fallon and all that other cool stuff.
But mainly I’m jealous of them because they have figured out a way to be funny in 140 characters or less. Which, sadly, I cannot. I need at least 279.
This car is speaking on behalf of my house.
My house is a mess.
Not a mess in the hoarders or CPS is going to come and take my child away because it’s completely uninhabitable sense but a mess enough for me to know that I really, really need to clean it. But I don’t want to. Because I hate cleaning.
I get absolutely no enjoyment out of vacuuming (even though I have a Dyson, which kicks ass!). Sweeping? I don’t even know where the broom is. Dusting is a bigger pain than vacuuming (I’m too short to reach most places and besides, who looks up there anyway?). Picking up toys is a waste of time because they just wind up back on the floor anyway. Mail multiplies like Gremlins fed after midnight. And I don’t clean the bathroom on principle (my husband cleans it. I’ll tell you the story some day if you want). Actually, the only room I clean daily is my kitchen. Dirty dishes and all of that make me kind of nauseaus and bring bugs and I hate bugs more than I hate cleaning.
I’m not really sure why I hate cleaning. It may be because I’m not good at it (yes, it is possible to be bad at cleaning. It’s difficult to achieve, but entirely possible). It may be because I grew up in a house that was immaculate and never really looked lived in and I don’t want my house to look like that. It may be because I’m lazy. Perhaps it’s because I just think I can use my time for things that are more fun than actually cleaning (like writing about why I hate to do it). Maybe it’s a combination of some or all of these factors. All I know is that I hate to do and I’m really jealous of people who either like to do it or pretend they like to do it enough that whenver I walk into their homes, their homes looks beautiful. And sparkly, shiny clean.
You know these people. You’re probably friends with some of them. The people who say “cleaning relaxes me”. The people who have homes that are so damn clean you don’t want to walk on the floor for fear of making it dirty. The homes where you know the 5 second rule can turn into the 5 minute rule and no hair, dust or anything else unsavory would attract to your food. The homes that make you say to yourself “You know, I’m really going to start cleaning my house just as soon as we get home” (is shame not the best motivator?).
I wonder how you get into this secret club of people who enjoy cleaning their house (do you have to get voted in? Do you apply for membership? Do they give you a test, like at the DMV?). Even if they won’t let me in, and, judging by the state of my house, they most certainly would not, I’d really like to know their secrets. Because for me to enjoy cleaning, I’d need to drink a lot of beer. And I’m pretty sure that would make a bigger mess.
You've eaten too many of my kind. And now you must pay!!!
It is virtually impossible for me to eat anything without dropping food on myself. Sometimes, if I’m lucky, it’ll wind up in my hair or on my face or in my lap rather than on my shirt but for the most part, whatever I eat, I wear.
It used to be, if it was red, it’d get on me. Tomato sauce, ketchup, salsa, enchilada sauce…red foods and I were not on good terms. I invested in some Shout wipes in order to prevent more of my clothes from looking like I engaged in some sort of tomato warfare. Not to be outdone, the red foods lodged a campaign against me and now all foods attack my clothes. Soup. Milk. Peanut butter. Crumbs. Ice cream. Any sort of sauce. Chocolate. It’s impossible to make it through a meal without having tangible proof of what I’ve eaten. Honestly, when your 5 year old looks at you and says “Mommy, you got food on you again?!”, you know you have a problem.
To that end, I am jealous of people who can eat without dropping food on themselves. I’m jealous of the fact that their clothes aren’t stained with their meals and they don’t have to carry Shout wipes with them everywhere they go. I’m jealous of the fact that these people can eat in public without being shamed. I’m jealous of their ability to wear anything they want when they eat because they don’t have to worry about the aforementioned stains showing. I’m jealous that they’ve probably never been offered a bib. As a birthday present. More than once.
I don’t think I eat any differently than they do. I use utensils and napkins and plates and everything a person with even basic table manners is supposed to use. It doesn’t matter, though. But I think the tomato overlord is angry with me for some unknown reason and he’s using it to rally all the foods against me in some large stain producing conspiracy.
I’m starting to think that maybe the tomato overlord is in cahoots with the laundry czar. And they’re winning.
Posted in Others
jeal·ous·y [jel-uh-see] noun:
resentment against a rival, a person enjoying success or advantage, etc., or against another’s success oradvantage itself.
2. mental uneasiness from suspicion or fear
of rivalry,unfaithfulness, etc., as in love
3. vigilance in maintaining or guarding something.
The first time I ever remember really understanding the word jealousy was when I was about 5 years old. I was obsessed with the Sweet Pickles books and the J book, Jackal Wants Everything
(the central character being Jealous Jackal) was read to me. Up until then I was never really aware of that emotion (although I’m sure in my wild 5 year old mind, I was full of it). It’s was a weird feeling, to place a word with what I experienced when I saw my cousin with her giant, fully furnished Barbie dream house (and I had to suffer with only the Barbie convertible).
Fast forward 30 years. Jealousy is a tough little bitch to get rid of us. Instead of going away nice and easy, it’s hung on like a nasty barnacle on my soul. It’s more lecherous than me having a crush on Zac Efron and it’s more stubborn than a bout of herpes in the Jersey Shore house. Nothing I do makes it go away. So, I’ve decided to just embrace it. And categorize it. Because jealousy may suck but if it’s organized and filed…well, that’s just cool.