How to stay single in the normal world

Do you remember Bob from the Quad?

I ran into him at our meeting in New York. It was a delightful surprise.

He's still the same. We hugged and giggled like maniacs.

He left our office shortly after I got engaged, so I gave him the life highlights: married the guy, got knocked up, have a son, all is well.

He's still living the single life, still dating. He said he just tends to say or do the wrong thing and fuck up the dates.

He gave a cringe-worthy example. Personally, I think he just hasn't met anyone with the appropriate level of goofiness and appreciation of the absurd.

So I told him the following story.

Nick had a second date with a woman in Baltimore. They were going to have dinner and then see a movie. Traffic was horrendous, and he'd gotten there late. So he asked if she'd rather have dinner or see the movie, as there just wasn't time for both.

She chose the movie. She really wanted to see Brokeback Mountain.

Having been stuck in the car for a couple hours, Nick really had to pee. He waited until they were settled in their seats, and then he excused himself to go to the bathroom.

By the time he sat back down, the film was underway.

He leaned over and said, "Have I missed any of the good sodomy?"

He never saw her again.

When you're back where you belong

Last night, I told Nick I'd get up with Jordan this morning.

He woke up around 7:00. Not an unreasonable hour, but oh, I was so warm and cozy tucked up against Nick.

I said, "I'll get up in a second. I just want to enjoy this a little."

"I'd be nice it he slept till 10."

"Or if somehow, Mary Poppins could magically appear and take care of him."

"Yeah. Or maybe that guy Steve who hangs around in the alley."

In which you spend your day in a hotel ballroom taking notes on risk tolerance and end it with a Reuben as big as your head

New York is the kind of place where people will offer you random compliments and ask you if you like comedy, because of course the club is just up the street, and also, everything is very flashy and shiny and sparkly and you know I get fixated on that kind of thing and then walk into holes.

The fact is that I have mostly done a whole lot of working in the hotel. So this afternoon when my duties were done, a colleague and I headed to the half-price booth and got tickets to Billy Elliot.

Which we saw this evening and which was spectacular.

After the tickets I was so happy to be out! In the air! That I braved the clumps of snow and giant slush puddles and just walked.

On my path I got compliments on my new glasses (from a man), my coat (a woman), and an offer to be my sex slave (different man). I also got random eye contact and hellos from a couple cute men.

None of these things happen to me on the streets of our nation's capital.

Are New Yorkers just friendlier? Like, should I have moved here when I was single? I mean, this is moot, but as we all know, New York is full of uptight workaholic men in suits, which are totally my type.

I think Nick is my best-case scenario on this one. And of course things having panned out re: the dying alone, I'm glad I didn't move.

But in any case, I think I'm a fan. I mean of New York. That I am of my husband goes without saying.

And you guys, I cannot wait to go home. Nick put Jordan on the phone this morning, and he said his funny little, "Hallaaaaw Mama!" and my heart nearly fell out of my chest and clunked on the floor.

Anyway, after the theatre my colleagues and I stopped at Carnegie Deli and got sandwiches, and while I thought the sandwich was kind of pricey, I didn't realize it was because it was as big as my head.

You could solve the starvation in Bangladesh problem with one of these. Plus pickles!

And now I'm very tired and clearly kind of punchy and I have to sleep. Although I've set the alarm for later tomorrow because I figure that if you eat half a cow this late at night you probably will still be full at breakfast. No?

I have other stories and thoughts on truth and lies and fancy dinners but the current fact is that in a matter of hours I'm going to be up and trying to make myself look presentable and then taking notes on all kinds of over-my-head financial stuff.

These new glasses make me feel really smart, though. Totally helpful.

Better than television

This kid is the reason we don't watch anything. Also, we're waiting for Mad Men to come back.

But I swear, I've never been so entertained in my life.

I didn't even know I was lacking in entertainment until I had a kid. I was! I was!

On the entertainment front, I don't know if you've ever put little pieces of paper around your dog's feet and secured them with rubber bands? Like, so they can't feel the ground?

Just wondering.

OK, now I'm off to the train which means I'm off to New York. For work. But still! New York!

Trying is very, well, trying

Yah, so when I was single and people would say they were "trying to have a baby" I was always like, why the would you tell me that?

Like, I don't feel bad enough about being single and about to die alone, and now you're telling me that on top of your regular marital sex, you're having even more sex.

You get to have sex any time you want to. And now you have even MORE.

While I am going to die alone in this corner over here.

Out loud I would be all, "Oh, well, good luck!"

While internally I would be all, "Fuck you very much."

Right.

And when we got pregnant with Jordan, I didn't really know how to track anything. My period was always kind of a surprise. Like on our honeymoon. Although that was the least of it.

But generally, there we were, newly married and having lots of sex, and hoping to get pregnant, but figuring it would take a while. But we'd do it ever day, just to be safe.

And maybe there were a few days where I was all, "Oh, for God's sake, just stick it in and get it over with, would you?"

But for the most part, it wasn't all that much effort.

And now, now I know why people who are trying talk about trying. Because it's on your mind ALL THE TIME.

I mean, I'm not all, "Hi my name is Lisa and according to my calculations I'm going to ovulate tomorrow, but I've been peeing on those motherfucking sticks and now I wonder if I ovulate at all..."

I have more self-restraint than that.

And I also realize that nobody was telling me that they were having lots of fun sex.

No.

What they were saying was, "Sex on demand really sucks and I can tell you exactly what day of my cycle today is and maybe even the state of my mucus and position of my cervix and if by the grace of God I get pregnant I am never going to have to have sex again. I am so over it."

Just kidding, Nick. HAHAHaha. Ha. ha.

Dangers and annoyances: Cervixi, rodenti, mammali, etceteri

So, I was going to write about my cervix, but then I started wondering if the plural of cervix was cervixes or cervixi?

Not that I have more than one. I was just, you know, wondering. As you do.

This then led me to thinking about hippopotamuses, which apparently can also be puralized (plurified?) as hippopotami. Same with rhinoceri. I like plurals ending in i.

Which further led me to recall that I haven't told you the rat head story.

Before you get all, "Christ, cervix-hippo-rat-heads? No wonder you're having trouble getting pregnant!" let me tell you. There's a very logical connection.

The investigator's wife.

Actually, she has no connection to my cervix. But she's the one who told me about the density of raccoons in Rock Creek, and how they have can pick locks and rape your pets.

Which added them immediately to my fear list. Actually, they were on there already because of the rabies, but it bumped them way up high - right up there with hippopotami.

Because, as I like to remind people, they're fast and mean and can turn on a dime, those hippopotami.

I feel lucky we don't have a density of them in our neck of the world. Can you imagine being on your way to work, walking along listening to your iPod, and then suddenly, out of nowhere, a hippo runs you over? Blam! Dead. Or you're on the metro, and your train has just come up from underground, and all of a sudden it's knocked off its rails by an angry hippo?

They attack without apparent provocation, you know.

Incidentally, dolphins are also rapists. But you don't have to worry about them on your way to work. Unless you're a marine biologist, I suppose.

So.

We had dinner with the investigator and his wife, who, as soon as we sat down said, "Should I start with the rats?"

What kind of a question is that? When you know the answer is going to be, "Absolutely!"

Basically, they've been finding rat parts in their Petworth neighborhood.

They found a rat body - cleanly severed - and initially thought it was the neighbors, but then later opened their car hood and realized that the rat might've been in there when the car got turned on and somehow one of the belts functioned like a guillotine and that was that.

(Because apparently rats like to crawl inside cars when it's cold. And, if you leave your car long enough, they can chew their way inside your car. Truth.)

So then later that week the investigator came across a rat head down the block.

"Same rat?"

"No."

"How do you know?"

"The head was severed in a different place."

I believe the man knows what he's talking about. He's an investigator, after all.

Romance. Or, for whom the familiarity tolls

There is something pretty extraordinary about knowing that someone loves you enough and is committed enough to you and to the idea of your relationship to weather the ups and downs.

This came as a big surprise to me, since so many of my relationships were so precarious.

Familiarity, however, takes a toll on romance. Romance, in my opinion, necessitates a little mystery.

So the other day Nick said we should go out for a romantic date.

And I asked if he thought we still had romance.

He was surprised. "Do you think we lack romance?"

"Don't you?"

"Well, do you think romance is dead in our relationship?"

I guess I just assumed that once someone has looked your hemorrhoids full on in the, uh, whatever, you just have to figure that they love you completely, but that romance has gone straight out the window.

Fortunately, he seems to have gotten past that little episode.

Month 17

Dear Jordan,

While out on a walk, we spotted a great playground, and while you were running across it, I realized that you'd become a big BOY! You run, you climb, you slide!

I particularly love watching you with your dad, not only because you have such a good time together, but because next to him you look so tiny.

Because my math skills are terrible, when you measured 32 1/2 inches, I thought, well, I'm 73 1/2 inches, so he's still less than half my height. Except that it turns out I gave myself an extra foot of height. You're catching up on me fast, my little friend.
You're in constant motion. When I come home at night you're usually waiting at the door or window with Nana, waving a book. "Mama! Booth!"

You have strong opinions about which book you want to read, which car you want to play with, and actually, now that I think about it, pretty much everything. And when you DON'T want to do something, you really don't want to. The thing you haven't yet fully grasped, though, is that Mama always wins.

You've added so many new words, and you love pointing and being told what something is. You take the words and fully embrace them, making them your own. Thus walnuts become NAnuss!

I suppose I've said, "What is it?" about a million times, because you now love to say, "Ahziziziz?"

I never realized babies slept with their little butts up in the air, but you do, and it's the cutest thing I've ever seen.
In fact, every single day I think you're the cutest thing I've ever seen. Seriously. Every. Single. Day.

And then you get even cuter.

I love you, my big boy.

Love,

Mama

And really, all I wanted was a snow day

For Richard Stands

When Nick was a kid, he thought the Pledge of Allegiance went as follows: "I pledge allegiance to the flag of the United States of America and to the republic for Richard stands, one nation under God, invisible, with liberty and justice for all."

Nixon was President at the time, and so "for Richard stands" made sense to Nick. The nation being invisible made not so much sense, but who was he to question it?

Humor Impairment?

We watched the Hangover on Saturday. Actually, Nick watched it. I gave up after about 20 minutes. I just didn't think it was that funny.

WHAT is my problem? People thought the Hangover was hilarious. Other people love Will Ferrell, and I'd rather be burned with cigarettes than watch his movies. Other people laugh out loud at the Fokkers. Me, I get so irritated with Ben Stiller in those movies I want to bludgeon him.

I like comedy. I like to laugh. I want funny...but my funny doesn't seem to line up with the normal people of the world.

We Used to Talk Like Grownups

I made myself some pasta last night while Nick was watching TV. He came downstairs and saw that I had a bowl of something.

"Humma?"

"No. Tata with broccoli."

It's sort of about masturbation but more about not trying to talk strangers on the bus into having children

I know it sounds totally creepy to talk about masturbation in conjunction with anything having to do with children, but it's just for comparison of difficulty of explanation.

There's no overlap. NONE. They are discrete issues, as demonstrated by the above Venn diagram. I didn't exactly line up the circles because I had trouble with the circle-maker. But I don't think that matters.

As you see, masturbation is the blue circle and babysitting is the yellow circle, and they're floating around separately. They don't even touch. There is NO GREEN.

It just seemed like the best comparison for demonstrating attempting to explain stuff that you just can't explain to someone. In case you're ever asked to. Which you probably won't be.

And I know I'm going to get a call from Nick shortly being all, "What the hell did you put in your oatmeal this morning?"

The answer: Walnuts.

Let me sum up.

Nick is constantly telling people how amazing it is to be a parent, and how they should definitely try it if they're on the fence or even fairly solidly planted in the "don't really think we want to have kids" camp. He promotes having a baby, adoption, whatever. Just get your hands on a kid and parent him or her, because it's the best thing ever.

While I love being Jordan's mom, and I feel like my life is so much richer for it, I let people be. It's such a personal decision. And it's not like every moment is sprinkled with pixie dust.

Plus, until someone opens a baby kennel/hotel, your freedom is severely hampered for a veeery long time. Plus the money. And general every minute responsibility. And such.

So.

So I started thinking about how impossible it would be to describe what it is like to have a child to someone who doesn't have one. Because while it's kind of like having a dog, it's so much more extreme. And a gajillion times more rewarding.

I was looking for a comparison, and I thought, well, it would be like trying to describe how much fun sex is to a virgin. How would you even begin?

But then I thought, yah, but just because you're a virgin doesn't mean you don't masturbate.

In fact, I hope you do. I mean, unless you think it'll make you go straight to hell. I'm pretty sure you won't, but I was raised a heathen, so what do I know?

Anyway. Back to the kids.

I also remembered that people babysit. That's like practice kid-having.

So if you wanted to have an idea of what it's like to have kids, you could watch one for a day, or even a whole weekend if you wanted the fire hose approach.

Going to Target for the afternoon is not good enough. You can't be able to leave while they fling themselves on the floor and screech. They have to be your responsibility.

Which made me realize that while you wouldn't have the full picture - you wouldn't get the day-to-day fun, or all the delicious joys of those small, unpredictable sweet moments, nor maybe the worst of the tantrums, in 48 or even 12 hours you'd probably get a pretty good idea of what it's like.

In the same way, with masturbation you aren't getting all the awesomeness and excitement that goes along with sex with someone...but you're also never going to be left with that I-can't-fucking-believe-I-shaved-my-legs-for-this irritation. You know? I mean, unless you are a virgin, or have only had amazing sex, in which case you don't.

Admittedly, sometimes it doesn't exactly work out despite your own best efforts, which is of course frustrating, but much less frustrating than when it works out just fine for the other person and then they're all, "That was awesome, and now I'm going to go straight to sleep!" and you're all, "Um?"

And then you totally lie there muttering epithets and thinking about stabbing them.

Which is why I'm massively in favor of premarital sex.

Because what if you didn't and you married someone selfish like that? And then if they wouldn't change, eventually you might build up so much resentment that you'd get them all drunk and set fire to them.

And then you'd probably wind up in prison. Which would suck.

All this to say, I really do think it's best that people know what they're getting themselves into.

Or maybe not. Don't let a weekend of babysitting deter you. Being a parent is wonderful.

I have this strong feeling that's my point. It seems like it could be.

Did this even make any sense? Should I just delete the whole damn thing?

Sometimes I make myself very tired.

Still life with moonlight

You know, when I was driving out to my parents' house the other night to pick up Betty, I started thinking about my dad.

Well, first I started thinking about the police, because I was driving a little too fast down this one road in their neighborhood.

It's this street that has 25 MPH posted for half of it, and then it changes to 35, but it's hard to go only 25, and my parents had both gotten tickets for going like one mile over. Seriously. And so if you were ever driving either of them down that road, they incessantly reminded you of what a speed trap it was.

Betty still does this. Truth. You can try it.

So I was careening down this speed trap in my Civic at oh, about 30 MPH, and I could totally picture my dad telling me to slow down.

And then I started thinking, what if I did get pulled over? And what if I recognized the policeman as one of the ones who was so helpful with my dad?

Which made me start to cry. The combination of the crisp, chilly dark, and the road, and the hypothetical same policeman just triggered me.

I got this visual of myself standing outside on the second floor balcony of a motel with a couple policemen. The EMTs were just getting ready to carry the stretcher out to the ambulance. They told me not to look.

I was wearing a periwinkle fleece. The location and the fleece meant it was 2007. I remember that I liked that fleece, and that it looked good with my eyes, even as red and puffy as they were.

The fleece. Isn't that a stupid thing to remember?

Mind your own uterus: The reason that stupid minivan is still on my mind

I was raised pro-choice. There's never been a moment in my life where I thought that abortion should not be a personal choice.

But having been pregnant, and being a mother, and being a mother who wants to be pregnant again, I have never, ever been so vehemently pro-choice as I am now.

I grew up knowing that if I found myself pregnant young or in the wrong circumstances, I'd have an abortion. It was just kind of a fact.

It was also a fact in our household that condoms were the solution to everything: poverty, world hunger, STDs, overpopulation...and of course, on a personal level, avoidance of finding one's self all knocked up.

So fortunately, I never found myself all knocked up. Until, you know, I wanted to be.

But for all those years, I don't remember getting so violently angry about abortion. I mean, I felt strongly enough to march and give money to Planned Parenthood and get into arguments.

But not so strongly that I'd want to ram into the back of an anti-abortion-bumper-sticker having car. But now, now I do.

I was pro-choice because it just seemed fair to be able to have control over your fertility. Because friends of mine had gotten pregnant accidentally, and made the choice, and gone on with their lives. Lives that would've been dramatically different had they been forced into teen and early 20-s motherhood.

But I didn't give it a lot of thought beyond, "Fuck you, don't tell me what to do with my body."

And then I got pregnant. And I realized how pregnancy takes over your entire body, mind, soul. It affects every cell of your being. I learned how fucking hard it is.

And I had it easy. I'm not a manual laborer. I have a desk job. I have an accommodating workplace. And ample leave. And a supportive husband. And good health care.

I whined about it a lot, but comparatively, pregnancy was not so hard for me.

Then I had the kid. You know, the one I talk about all the damn time and love like crazy.

Having a kid you hoped for, one you want and have the means to provide for, one you and your spouse and your mother dote on, it's amazing. It's also amazingly hard.

And once again, we have it easy. There's more than one of us. We live in a comfortable, safe house in a nice neighborhood. We can afford to meet all of our needs. We rush to meet his, and we revel in him. He has it easy.

But forcing someone to go through a pregnancy they don't want, just because you think it's wrong? Feeling like you have the right to force the birth of an unwanted child?

Life is fucking hard. Why make it harder? And why make it harder from birth? My ass these people are actually thinking about the child.

I get so infuriated by the smug self-righteous fucks pushing an anti-abortion agenda. I'm not telling you what do to with your body (except occasionally to stick your agenda up your ass); don't tell me what to do with mine.

And I can't even get started on men with an anti-abortion stance. Men! The ones who will never, ever be pregnant! I get apoplectic. If you have a penis and I'm not married to you, stay the fuck out of my uterus.

(Although actually, now that I'm thinking about it technically, it's not like the person I am married to could actually get into my uterus. Because of course my cervix is in the way. But that's anatomy, not politics. You know what I'm saying.)

Watch your ass

I don't know about you, but I totally judge people on their bumper stickers.

And while I'm not terribly political, nothing enrages me like the issue of choice. But that's a whole nother post.

So the judgey. If someone gets all in my way and is a terrible driver, I'll be all annoyed, but then if they have a sticker for a politician I like, or for the Humane Society or something, then I'm all, "Oh, they're from Virginia. Maybe they're lost."

And the reverse is also true, but more so. So much more so.

If you're advertising beliefs that are antithetical to mine, I immediately assume you're a tremendous asshole and you're probably on your cell phone.

Little Betty is under the weather, and so last night I drove out to bring her to our house. I just feel better having her under my nose and knowing exactly how she's doing.

Anyway, I was on my way out of DC and for three different lights I was stuck behind this minivan with Virginia plates. It was festooned with numerous stickers.

The two I remember are: "Choosy Mothers Choose Life" and "What's the Cost of Abortion? One Human Life." The others were of the same ilk.

Light one: I read the stickers and had this extreme urge to throw my car into reverse and ram into the back of that minivan as hard as possible. Multiple times. A la Fried Green Tomatoes.

The light changed before I could do this. But I'm pretty sure I wouldn't have.

Light two: I tried to get in front of them on the way to this light, one because they were slow, but just fast enough, and two, because being stuck behind their enormous proselytizing minivanass was making me mad.

I was unsuccessful. But this light went fast.

Light three: I remembered that I have that awesome Cut Your Seat Belt and Escape from Death! hammer that lovely Laura bought for me in my glove box. I pictured myself jumping out of my car, running up to theirs, and smashing the shit out of their windows.

I didn't do this either.

Karma and The Law, you know?

And they're also ideal for storage, is what I'm saying

So Jordan has been walking around saying, "dondoonda!"

"Dondoonda! Dondoonda!"

Much like the humma, I had no idea what he was saying. And then the other day, as he was trying to put a toy in my cup of tea, he said, "dondoonda!"

Don't do that!

So.

Another reason I love the Canadians is that they seem to make the warmest boots eh-vurrr.

Which seems like a non sequitur, but it's not really. Or maybe it is. But it relates.

This is my first pair of serious, sturdy, ready-for-snow boots I've ever had. Not to be all Forrest Gump, but they're my magic boots.

I ordered them a couple weeks ago in a here-comes-the-snow panic, and Zappos brought them to my doorstep in like 15 minutes. As we haven't had snow here yet, I've just been wearing them around the house. Because it's like wearing the warmest cocoon sleeping bag heaters you can imagine. It's delicious.

Anyway, I'd recommend them to anyone, but I'd recommend them one size up. The wrap-your-tootsies-in-warm-magic seems to take up a lot of space.

But now I'm ready for snow.

Jordan knows the word boots, and so I was wondering what he was up to when he was walking over to my boots and saying, "car! car!"

I spent a lot of time saying, "Honey, that's a boot. It's not a car."

Until he turned the boot over and a bunch of stuff fell out.

This turns out to be because one of his new favorite activities is to drop things into Mama's boots. Like cars. And goldfish. And berries.

Cars? OK.

Goldfish? Berries? Dondoonda!

Buttons, laces, clips, goals, and my utter inability to take things off before putting things on

One of my goals for this year is to sew on missing buttons, hooks, etc, and not just clip and staple my clothes together like a hobo.

I don't know if hobos do that, but you know what I mean.

Also, see those shoes J is wearing in the photo? He chewed one of the shoelaces in half. Yes, like a dog.

I need do to something about that. Along with the buttons.

Which I haven't done so far, but I still have the bulk of the year to hit this goal. But what this leads me to is this: There are people who learn and people who don't.

And I think I fall in the latter category.

Because I am one of those people who will put a T-shirt on over her head without taking off her glasses. I know it's a bad idea, I know it's going to jam my glasses onto my nose, and yet each time I somehow think that this time it'll be different.

It's the same with pulling pants on over shoes.

It's always faster, if you decide to change pants after you've put on your shoes, to take the damn shoes off, rather than laboriously working one pants leg and then the other off over the shoes. And then pulling on the new pants. And maybe falling over in the process. Because even with boot cut, it's hard to squeezle your shoes through pants legs.

And yet, I insist on doing so over and over and over.

It's like the binder clips. I know it hurt last time, and the time before, but I still have that curiosity.

I wonder what this means?

Happy weekend, all!

Share some love

Say you really, really loved someone, with all your heart. You know how good it feels? Then say the other person decided that being with you was no longer what they wanted. You know how gut- and heart-wrenchingly terrible that feels? In times like that, you need all the support you can get.

Please give sweet HKW some virtual hugs.

----

Say you've gotten recognition for doing something you find fulfilling, like blogging. Say it's from BlogHer. That would make you feel kind of great, wouldn't it?

Let's offer The Empress and Taming Insanity congratulations!

----

Say you're turning 30, and while 30 is a fretty milestone, you know who you are, and you recognize and embrace the good and the bad. And you're going on a tropical vacation. In January.

Wish Lemmonex a safe trip and a happy birthday!

This one big thing I've been NOT talking about

Every day for months and months now, I've been not pregnant.

I'm still not pregnant. And I'm so tired of not talking about it. NOT talking about things like this exhausts me. So here you have it.

I'm 41 and not pregnant. When I'd like to be, oh, 31. And pregnant.

If I were 31, pregnant or not, I wouldn't be dealing with all of this literature that basically says have your kids early - don't wait till you're old! And once you pass 40, your fertility plummets faster than lead weights dropped off the Empire State Building.

They don't say it that way. They use technical terms. And graphs that show how fast your fertility goes to hell after 35. And how much faster after 40.

Seriously. The books are all, time your sexual activity, check your mucus, take your temperature...unless you're over 35, in which case it will be harder. And if you're over 40, well, you've crossed over into the land of abandon fertility hope all ye who enter here. Get yourself to a specialist.

Who may or may not refer to his ex-wife as a bitch and suggest, without having taken your blood or checked hormone levels or all these other things they do, that you jump on fertility hormones, stat.

Because you are 41.

And the thing is, I have this amazing kid who I love more than my own life. I feel lucky and grateful for him, I really do. And I now realize how miraculous it was that we got married and then were all, OK, now let's have a kid...and then we did!

I know women in their 20s who were all, oh, we forgot to use a condom that one time, or I missed a couple pills one month and then suddenly I was pregnant! This is the difference between your 20s and your 40s.

In your 20s, your eggs are just champing at the bit to be introduced to some handsome sperm and to set up house in your well-stocked uterus. By your 40s they're like you. Tired. Jaded. Kind of over all of it, but willing to rise to the challenge if the time and temperature and mood and the position of the earth in the solar system are exactly right.

So there you have it. You can tell me to shut up, that I have this lovely child and I should be satisfied to have him, and I'm being greedy wanting one more.

But I do. I want more family. I want one more.

She thinks she's found a magical land...In the upstairs wardrobe.

OK, so I was going to write this whole post about the awesomeness of my new closet, and then I was all, "Really? This is what your life has come to? Rhapsodizing about a closet?"And then I got totally depressed, but then I ate some Reese's cups and gave myself a good talking-to and yes, this is what my life has come to. I love my new closet.

Because I don't know if you've ever lived somewhere alone with lots of closets and gotten totally closet spoiled and then moved in with someone else and had to squeeze your whole life into one and a half of his closets? Which made you kind of bitter, but you set it aside because you were still in the throes of new love plus huge relief about not dying alone?

And then you moved into an old Victorian house with huge rooms and pretty much no closets, which meant you were forced to pile your stuff on the floor, much to the chagrin of your tidy husband? And also you wore the same three things all the time for work because you didn't have access to your hanging clothes?

And then after a year and a half you just decided that enough was enough, and you finally convinced your husband that Ikea was the solution? And then he put it together for you?If you haven't, let me tell you: this closet has changed my life.

And lo! there was much rejoicing, because look! the process of hanging and away-putting, it has begun!

Tra la!

Talking about a resolution

I'm not so much of a resolution-maker, and when I do, it's stuff like eat more bacon.

Also, hi! Happy 2011!

I've decided that I actually want to set some goals for myself. One of the big ones is to get better at taking people as they are. I think this is important.

The friends to whom I've told this have laughed and said, "Yeah, let me know how that one goes."

But I'm going to try.

I'm also going to create a To-Do list sort of page on the blog, so I have something concrete - that I can't crumple up and stick in a pocket and ultimately lose - to refer back to. I always feel good when I check items off a list. I just suck at making the lists in the first place.

So I suppose another resolution is: make a damn list already.

Also resolved: clean up language in front of the kid. Jordan now mimics everything. I really don't want him running around exclaiming "Jesus Jordan!" and Dammit! This might be the hardest one. We'll see.

And I want to dress more professionally for work.

Sophie, you'll be particularly happy to hear this - I got the Ikea closet! for Christmas! It got delivered last week and Nick finished putting it together at about 9 pm last night.

It's fantastic. And it has two mirrored doors. So now not only can I see more of my clothes, I can also see how I'm dressed head to toe before walking out the door.

Thus decreasing my likelihood of realizing I'm dressed like an asshole once I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror at work.

So, to sum up:

• Take people more as they are.
• Make a damn to-do list.
• Decrease profanity in front of the kid.
• Dress more professionally or at least like less of an asshole for work.

I think that's a good start.

How about you?