week eight: the cure for the common medicine cabinet

As I opened our medicine cabinet (not really a “medicine cabinet” per se, more like a shelf in a cabinet in our kitchen) multiple times this week, a nearly empty box of Claritin would fall out. This scenario repeated itself about three times before my slow ass brain connected enough neurons to realize the medicine cabinet was stuffed with worthless shit and was ideal for a minimalism attack. Hellloooooo, week eight!

I read up a bit this week about minimalist medicine cabinets. Pulled up a lot of articles with people brushing their teeth with baking soda. Huh. Not for me. Plus, this isn’t like a bathroom medicine cabinet where I store my deodorant and butterscotch-flavored lube, it’s the place where we keep prescriptions, pain relievers, etc. And for some reason, four sets of fingernail clippers. (???)

I wanted a couple articles on the “must-haves” for a medicine cabinet/first aid station. I found Faith Janes’ Minimize Your Medicine Cabinet article at Minimalist at Home, and she had some great points. Mainly that you don’t need a cure on hand for every little thing. Pick some basics. It’s not like you can’t go to the drugstore if you wake up and need something specific. Additionally, the buying in bulk strategy may not be best when it comes to meds. If your family is going through a 1000-count bottle of ibuprofen in a year (hell, in THREE YEARS), you might have a problem. Keep it small to keep it simple and space efficient.

I also liked this article from LifeScript on the 10 items that you should have in your medicinal arsenal. I didn’t end up stocking everything on the list, but it was a handy reference list.

So here’s a before pic…

And here’s what I tossed:

1. A crapton of expired medicine.

2. Vitamins. Maybe I should take them, but I don’t. I just DON’T. I figure we use the juicer a couple times a month, so I’m good. Frozen yogurt is full of vitamins, anyways.

3. Boxes. I like using a lazy susan in the medicine cabinet and it works well for bottled meds. But cold medicine, Claritin, etc., comes in ginormous stupid boxes that tip over easily. So I tossed like items into small, stackable containers and threw out the giant half-empty boxes. I did make sure all the unboxed meds had instructions and expiry dates printed on the blister pack, though.

4. Fingernail clippers. They belong in the bathroom, not the kitchen. (I AM TALKING TO YOU, HUSBAND.)

And here’s the after pic:

Here’s my list of stuff I kept:

1. Cold remedies. This includes a bit of NyQuil/DayQuil, Zicam and a variety of Cold-Eeze lozenges. Note: if you don’t use Zicam and Cold-Eeze the minute you think you’re getting  cold YOU SHOULD GO BUY SOME RIGHT NOW. That shit is the shit. The Zicam tastes like hippie ass (seriously), but it WORKS. I found the rapid melt tablets were the least offensive and least likely to cause retching. Worth it though.

2. Ouchie boo-boo fixers. I rounded up the four half-filled bandage boxes (clear, neon, Star Wars and Hello Kitty) and combined them with a tube of Neosporin in a bin. I figure if I need Neosporin, I probably will need a Band-Aid, too.

3. Basic pain relievers. Ibuprofren, Tylenol and a small thing of low-dose aspirin. One for muscle pain, one for headaches and one in case some old person is hanging out at my house and has a heart attack.

4. Baby shit. Baby Tylenol, baby Orajel (don’t judge, it works) and hippie dippie homeopathic teething tablets. (See? We like to mix our modern medicine with a bit of annoying ass “progressive” alternative therapies.)

5. Random prescriptions we’re currently taking. Pretty much I’m talking about the Codeine-esque stuff I got post-partum that I hoarded, thinking it would be really nice to take one with a glass of wine and watch Inglourious Basterds… you know, like when our baby slept. Haha! Turns out he didn’t sleep until he was about seven months old and now I’m too tired to get faded. I’m hanging onto them, though. They’re good for another year so maybe I can abuse them in the future. Fingers crossed!

6. Tummy tamers. Gas-X and Tums are my friend.

7. Miscellaneous pregnant lady supplements. Folic acid, iron, etc. Hopefully it’s not too long before I’m pregnant again so I’ll hang onto these for now.

8. Also I posted some emergency numbers and medicine dosage info inside the cabinet as well, just in case. Seems like an adult thing to do.

So much cleaner and easier to find what I’m looking for. Plus, there’s plenty of room for additional meds as we need them. Just have to be vigilant about tossing expired stuff – that seemed to be the worst offender. And for reals, go out and buy the Zicam. Every once in a while, the hippies get it right.

week six: eighteen dog sweaters

When husband and I got our first dog together, Lucky, it was like we had brought home a baby. A beautiful baby poodle with apricot-colored ringlets, happy hazel eyes and a bounding, lyrical gait that just squealed happy puppy. Enamored with people – especially children – he would charm the pants off anyone who come within a ten-foot radius. At the time, we lived in the heart of San Francisco, and neither gruff businessmen, aloof hipsters, crazy old ladies, jam-hands toddlers or over-the-top gay dudes could resist him.

In fact, I kid you not, when husband or I would walk him down Chestnut Street near our old ‘hood, people would literally DRIVE ONTO THE SIDEWALK and demand to know where we acquired such an adorable dog. He was a little local celebrity, hands-down the cutest fucking dog in the city.

Of course, the cutest fucking dog in San Francisco needed a wardrobe to suit. Dressing dogs had become fashionable, and overpriced pet stores abounded in the city, stocked not just with traditional pet items like cozy beds and leather leashes, but racks of doggie couture. Little shirts, dresses, hair accessories and more for our four-legged pals.

I ate that shit up. Of course, I erred on the more “conservative” dog-dressing aesthetic and tended to opt for simpler items, like cottons tees or knitted sweaters. I liked to think I was above the little shoes and overalls, and dressed my dog in a dignified fashion. But really, upon reflection, there is no dignified fucking way to dress up a damn dog. It’s a fucking oxymoron.

All that brings me to week six. Earlier this week, husband and I went for a walk in the park with baby. It was a pretty day and there were tons of people around. A cute girl, about 20, was sitting by the fountain with an equally cute Chihuahua. The Chihuahua was wearing a pink hoodie vest with faux fur and some sparkly bits. And I realized something.

The dog looked fucking stupid.

Look, I’m a dog person. I think Chihuahuas are adorable. But I think this minimalism kick has me looking at everything in a different way. And it’s just starting to seem over-the-top ridiculous to put tween fashions on dogs.

So next on the get the fuck out of my house list was my dog clothes. To my credit, neither pooch (we have two toy poodles now) has worn an outfit/shirt/sweater in quite a while. Which, when I realized it, made me feel as though I had already began to think dog clothes were lame, even before seeing pink hoodie Chihuahua.

I’d like to say I was surprised that I had enough stupidass dog clothing to fill a box, but I wasn’t. My shame apparently knows no bounds, as I rediscovered such gems as:

– Powder blue LaDanian Tomlinson jersey FOR THE DAMN DOG. This is actually even stupider than it sounds, as it is cut in such a way that it traps pee in a little fold of fabric, basically soaking the garment and the dog. So glad I kept that for four years.

– Itchy red Christmas sweater with a tree knitted on the back. Complete with appliqued sequins and A FUCKING BATTERY that made lights on the tree glow. Good lord, doggies, I am so sorry. I knew this bastard was itchy, too, and I still put it on Lucky. WTF is wrong with me?

– Denim vest. (WHY????)

To the thrift store they shall go. Yep, eighteen pieces in my doggie wardrobe. Insanity. For good measure, I also tossed some never-used toys and beat up old collars I think I had been saving for sentimental reasons. I’m allowed to be sentimental about my dogs. Even their puppy pictures. But old dirty collars? That’s some hoarder shit right there.

I did keep one sweater for each poodle. They each have one “dignified” (ha) knit number that I sometimes bust out at Christmastime. Non-itchy I might add. But my days of denim vests and polo shirts for my pooches are through. Hallelujah they say!

week five: the wedding dress

Do you ever watch Say Yes to the Dress? Beautiful brides visit Kleinfeld’s in New York City, gleeful entourage in tow. They bring their mothers, their best friends, their sisters, their future mother-in-laws, their future sister-in-laws, their gay husbands and their wedding planners (sometimes those last two are the same dude). They try on dresses ranging from $1500 to $15,000. There’s tears of frustration, tears of joy. And elation when they find “the one.”

Buying my wedding dress was like the exact opposite of that.

Let me back up. After husband-to-be proposed, I was ecstatic. Yes, yes, the getting married, til death do us part, found my soul mate aspect of it was great. But really I couldn’t wait to plan the wedding. I was one of those annoying brides with the binder of magazine clippings and a completely skewed view on how much husband-to-be and I would be spending on the nuptials.

So I started planning. I bought the magazines. I trolled the wedding sites. I joined an online discussion forum where other annoying ass brides would bitch about seating charts and catering minimums. And of course, I began the hunt for my wedding dress.

I settled on a gorgeous Jim Hjelm mermaid number that was $6,000. And, for some reason, this seemed perfectly reasonable to me. I deserved the wedding dress of my dreams. It’s my special day, after all, right? Yes, absolutely. I needed that dress.

As I spent my off hours and weekends planning our wedding, I noticed husband-to-be was a bit listless. I’d try to run through a list of 28 possible venues, and by the third Sonoma Valley winery, he’d get all fidgety. His answer to many of my (insane bride lady) questions like “Should our colors be tangerine and fuchsia or papaya and passionfruit!?” was infuriatingly ambivalent. His lack of enthusiasm was, at first, annoying. Then it made me mad. Then it made me think.

Looking over my clippings and list of demands, I revisited our budget. I started adding it up. And then I noticed that, well… shit didn’t add up.

Why did I think it was a good idea to blow tens of thousands of dollars on our wedding? I’d always considered myself a pretty rational, reasonable person. Do rational people buy $6,000 wedding dresses? Um, no. Rational fucking people roll their eyes at people who buy $6,000 wedding dresses and then laugh when the statement from their 401K rolls in, showing a 10% year-over-year return.

And just like that, I decided I wanted to elope. Husband-to-be could hardly contain himself.

Things came together fast, and I found myself needing a dress ASAP. So after work one night, on a rainy evening, I drove down to David’s Bridal alone. I tried on two dresses, found something cute and affordable, grabbed a veil, paid $200 and went on my way.

Fast forward five-plus years. This week, while cleaning up our guest space in preparation for my brother’s family to visit over Easter, I came across my dress in the spare closet. Zipped up with the veil and all. I had almost forgotten I had it. As soon as I saw it, I knew week five was in the bag. I gave the dress one more look and put it in the donation box. Someone else who has wised up and realized the wedding industry is balls-out insanity will find it, wear it and love it. And my favorite little thrift store should make $50 or so. Win-win-win.

I suppose it’s a bit of a cheat – as I wasn’t too attached to the dress – but I guess not every week in this minimalist crusade has to be a grind. I will come across some things in my life that are easier to part with than others. The exercise isn’t only about heartbreaking decisions to pare down, but also about realizing that many things I’ve held onto over the years just don’t hold any meaning for me.

After all, I found “the one.” But it wasn’t the dress – it was husband.

week four: carload of shit

Feast your eyes on a big old pile of random. I took an entire carload of shit to the thrift store this week. An unrelated grouping of items I culled throughout the week, the sacrificial lambs included such highlights as:

– Eight thousand packs of metallic mini muffin cups. I bought out Sur la Table one day on my lunch break – they were adorable and on sale. Forget that I didn’t own a mini muffin tin at the time. Or that I still don’t. And forget that I bought them when I lived in San Francisco. Six years ago. Uh-huh, buh bye.

– Fuckin loud ass clear acrylic drawers from The Container Store. Purchased to hold everything from office supplies to panties. These drawers were going to change my life. And they did, with their cat yowl screech emitted when you opened and closed them. Added bonus: they often tipped over while opening, spilling their contents on the floor. Laters!

– Multiple boxes of packaging materials for cute products to make that I envisioned in my head but never actually got around to creating. What a dumbass I was when I first started my business. I’d be all “Hey, I think I should make wedding favors,” and then, instead of doing ANY research on what brides would buy, price points, cost of goods sold analysis, etc., I’d just plunk my credit card down and buy a shitload of random materials. Giving those boxes of never-realized product inventory away felt BADASS. Like I accepted that I had been a dumbass, but am now past said dumbassery. We’ll see, huh?

– Baby gate that collapsed when you touched it, got near it, looked at it, breathed hard, etc. Haha – sorry poor schmuck who buys that at the thrift store. Although knowing my husband and I, there’s a very good chance (maybe like 70 percent) that we simply installed it wrong.

It was a good week.

week three: shomer shabbos!

“Saturday, Donny, is Shabbos, the Jewish day of rest. That means that I don’t work, I don’t drive a car, I don’t fucking ride in a car, I don’t handle money, I don’t turn on the oven, and I sure as shit don’t fucking roll!” – Walter Sobchak, The Big Lebowski

So I think Walter has something here. I heard about the National Day of Unplugging over at the Minimalist Mom. I have read some posts on minimalist blogs before about unplugging for the weekend, a week (!!!) or even longer. Her post, however, titled “It’s Just 24 Hours,” made one day seem doable.

It immediately reminded me of Walter’s Shabbos rant from The Big Lebowski (seriously the best movie ever… at least the first 70 minutes). And if Walter Sobchak is down, I’m down. But it took a few days to convince myself I could do it. That I WOULD do it.

I’m not just semi-addicted to email, texting and facebook. I have an online business that requires a decent amount of attention. So… unplugging for a week isn’t really going to work out for me. But sundown Friday to sundown Saturday could. So I’m going to do it. I wrote “try it” first, but you know how it goes: Do or do not. There is no try. Damn I’m full of awesome movie quotes today, yeah?

My rules will be: no computer, no iPhone, no TV. I probably will use the oven and my kindle – but ONLY to read my book (Anathem right now, a recommendation from husband and IT IS AWESOMEO). And the record player. If baby needs to nurse in the middle of the night, no surfing on my phone. Just me and him in the darkness, which frankly sounds lovely.

I’ll update after the event! There is no try!

week two: sparkly shoe purge

If someone had asked me – prior to this week – about how many pairs of shoes I owned, I think my guess would have been about ten. Maybe twelve? It couldn’t be more than twelve. I mean, I wear the same flip-flops every day. Every. Day. I have a cute pair of Aldo heels for going out, my wannabe-skater Vans, some sparkly black flats and some pull-on sneaks for walking around the lake. A few miscellaneous other pairs, but certainly no more than a dozen.

I had twenty-four.

True dat – it’s not a terribly shocking number. I’m sure many women scoff at 24. I did some research, and last year a study was published that concluded that American women, on average, own 17 pairs of shoes. So while 24 isn’t a shocking number, I am ahead of the national curve by nearly 50%. Really, though, what surprised me the most was that I had no idea what an accurate count was. It was obvious a had a lot of shoes that I probably didn’t give a shit about. And, as it turns out, I was right.

I gathered all my shoes up, lined them up in neat rows (hauling your stuff out to look at it in the cold, harsh light of day really helps you to be honest about what’s crap and what’s not, learned that from The Minimalist Mom) and dragged husband in to help me appraise them.

Some were easy. Previously-mentioned sparkly black flats: comfy, cute and go with everything – keep. Blingy heels I wore for our wedding that our dog chewed up: unwearable – toss. I tried on two different pairs of silver flats for husband and made him pick his favorite. He chose the sequined ones (I apparently like shiny shit) so I tossed the goofy ones with the bows (???) into the sell pile.

Some were a bit harder to let go of. Husband had bought a pair of Converse All-Stars for me several years ago. I wore black All-Stars all through high school, graffiti-ing up the toe box and sides. I would literally wear holes in them, then get a fresh pair when they fell apart. I guess I thought my twenty-something self would still like them, wear them and feel cool. But my twenty-something self never wore them, and my thirty-something self let them languish in the closet as well.

Time for them to go. And when I threw my Chucks into the sell pile (NWOB, ebay bitches!), I have to admit it didn’t hurt like I thought it would. It actually felt good. Relief. I didn’t have to wear those shoes if I didn’t want to. They wouldn’t be crowding up my closet anymore. It would be easier to find the shoes I did want to wear. That thought made me happy.

After those went, a lot followed in a five-minute purging flurry. I pared the collection down to twelve. It felt awesome. Even husband got caught up in the heady rush of throwing shit out and junked some janky flip-flops and aqua socks. Sweet.

Everything I kept I wear with some regularity. Except one pair – some semi-ridiculous red sequined d’orsay pumps. Did I say semi-ridiculous? I meant all the way ridiculous. But for now, I want them. If I ever go out past 6pm again I’ll take them out for a spin.

week one: guilt and magazines

Minimalism. I have my mission but where to start? I need something accessible, not too time-consuming so it can be basically accomplished within the nap window – and I need something that won’t hurt too bad. I look around…

On the breakfast table, beneath the miscellaneous baby clutter and toast-crumbed placemats is a stack of magazines. My magazines. A mix of home, life and cooking periodicals that come into my home monthly, are perused minimally and often filed away with dreams of the perfectly-planned road trip or a dinner party with fabulous dishes made with fennel.

I have subscriptions to – and collections of – magazines filled with content that I don’t use, don’t care about, don’t have time for or can easily obtain somewhere else. (Um hello? Internet?) Not only are these magazines taking up real estate on my kitchen table, but I actually SAVED dozens of them over the years, PURCHASED magazine organizers in order to display them neatly and CLEARED space for them in my office, family room, living room and bonus room.

The worst part? My magazine collection makes me feel guilty. Every time I look at them, prettily poised on my bookshelf, a wash of regret comes over me. I haven’t made that recipe, worked on that craft, decorated my house to the nines for Fourth of July with homemade garlands and potato-stamped luminarias. I was holding onto these magazines in the hopes I’d some day become my perfect vision of myself.

Well, fuck, I might be waiting forever on that.

Magazines, I have decided, are first on the chopping block. I rounded my collections up from their various stations throughout the house. I kept the recent issue of each and stacked the rest.

I discovered that I had 22-inch-high pile of magazines taking up space in my home. More than that, I had 22 inches of magazines making me feel guilty for not taking advantage of all the sage advice within their pages. Curious, I flipped through a few to see what indispensable info I had dogeared years ago. The perfect faux bois wall treatment! Halibut curry soup! Collections of cloisonne birds! Twelve mascaras that will change your life! The coolest places in Vancouver in 2007!

I have never once gone back to a dogeared magazine that had been shelved for more than a month or two to cook a recipe or plan a trip. If it doesn’t grab me immediately, ain’t nothin doing. There is no shame in that. I get great recipes online all the time. I ask friends for recommendations in new cities. (Yeah, or I Yelp. Maybe just Yelp.) And faux bois on my walls? Really? Like husband was ever going to let that happen. Probably a good thing.

A funny thing happened when I started piling them in a box to take to the thrift store for donation, though. I actually felt my heart speed up as I thought about giving these away. A part of me panicked. For a moment, I thought it was silly to toss out these great ideas, these beautiful layouts. After all, wouldn’t it be nice to flip through them with some coffee, linger over a feature on bed and breakfasts in Oregon or find an adorable Easter craft?

And then I stopped myself. Yeah, that would be nice. But it’s not fucking happening any time soon. No coffee or milk for me while I’m nursing. And there’s not a lot of lingering at my house these days. When baby naps I’m working, making baby food, doing laundry and picking up dog poop in the backyard. When baby goes to sleep, husband and I make dinner, watch a show, listen to some records and then race each other to see who falls asleep first. I love my life. But there’s no B&Bs in Oregon to be had right now.

I’ve also decided to let all of my subscriptions lapse this year. If I miss any of them, maybe I can get them on my kindle. Maybe not. But no more glossy stacks of guilt for me. I’m already breathing a little easier.

and so it begins…

This is it. The first step on the road to minimalism. I have been fascinated with the subject since devouring The Minimalist Mom‘s blog entries over the past month. What started as a somewhat voyeuristic look into the life changes of a woman I do not know has turned into a personal mission to purge my life of physical and mental mess. My stuff, and the strange attachments to most of it, has got to go.

When did I accumulate so much stuff? I have managed to fill a large house and garage with things, the overwhelming majority I rarely or never use. (Mainly never.) I am 30 years old. Not nearly enough time to acquire a lifetime’s worth of goods and memories. Where did everything come from?

To be fair, I do share my home with a husband who has a very difficult time letting go of anything. Anything. Holes, stains, don’t use, doesn’t fit, even doesn’t like – none of those are good enough reasons to donate or pitch something. But as much as I’d like to pin the blame for the ridiculous amount of shit I see in my home solely on husband’s shoulders, it’s just as much my fault.

I’m no hoarder. You don’t have to side-step your way through my living room to get to the bathroom, negotiating stacks of junk. I have a nice home. We have some nice things that I know we’ll have for a long time, things that give us pleasure that we enjoy having/using. But I have a closet full of clothes I don’t wear. Boxes and boxes in the garage labeled with my name, bursting with sentimental keepsakes (my old tutu, a hat from t-ball, college newspapers when I was the editor-in-chief). As I write, there is a juicer on the floor of the dining room. My beautiful home is always cluttered.

It isn’t just physical. My rising interest in minimalism is only partially about the cleanliness of my home. Husband and I have an eight-month-old son. Now, more than ever before, I want to be 100 percent present in my daily life. I have mental clutter, too. Distractions that sometimes keep my focus away from the things that matter – family, baby, experiences – and lead me to the things that don’t – Facebook, checking email, worrying about organizing my stuff.

My plan is fairly straightforward. Each week for one year I will attack something in my life. My shoe collection, tv watching, linen closet, etc. Fifty-two assaults of minimalism on the stuff and things I’ve let get too big and important in my life. This blog is my accountability. My hope is by writing about it, chronicling my progress, that I will stick with it.

At the end of the year, I don’t think I’ll be living in a yurt with one pair of underwear or anything. Like many of the minimalist mom bloggers I’ve read, this isn’t about radical downsizing. It’s about prioritizing the people, activities and experiences that I value most and letting the other stuff go. Making room for what matters most to me so I can fully enjoy it, savor it, remember it.

Let’s go.