Can I just tell you, I am a woman who HATES confrontations. I don’t listen to talk radio because I don’t like arguing/debating/yelling/differences of opinion. And then I’ve mentioned I’m an underdog supporter. I also don’t like having harsh feelings about anyone.
So, with all that prior knowledge, and me knowing myself so well, I can’t believe that I’ve put myself into this position. I mentioned that the other night a group of us went to The Cheesecake Factory (a part of heaven on earth. Truly a moment. "Scrimp Scampi, I love you!") Well, if you live in the valley, you know if you want to go there for lunch, you stand in line FOREVER. If you want to go for dinner, depending on the time, you have between an hour and a half wait to four hours. So, consequently, we haven’t gone. Even though it is my favorite restaurant on earth. Even though I would have hauled a table to the parking lot and David and I could have played Nertz for several hours waiting. For some reason, David didn’t think that sounded fun. Maybe it is because I beat him so often....
But Aunt Pat had a great idea. She said that she would go and put our names on the list and wait and we could all come later. I told Aunt Pat she couldn’t possibly go alone and that I would go with her and we could then shop for a little one-and-a-half to four hours.
So we did. We ended up crossing the street to Border’s because Aunt Pat needed a new calendar.
A calendar? We were going to be in a store that sold calendars? A store I hadn’t looked in when I was looking for my, well, girlfriend with amazing secretarial skills?
And look who was there waiting for me.
Fru-fru’s little sister. She was just sitting there, looking like a party gal, inviting me to be her best friend, suggesting that we could share a WONDERFUL new year together doing all the things we love. See her big heart on the front? I heart hearts. She told me her name was "Izzie." Izzie sounds funky and lighthearted and I KNEW we could have so much FUN together! And did I mention she was 50% off....
The trouble is, you KNOW who was sitting at home, reading her manual from an old Nazi-training camp. She was in the kitchen sitting in a straight-backed chair, with her blue hair in a bun (black hairnet!) and occasionally when she would unconsciously purse her thin lips together and mouth a word she was reading, some dry ice steam would escape from her mouth! Honest. She’s that tough.
Inga thought SHE was here to stay. She thought that a ninny like me would be too terrified to fire her. Inga thought SHE would be the taskmaster to whip me into shape this coming year. Inga let it be known that she preferred (rather, "insisted!") black fine point sharpies and to not even THINK about using purple or hot pink ink within her pages.
I’m usually not this bold. I’m usually pretty much a rule-keeping, avoid confrontation, no trespassing kind of girl. I’m not a risky taker or a prize fighter. I shake my head quickly and say yes. I am a teacher’s pet because I would never put a whoopie cushion on the teacher’s chair (although I did have one teacher that when she’d get mad, she’d bang "DING! DING! DING!" on her bell on her desk. And one time I stuffed tissue under the bell so it wouldn’t ring. She didn’t think that was funny.....) (oh, and one year, my friends and I secretly pelted all the other Ward camp’s tents in the middle of the night with dozens of eggs. I would have sent myself home.) (But that wasn’t as bad as the year my friends and I were bored and decided to reenact "Lord of the Flies" at girl’s camp......I won’t even TELL you what we did but it was so horrible that each time I am called to Young Women’s....and each of the 12 times I’ve been to girl’s camp as a leader, I’ve been terrified that "this" year would be pay-back time. And can I say, NO girls have ever been as bad as we were.....)
Okay, now I think I’ve lost my credibility to what a nice, ninny, non-aggressive, not-looking-for-a-fight, obedient kind of girl I am.
I can’t believe I bought Izzie. And brought her home. I trembled for hours because I could see Inga sitting in the corner, cracking her knuckles, eyebrows arched, trying to figure out what I had hiding in the bag. I honestly think I saw her "sniff" real hard, thinking her magnified senses could help her out. I think I saw a moment of disbelief cross her face before it was instantly dismissed.
I couldn’t keep putting it off. I had to give myself several pep talks (and take a handful of Advil) before actually getting the courage to address Inga directly. But first I did empathy exercises. I recalled once when I was a young teen trying to get my first job and I applied for a job at a motel as a maid. Someone that seemed very "Inga-ish" said she’d give me a try. She had me make a bed and timed me. I wasn’t fast enough. Could it have been because as a teenager, I seldom MADE my bed? No big surprise there. I was in foreign territory. But when I think of failures in my life (and I do have them listed.....1- road show 1984 when our Ward got a "good" instead of an "excellent" or "superior." Whenever I get down on myself and cry to David about what a failure I’ve been...he’ll say "Oh my gosh, are we going to talk about that road show again???" And 2- a certain BYU class that I have started twice but quit twice....always at the same point. The same lesson. Because that lesson terrifies me..... ), I remember not being picked.
Okay, you get the idea. Inga sat regally, almost like an ice sculpture. She didn’t say ANYTHING for at least 72 seconds (believe me, I was counting!) But it seemed like 94.
And then, one little tear trickled from her eye. Of course it immediately turned to ice because that’s how cold she really is. Immediately I was ashamed and started stammering until she had to rap my knuckles a couple of times to settle me down. I started to back-peddle but Izzie was hopping around on the counter (still in the bag) cheering me on saying, "You go, girlfriend! You go!" And then Inga cried another tear.
And I thought of the homely lettuce in the produce section. And remembered when I didn’t make the bed cut and instead had to work at Arctic Circle where I got addicted to fry sauce.
And a word came to me. Just out of the blue. The word was compromise. I had never even thought of that word before so I knew it was inspired. Although I am totally right-brained (like Izzie), I am married to a total left-brain (cowboy/lawyer David) and although no one thought it would last (i.e.that David would strangle me that first year) (he tried...) It works. It really works. So, just maybe.....
The compromise is this. Izzie is the social calendar. She sits right here by the warm fire and my computer/girlfriend/best friend when Cathy’s not around and we will have a VERY fun year together. We’re already making plans. She looked at my New Year’s resolutions and she’s so on board! Well, except for the cleaning the freezer one. She thinks that is pushing it a little and she doesn’t want me to fail. You know, like the road show.
And Inga is going to the bedroom. She will be my nightly checklist. Scriptures? Check. Water? Check (well, sometimes check.) Exercise? (Don’t push your luck!) Maybe it will get a check or two. She loves lists. She loves checks. She told me she graduated magna cum laude in accounting. I confessed I NEVER balance my checkbook and after I resuscitated her, we decided to never bring it up again. She is going to help me stand a little taller this year. And I might give her a perm. Izzie is so easy, she won’t even CARE if I smear southwest ranch dip across a page or two. Inga was firm about not taking food into the bedroom. But I have a feeling, just a feeling, that when I’m not watching, Inga is going to slip into the Jacuzzi. And maybe use a few of my bubbles and sugar body scrubs from Bath and Body Works. Find the cherry chocolates hidden in the corner. Let a little bit of the juice dribble down her pointed chin. Learn how to live a little.....
Epilogue: And THIS, dear-great-great-greats (and any others who may have stumbled onto this journal entry) is what Marilyn sounds like after coming down from a sugar/junk food/See’s chocolate/cheesecake/holiday high. I promise I will try and sound more normal (again, the term is used loosely here) tomorrow
"Compromise: The art of dividing a cake in such a way that everybody believes he got the biggest piece." Sherry Rothfield
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