TYPE A FOR ASS

This morning, while driving to work in a car that recently had a pint of stagnating water in the console between the front seats, and whose glove compartment flops open, resolutely refusing its owners' attempts to compensate for the broken lock with ingenious applications of velcro strips or folded-up pieces of paper (too high-tech to explain), and which has recently been emitting a strong gas smell, a smell that makes me as certain that I am near sudden death as the strange rattling-tin-can sound, I sighed and thought to myself "By golly, I wish I were a Type A person."

My desire to be a Type A person--to have all my fruitcaking shit in order--crops up from time to time. Often, it makes itself known after I have spent an evening opening a four-inch stack of mail whose various messages conspire in the delivery of one delightful piece of information: that one must not assume, just because one does all the housework incessantly and uncomplainingly, that one's spouse is taking care of your shared finances. The stack of unopened mail gathering dust on the bookshelf should have been a warning sign about potential impending financial doom, but I vacuumed the stack a few times and now and then pushed it into a nicer, neater, more organized pile, so I felt I'd done my share.

I had done my share--my share of being a Mail Nincompoop. My share of Not Dealing With Important Stuff. My share of burying us deeper into Bill Hell.

Ahem--Parents? If you are reading this, please stop now. I would hate to be responsible for any coronary trouble you might encounter as a result of this entry.

What did the stack of mail, finally opened, laid out all neat and clean in nice tidy piles tell me? That we are morons, and that we are $178,483.12 in debt.

Ha ha, just kidding! That was a joke. A totally riotous, hilarious knee-slapper. In fact, we are not in debt by $178,483.12 at all! Nope, not at all--we are only in debt by $178,483.11*. See, it was just a joke! Ha ha.

Anyway, joking aside, so as I was driving to work this morning, in a car whose general swampiness (one of its non-Type A owners left the sunroof and windows open overnight and it rained eight inches, outside AND inside) could allow it to pass for a protected wetland, or at least a breeding ground for previously unknown strains of fungi, trying not to sniff the air compulsively in order to figure out whether the gas smell was still there so that I could then conclude that the car was about to burst into flames, which would definitely make me late for work, and I was already late yesterday because "my better half" (quotes not meant to imply sarcasm) left both cars completely bone-dry, gas-wise, and he had my credit card in his wallet because he couldn't find his wallet the day of the baby shower and we were running late and we needed to bring cups, balloons, limes, and tequila (for the baby) so I let him use my credit card and then I forgot to get it back from him and so I got to the gas station yesterday morning and AAAHHHH! Where was my card?! Why was the car left bone-dry, gas-wise?! And I was late for work.

So, while driving the car this morning, trying not to think about my imminent funeral (would they play Bob Marley?), I decided to become Type A: A for Ambitious, for Amazing, for Annoyingly perfect. A for Always wearing clean underwear--my clean underwear, not Joedy's, not Lula's. A for Abandoning bad habits, like picking my nose while driving. A for Anticipating bills before they are sent to collections. A for Area rug. A for Abnegation. A for Ass.

So here I am, a Type A person now. Tonight I washed and hung a load of white clothes that were lying wet with sprouts growing out of them from the recent flood in the garage, I cooked all the borderline-rotten food in the fridge, I made Joedy's and my bed, I gave Lula a bath and fed her vegetable matter for dinner, I did not kick the dogs at any time, and I was nice, for god's sake, instead of emotionally!! irrational!!. Also, I hummed a lot, in an Isn't-Life-Swell way, in an I'm-Gettin'-Shit-Done way. In a Type A way.

Tomorrow I'm going to write thank-you cards for my 40th birthday celebration, because, what the heck, it's only five years away. Also, I'm going to wash the roof of the house. And braid my arm hairs. I'm Type A now, after all.

*Hello, parents? Don't worry--that was still part of the joke.