Being a perfectionist is a bitch – AKA cookie dough is not a real flavour

Finish. The. Job. Please!

I can vouch for the fact that being a perfectionist sux. And cookie dough ice cream? Not a real flavour. There. I said it. Shoot me. It’s LAZY. Cook the cookies. FINISH THE JOB, PEOPLE. How can you make a flavour out of something that’s not even finished? All the half-finished, half-baked stuff being marketed and worshipped is pushing all of my control-freak buttons.

I have numerous examples. Magic Mike. A half-finished, half-baked movie plot that was filmed and dashed off to screen as good enough because it looked pretty. (Really, really pretty – even though Matthew McConaghey should earn some kind of award for personifying perfectly the creepiest of creepy old-dude strippers). I don’t want to spoil it for you if you haven’t had the pleasure yet, but let’s just say, people with drug-related issues at the end still had them, had not developed any maturity, and were headed relentlessly on a path to destruction. As a sub-character, I guess this didn’t matter. The lead character? Well, if you get a girl, I guess your financial woes and existential crises and future career direction also needs no hint of a resolution. But, NAKED. And PRETTY.

Magic Mike – a half-baked movie… not that it matters.

Cookie dough? A flavour that is marketed and sold in icecream form even though it’s RAW DOUGH and not a real flavour, un-cooked, un-finished, just because it tastes good. Fifty Shades of Grey? Two cardboard cutout characters, undeveloped and unedited, sent to market because the market was ready, because it was a book about naked, and we buy naked. FINISH THE JOB, PEOPLE.

Ooooh, actually – I think I’ve just disproved my own theory, for marketing purposes anyway. Don’t finish the job, because naked, unfinished, sells really, really well. Perhaps I’ll stop getting dressed each day and my family will start to worship me …

Perfectionism’s a funny thing. Perhaps funny’s the wrong word. It makes me very hard on people, and even harder on myself. Not much is amusing there. The strange part is though, that it picks and chooses the parts where it strikes. Domestically, I am the antithesis of a goddess. A god-thesis? There’s a threshold, and when the house hits it, I’m like a dervish until it’s back together, but trying to work and sort the kids and do it all, something has to give or I’d combust. I do, fairly regularly, but I realise I can’t bake cakes in an apron as well. So, no Bree for me.

In other areas though? My work needs to be literally, to the letter, PERFECT. I’m an editor. Writing for me though is like a freefall. I’m not an editor when I do that. The perfectionist is in the kitchen making coffee (for someone else obviously! Bitch! Why didn’t she bring me one?!) Sometimes I think it would be such a relief to let it all hang out, and then I go back to being cranky at the people who don’t bake their biscuits. You wouldn’t eat your popcorn raw, would you?

I am alone in my crankidom? Is crankidom even a word? Do I need to chill out – are some things just better left unfinished?