Ironing Out the Details

Today we had a potluck at work. Brisket, ribs, and pulled pork from Rudy's BBQ on Hwy 24 and 31st Street. Greg and I tried to go to dinner there back in March when they opened, but couldn't find parking. It can't really be THAT good, I thought. I was wrong. It really is THAT good!

So was everything else at the potluck. Greg made his famous potato salad (everyone loved it!), and everyone else brought chocolate chip cookies, brownies, chips & salsa, mac & cheese, White Devil Bars, soda, veggie tray, dinner rolls, macaroni salad, etc. I could not stop eating. I had 2 brownies, two bars, seconds of the BBQ and mac & cheese ... ugh! I haven't been that full in MONTHS!

I went into panic mode when I thought about my Weigh-In on Thursday. I mean, just last week I earned my 50-lb. medal at my Weight Watchers meeting, and today I probably put on 2 lbs. in just one sitting. Okay, TWO sittings, since I had a plate during my morning break and another on my real lunch break. What's worse, when I got home, I polished off the box of Whoppers and had a tall glass of chocolate milk.

What's gotten into me? I haven't had a gain or a binge since I started Weight Watchers on April 10th.

I can hear Janet now as I show up on Thursday to houseclean. "Where's your book?" It's like that with her every week. She doesn't ask how I'm doing or how my week has been, she gets straight to the point as soon as I walk in and before I can even get my shoes off: Where's your book? She demands to see my Weigh-In book from Weight Watchers because she keeps track of my weight loss on her little stationery pad. She keeps insisting she's going to weigh me on her scale, but I want to tell her, "Over my dead body!" Seeing my weight on my little Official Stickers from my WW meetings is MORE THAN SUFFICIENT to prove to her what I weigh. I honestly think it's a control issue with her, especially considering how OCD she is. The woman drives me batty. All the rules I have to follow when I clean her house: put the beer steins just so on the buffet; use this cleaner on the tub, this cleaner on the toilet, this cleaner on the floor, this cleaner on the tile; line up the fireplace tools on the tile square just like this; don't use the traschcan under the kitchen sink, walk your trash to the can in the garage ... the list in endless. But my patience sure isn't.

I mean, this is a woman who irons everything. And I mean EVERYTHING! I have to admit, for being in her late 80's, she's on top of everything, never misses a detail, but I wonder if that's such a good thing? She had me iron her husband's shirts when she was sick, and I'm surprised she didn't re-do them after I left. She had me iron her cloth napkins, fold them in thirds, iron the seams, fold them again, and iron the seams again. Same with the tablecloth. And she put them away in the buffet drawers "just so." Nothing can be out of place, and I mean NOTHING. She irons her knit turtlenecks and sweatshirts. She even irons her husband's boxers. His BOXERS, for crying out loud! Who irons their underwear? The woman is OCD to the Nth degree.

The other week, I entered the kitchen as she was ironing and she asked, "So, Steffie (I hate when she calls me that!), does it take you less time to iron your clothes now that there's not so much material?" Surely I didn't hear her correctly, so I said, "Pardon me?" She repeated her question. Yup, I heard her correctly the first time--what a jab right into my heart! I was so offended that all I could do was laugh nervously and say "Yes." Which is a joke because I don't iron any of my clothes. I take that back, there's one shirt in my entire closet that requires ironing and I only wear it once a year for the 4th of July. If my husband wants any of his clothes ironed, he can do them himself because I don't iron. Period.

As I went about my housecleaning duties the rest of the time I was there, I kept replaying her question in my head. One of these days, I'm going to lose it when she asks me a question like that, and I'm going to tell her off, and quit on the spot. One of these days, I'm going to speak my mind and tell her that her insensitive remarks really hurt my feelings. One of these days, I'm going to tell her how much of a bully she is and ask her if she has any idea how much her flippant comments offend me. One of these days ....

But not until I get that bathing suit out of her. And you better believe I'm going to the most expensive department store in town to buy it!