It is a well-known fact that we are allowed to chew out the people we care about. Most recently, this came to mind when I gave my old friend, Andrew, a serious tongue-lashing.

Andrew is a lifelong bachelor, and a committed curmudgeon. He is better than most curmudgeons at being curmudgeonly because he started young. Andrew showed signs of being a grumpy old man when he was still in his 30s. But Andrew is no longer in his 30s, and this is what brought us to our recent conflict.

Andrew is not taking care of himself. He would argue this is not true, of course. He would say that he lives a healthy life and even eats vegetables on occasion. He rides his stationary bicycle on a nearly daily basis, and he has no bad habits -- which is probably true, except for the bad habit of ignoring the advice of his dearest and most concerned friend.

My problem with Andrew is that, like a lot of men, he does not go to the doctor. I’m betting every woman reading this right now is clucking her tongue in unison. I rarely make sexist generalizations, but I have observed that women seem to take the whole “going to the doctor before there’s anything wrong” thing a lot more seriously than men do unless there’s a woman nudging the man in the ribs. This brings us back to Andrew.

Andrew knows he’s supposed to see a doctor. He also knows he’s overdue for a colonoscopy, which he is not looking forward to, and so he dawdles and, eventually, he puts it out of mind completely -- until I remind him.

“You haven’t had a doctor’s appointment yet?” I ask, accusingly.

“I’ve been busy,” he says.

This is true. He has been busy lately, as he is a tax preparer and tax preparers are madly busy for about three months of the year. The rest of the year, however, he has been dawdling.

“So, have you had your annual exam yet?” I asked again, after he had a chance to rest up for at least two-and-a-half days. He did not answer.

I told Andrew if he died early of something preventable, I was going to give his eulogy and say, “He was an idiot and he got what he deserved!” and sit down.

I wouldn’t really do this. But I feel like it every time I hear he still hasn’t gone to the doctor.

Andrew will tell that you he is extraordinarily healthy. Logically, he knows this is no reason not to have a medical exam, but he will cite the fact that he has never had a cavity as evidence of his better-than-average health. There are no reputable studies linking an absence of cavities to immortality, that I am aware of, but Andrew clings to the conviction that he is not like the rest of us cavity-riddled mortals.

I checked my email to see if Andrew had written this morning. He has not. This means one of three things: He is still mad at me, he has not yet scheduled an appointment, or he is mad at me and has not scheduled an appointment.

But I am still nagging him.

I don’t care if he is angry with me because I don’t think he has anyone else nagging him to take care of himself, and I care about Andrew very much.

A person doesn’t get more than one friend like Andrew in their life. I’ve got to do everything I can to keep him around, complaining as long as possible.

Till next time,

Carrie

Carrie Classon’s memoir is called, “Blue Yarn.” Learn more at CarrieClasson.com.

DISTRIBUTED BY ANDREWS MCMEEL SYNDICATION

I finished my bath and saw that the rust-orange towel had molted all over my body.

I was covered with tufts of orange fur. It was not a good look, and it felt worse than it looked. Worse yet, it gave me a taste of what the next two months would be like.

My husband, Peter, is a man of many systems, and I have learned to appreciate this over the six years we have been married. He has a particular way to do nearly everything, from making coffee, to washing the dishes, to ordering food stuffs. I have found, by and large, it is best just to stay out of the way and things operate very well.

This brings us to moving.

Peter’s idea is that it makes sense to get our possessions out of the house before we begin the painting, minor repairs and deep cleaning. As we have already purchased our new place, Peter says we should ship all our belongings, visit my parents (finally!), and then return to a clutter-free house and do the work needed before putting it on the market.

I’m guessing you have already figured out the weakness in this plan.

“It will be like camping!” I reassured myself. But one bath with the orange towel has me reconsidering. The fluffy white towel I have grown accustomed to has already been packed and the orange “camping towel,” which will be pitched when we leave, has taken its place.

“Peter, I’m covered with fuzz,” I reported mournfully.

“That’s a very old towel,” he agreed.

“I don’t think I can use this towel for two months,” I clarified.

Peter gave me a look that indicated he thought I might be a bit of a whiner.

“Then don’t,” he said. “You use the blue towel.”

I knew the blue towel he meant. It was navy blue with a huge bleach stain on it. This was a generous gesture on Peter’s part. The blue towel is an absolute gem compared to the orange towel.

“What will you use?” I asked.

“I’ll use a small towel.”

“How small?”

“Just ... small!” Peter said, as if I was getting a little too nosy. “I’ll use a hand towel!”

I couldn’t think of any decent hand towels roaming around at this point in the packing.

“You mean like a tea towel?”

“I’ll be fine!” Peter said.

Now I have images of Peter getting out of the shower and drying himself with some tiny relic, with tulips in the corners embroidered long ago by an elderly aunt. And I fear the worst is yet to come.

Strategic lamps have disappeared, leaving corners of the house in utter darkness. I did not point this out to Peter. He would only reassure me that the days are getting longer.

My biggest concern is that my desk, where I spend nearly all day, will be traveling without me. Peter is leaving behind his awful-looking desk and says I can use that. I am not excited. His desk has some sort of tower on top of it, and a slide-out drawer where my keyboard is supposed to sit. I have no idea what will stop the drawer from sliding back in as I type, and I have tried not to consider this too deeply.

But, of course, we will get by. And I comfort myself by imagining how overwhelmed by luxuries I will be in our new place -- once we finally get there.

Full-sized towels! Light in every room! My desk!

And Peter will get to work, implementing new systems for our new life together.

Till next time,

Carrie

Carrie Classon’s memoir is called, “Blue Yarn.” Learn more at CarrieClasson.com.

DISTRIBUTED BY ANDREWS MCMEEL SYNDICATION

“Oh my gosh. I don’t want to open that box.”

Moving furniture and books and clothing is easy. It’s moving memories that is hard.

I am going through the last of my boxes. I used to say I was not a packrat. I thought I was more like my mother than my dad. My dad might tuck a piece of wood away, thinking it would find a use someday. My mother would be of the opinion that it’s easier to buy a board when (and if) it was needed. Generally, it wasn’t.

This approach keeps my parents’ house very tidy -- with the possible exception of one small room in the basement where my dad keeps his wood collection.

It turns out, I am not at all like my mother.

I have filed things away that will never find any purpose whatsoever other than to remind me of things I did and used to care about that I no longer do. For the last few days, I’ve been emptying the box.

Photos from when we used to take real photos, letters from people who cared about me, certificates indicating I accomplished something or another, reviews that mentioned my name, currency from foreign countries I will never visit again, 100+-year-old spectacles (why?), a lovely handheld fan my former mother-in-law gave me, clever things I wrote when I was in the fifth grade (really?), recipes in my grandmother’s handwriting, and even (I am embarrassed to admit) my old teddy bear.

My teddy bear feels crunchy. His exterior is badly corroded by time, I can’t imagine what has happened to his insides.

All of it is in the last box, waiting to be emptied.

Some of it is easy to understand wanting to hang onto. I am scanning some of the photos and my grandmother’s recipes, and they will move onto the great cloud in the sky. (That is where I imagine the cloud, not being savvy with computer matters.) They will likely get no more attention on the cloud than they did in the box, but they will gather less dust and -- most importantly -- they won’t need to be moved.

But still I worry that some of this -- some potshard from my past -- will be needed. It will be necessary to remember something I did or someone I knew or something that was important to me and, if I lose it, I will lose some part of myself.

The fact that this is nonsense does not lessen the feeling.

I’ve heard the mantra that we should keep only what “sparks joy,” and I cannot claim that anything in that box is sparking joy. In fact, the existence of that box is causing me a fair amount of angst.

Instead, I ask myself, “Would I experience great pain if I threw this away?”

Generally, the answer is, “No,” and the item is tossed. But sometimes, for no logical reason, I hold something in my hand, and I feel I need it. I need the fan my mother-in-law gave me, I need those 100+-year-old spectacles and, yes, it is possible that I might still need my teddy bear -- even though he has gone all crunchy on me. Heck, I’ve gotten a little crunchy myself.

It’s not a perfect system. But the contents of the box are shrinking and the guilt for hanging onto so much stuff is dissolving, and I feel a sense of satisfaction, sending one after another of my grandmother’s recipes through the scanner.

I just found her recipe for chocolate frosting. I’m going to make it sometime soon.

Till next time,

Carrie

Carrie Classon’s memoir is called, “Blue Yarn.” Learn more at CarrieClasson.com.

DISTRIBUTED BY ANDREWS MCMEEL SYNDICATION