In My Corner

In my latest endeavor to lose the ten pounds that I've been trying to lose for the last nine years, I went out and got myself a Wii - and all the Wii Fit Plus accoutrements that go along with it.

I'm three weeks in, and 3.6 pounds have been lost.

On the right track, but I know I'll have to pick up the pace (and put down the bon bons) if I really want to see the remaining 7.4 pounds disappear.

Along with learning fascinating facts about my BMI and center of balance (I tend to favor my right side by about 2%.), the Wii Fit has taught me about what it takes to motivate me.

Apparently, it takes Burgess Meredith.

My most satisfying moments on the Wii are spent doing what is called "rhythm boxing". Not exactly an Olympic sport, but, somehow, swinging my Wiimote and nunchuk while stepping on and off the balance board in time is oddly gratifying.

Deep within my pacifist soul, I harbor a desire to throw the occasional punch. And rhythm boxing lets me do it in a socially-acceptable way. It even gives me gold stars when I've done it well, which is, I must say, all the damn time.

Seriously, I'm up to expert mode.

But enough about me.
Back to Burgess Meredith...

You see, I'm put through my daily rhythm boxing paces by the computer-generated approximation of the voice of a grizzled old trainer.

I'm his Rocky Balboa.
And he's my Mickey.

He pushes me to hit harder, calls me Fighter, and always ends the workout by telling me that I'd better hit the gym again tomorrow. Saying, "Nice block!" is as close as this guy gets to gushing.

And I'm totally working my ass off to win his approval.

Yes, I desperately want my virtual rhythm boxing trainer to be proud of me.

Is that odd?

Here's the thing, though. I don't really give a shit what the computerized lady with the perky breasts who leads me through yoga and strength training thinks of me.

When she tells me that how great my balance is, I get all, "Oh, don't patronize me," with her.

And when she gets so nurturing and concerned about me when I "... seem a little shaky" doing the tree pose, I just roll my eyes.

She's fake and soulless, and a bit like too many people I've actually met.

I read an article recently about how researchers figured out that you can't truly fake a smile. Not even to a baby. A smile is too complex, involving a perfectly timed coordination of movements at the corners of the mouth and the edges of the eyes.

Maybe praise is the same way. You can't just program a machine to say, "Good job!" and expect to affect me the way genuine praise from a genuine person can - even if you have programmed the machine to say it fifteen different ways.

So, I turn down the sound when the virtual lady with the hollow words comes on.

And I smile as I throw punches for my own Burgess Meredith, who respects me far too much to ever tell me how impressed with me he is.

This Time It's Personal

Obscured by the sounds of running water and my toothbrush, I could have sworn I heard my husband say, "According to the scale, I lost thirty pounds since last week."

"Fwee pawnds?" I replied, mouth filled with toothpaste.

"No, not three. Thirty."

Since he didn't have a bout of dysentery or cut off one of his arms last week, a dead battery in the scale seemed the most logical explanation. "Oh, don't change the battery until I have a chance to try it too. I want to know what it's like to get on the scale and feel all tiny!"

Now, I know that men lose weight more easily than women (our bodies need to cling to fat to protect unborn babies, survive the Donner Party, etc.), so I've taken my husband's fifteen to my four pound loss this summer with a grain of salt. (Just a grain, though. Water retention, yanno.)

When I stepped on the scale I saw that, to my dismay, it only registered a twenty pound loss.

Not thirty.

Twenty.

Apparently, it is easier for men to lose imaginary weight as well.

Hmph!

Findings

I've hit the point in the summer where the overwhelming desire to organize things takes over. Today's mission: sort through the mountains of paperwork scattered about the basement.

Here are a few of the things I found as I went through the piles:

• My daughter's Chinese passport. (She was SO tiny!)

• Car insurance coverage information and service appointment details for two cars I no longer own.

• The instructions showing how to put together the crib I set out at the end of the driveway with a FREE sign on it - yesterday.

• The itemized vet bills from my dog's treatment, death, and cremation last fall. :-(

• Our 1040's from 1998. (How long are you supposed to keep those?)

• A recipe for potato salad, written in my grandma's handwriting.

• Pay stubs from 2002. (I so don't want to be a pack rat, but I fear sometimes that I am becoming one. Maybe it's more about my laziness than a need to horde, though. Like that's healthier, right?)

• The receipt from that denim skirt I ordered from Land's End last summer. The one that never fit me and that I still have in its plastic bag in my closet. Can I return it after a whole year? Is there a statute of limitations on such things?

• An unused iTunes gift card I got for Christmas.

Three Guys

Guy #1:

As I was making my what seems like daily pilgrimage to Target, I spotted him.

I was on a busy street, and someone had put an old elliptical machine on the boulevard with a "FREE" sign on it. Guy #1 was a big man wearing a dress shirt and khakis; he was trying out the elliptical machine with an incredibly somber expression on his face.

Guy #2:

He was sighted while I was driving to retrieve a take-out order at the dumpy little Chinese place my mom likes.

He was bald, mustached, and wearing a black leather jacket. His motorcycle was annoyingly loud, but, poking out of his backpack was a bouquet - a dozen red roses packed in cellophane. Baby's breath and everything.

Guy #3:

I recently bought a new car - for all my driving around and seeing odd random things needs.

He was the guy from Volkswagen who called to give me the customer satisfaction survey. The first thing I noticed about him was that he appeared to be calling from the Indian Subcontinent (thick accent, two second delay after each of my answers). He introduced himself as "Danny Ocean".

What do these three guys have in common?

I don't actually know any of them, but they all made me smile.

Is That Summer in My Rearview Mirror?

As I wrote the date on a check at the grocery store this morning, I had a startling revelation: August is almost here. When I was a kid, it seemed like summer went on forever, but this one is just flying by.

I started the season out, as per my usual, with tremendous ambitions as to all I would achieve. Things haven't really panned out as planned, but there have been some moments.

So, as I contemplate summer entering its final month, here's the low-down on how I've passed the weeks thus far:

Week 1: Thank God school was out or I'd have been calling in sick every day. Yuck.

Week 2: Still fighting the cold/flu while trying to get life organized enough to go to Tokyo the next week.

Week 3: Tokyo. Totally fab. Could see myself living there but would have to get WAY more stylish in a hurry. These are the most pulled-together people I've ever seen. Not a Wal-Mart shopper in the bunch.

Week 4: Jet lag sucks. Trying to convince a toddler that she can, in fact, sleep in her big girl bed again, even though the whole family shared a super-cool king bed in Tokyo last week sucks even harder.

Week 5: Ambition and ability to sleep at night return. Yay! Begin tearing down kitchen cabinets and buying paint.

Week 6: In the ER, getting IV fluids while they run tons of tests on me to see if I have H1N1. I don't. The doctor says that I am "swimming in streptococcus". I love when doctors are funny. Antibiotics kill the bug but do very bad things to my digestive system. Managed to get on my feet enough to see the Wallflowers on Saturday night. Listened to great music amid a crowd of drunks. Am starting to refer to Jakob Dylan as a diva because of his band's habit of starting the show late. He gets to be a diva, though. He's talented enough to earn that right.

Week 7: Mood totally boosted by loss of five pounds since June. Know much of that can be attributed to digestive trauma of last week, but vow to behave myself to keep that new number on the scale. It will serve as my motivation. Yes! Then, while grocery shopping, I discovered that Nestle makes chocolate Push-Up's.

Ode to Billie Joe

My students are always shocked to learn that I've heard of Green Day.

They are, after all, and extremely cool band, and I am, after all, an old person.

The notion of me, the middle-aged lady who nags them about when to use well and when to use good, having a working knowledge of this band is just too much for their little brains to handle.

"Seriously, I have been listening to them since before you were born, Whippersnapper."

Anyhow, a few years ago I saw one of those Behind the Music shows about Green Day, and a comment that Billie Joe Armstrong made just kind of stuck with me. He was talking about "Good Riddance" and how people were so surprised to hear the quiet little acoustic song that could coming from Green Day. Everyone thought they knew what to expect from them: fast, loud, and irreverent. Then they went and hit us with "Good Riddance". I believe gobsmacked is the term the British use to describe our collective reaction to it.

While explaining the process of writing the song and choosing to release it as a single, Billie Joe said that putting out that song at that time was "... the most punk rock thing we could do." It was shocking. It upset the status quo. It flew in the face of the conventional wisdom that says keep doing what's been making you money all along.

I've been thinking about Green Day and this comment a lot lately.

You see, I'm remodeling my kitchen.

I have always been one to pride myself on my lack of fear when it comes to color. There are rooms in my house painted dark brown, lime green, and Caribbean blue. Up until a couple weeks ago, my kitchen featured terra cotta walls and bright red cabinets. I love the drama of these bold hues and enjoy seeing the look of shock on color-shy people's faces when they first experience my home.

But I wanted a change.

I'd been leafing through Dwell magazine, watching snippets of the design shows on TV, etc. and came to an unexpected conclusion: I was craving beige.

So the red cabinets came down, replaced by sleek, sedate ones.

And the terra cotta paint disappeared under two coats of primer and two coats of what Valspar calls Honeymilk. (It reminds me of a freshly opened carton of vanilla ice cream. Yum.)

I love it.

It's clean.

It's modern.

And it's the most punk rock thing I could do.

Such Great Heights

Now that my flu symptoms have diminished, I've gotten back up on the metaphorical horse and started exercising again as part of my never-ending quest to lose ten pounds.

Running has always eluded me; I have the ankles of a frail, elderly woman. But I've always been fascinated by the notion of the runner's high. I have passed (in my car, of course) many a runner in my day; most of them look miserable. Now and then I pass one who is in the throes, jamming along in a full-on runner's high. And it looks sooooo awesome.

Question: Is the runner's high only legit when achieved through, yanno, running?

I have, in my step-aerobicized past, caught a glimpse of the euphoria.

And I've gotten into the Zone of Awesomeness many a time while hiking.

Tonight I did it on a Nordic Track.

Fueled by the perfect rhythm that is the Bee Gees' "Jive Talkin'" and the sudden realization that I'm on frickin' summer vacation (as opposed to thinking that I've just been home sick for the past week), I went there.

Though the music and the mood are crucial, that thing that always pushes me into the Land of the High is the fantasy - the story I make up in my head about how awesome I am and all the magnificent and impressive things I am capable of.

Um, do other people do this?

I always seem to have this hokey Olympic-caliber athlete/Charlie's Angels chasing down a perp movie playing in my mind when I hit the high. And I'm totally starring in it.

Is the fantasy fueling the euphoria?

Is it all just one big dopamine-changed hallucination?

I acknowledge that it's a bit silly, but when the swing of the "poles" on the Nordic Track take on a much-too-funky vibe, I am no longer a fortysomething suburban mom, listening to disco anthems while striding along on a piece of outdated exercise equipment.

I am so strong.

I am so lithe.

I am so high.

My Fortune

We went out for dinner at our favorite mom & pop Thai hole-in-the-wall last night. The food's always fresh and yummy, and the couple who own it are incredibly sweet and funny. It feels more like going to someone's house to dinner than eating at a restaurant.

I'm one of those people who tends to find a favorite dish (Pad Priew Wan, in this particular case) and stick with it, but I decided to peruse the menu a bit, expand my horizons, etc. I saw something on new on the menu - a salad with sliced steak on it - that looked interesting. Noting that the menu read "also available with chicken", and also noting that I prefer chicken to beef, I ordered it that way.

About five minutes after we placed our orders, "Mom" came out from the kitchen with a copy of the menu in her hand. She asked if I'd ordered this (pointing at the menu), and I said yes (smiling). Then she said, "But you wanted with chicken?!" I nodded and pointed at the line in the menu where it said "also available with chicken". She gave me a highly-dubious yet polite smile and went back to the kitchen.

This was a bad sign.

I knew it.

But I chose to ignore it.

Anyhow, she brought out our food a bit later, and I found my plate stacked with a salad that was topped with slices of chicken. How bad could it be, right?

It had an oddly pungent quality to it, almost as if it had parmesan cheese on it. Even though I have a helluva cold, it only took me a couple bites to figure out the problem: the salad was drenched in liquid with a LOT of fish sauce in it. Maybe beef could support this intense flavor, but that chicken just wasn't doing the job. Not by a long shot.

If you are unfamiliar with fish sauce, it's basically fermented sardine juice. When I cook with it at home, I use it sparingly and wash my hands after touching the bottle. That stuff lingers.

Fish sauce adds a nice salty flavor when used correctly, but this meal was far from correct. It was like eating a plate full of yeast infection. Extreme nasal congestion was the only thing that got me through enough of that plate to not leave an insulting portion sitting there untouched.

When the fortune cookies showed up, here's what mine said:

You constantly struggle for self improvement - and it shows.

What shows?

The improvement?

Or that I'm struggling?

You Disappoint Me

Maybe it's the cloudy weather, mid-life hormonal fluctuations, or an increase in solar flare activity, but, lately, a lot of things seem to be making me feel really down in the dumps. I'm typically a pretty upbeat (and sarcastic) person, but I've lost that lovin' feeling in recent weeks. 

Here's my list of things that I'm currently disappointed about/in:

• Back in late-April, I set a modest weight loss goal of seven pounds by the end of the school year. Tomorrow is the last day, and I have lost a whopping total of two pounds. Am I exercising more? Yes. Eating more fruits and vegetables? Uh-huh. Making fewer trips through the drive-through? You bet. 

Still, only two pounds have been shed.

I feel like my Real Age "weight loss tracker" graph is mocking me.

Major lifestyle modifications will need to be made. This will be harder than I thought.

I detest setting goals and not achieving them. Very disappointing. 

•  U.S. government agencies are not good at communicating with one another, so we are fewer than three weeks away from getting on the plane for Tokyo and STILL don't have a passport for our daughter. 

We applied seven weeks ago and were assured that it would take about three weeks tops. This week they sent us a letter saying we need to prove that our daughter - an adoptee - entered the country legally before they can process the paperwork. 

The original passport application called for two pieces of documentation - both of which we provided, neither of which could be obtained without proving legal resident status. Not good enough, though. So, we had no choice but to honor their latest demand and Express Mail it to them. Fingers crossed they can process it in time. 

•  The school year is almost over. Even though I love summer vacation, I always go through a bit of a funk when school lets out. I like working with so many people I consider my friends. I enjoy the work I do. I am oddly comforted by the routine of it all. And I suck at good-byes. 

Each spring I go into the last weeks of school with some sort of amnesia of years past and fully expect it to be fun - fun - fun. I forget that the atmosphere in the building can get so emotionally-charged. That there's so much to be done and, sometimes, not enough energy to do it. 

Maybe the memories of the last days of school from my elementary years are so firmly imprinted on my brain that I expect to feel that way again. But it's different now. And that's a little disappointing. 

• The Fashion Show isn't even a pale imitation of Project Runway. I crave Tim Gunn's wisdom and Heidi Klum's accent. I long to hear Nina Garcia use the phrase "taste issues". I only made it through two episodes of TFS before I just plain stopped caring. Between this and The Real Housewives of New Jersey, I'm losing my faith in Bravo, the network that used to be my happy source of background noise. It has been my default channel for a couple years now, but, lately, I find myself flipping channels a lot. My only ray of Bravo hope is Top Chef: Masters. Again, fingers crossed.

• Mostly, I am disappointed that I'm letting the little things get so far under my skin. I acknowledge that the big things in my life - family, health, career - are all going well. I could be dealing with far bigger things than these, but, even after accentuating the positive, I still feel stuck in a rut of ennui. Ho hum.

Nine is a Lot of Inches

I started dabbling in this self-improvement thing a few months ago.

The Campaign for Visible Vegetables has integrated itself quite nicely into our lives, the amount of miles the hubby and I have been hiking continues to grow, and fast food darkens our doorstep with far less frequency. 

Here's the problem, though: I see no change in my body.

Okay, there are SOME changes, like I can hike farther now than I could a few months back - and even jogged a few steps the other day. But I mean the measurable changes just aren't happening. My weight has fluctuated up and down in the same three-pound range since late-March. My clothes still fit about the same. My dreams of putting in the effort and seeing dramatic and rewarding results have been dashed. 

Fed up with the scale, I recently saw a couple mentions of waist size as an indication of fatitude vs. slimliness and realized that I had NO idea what my waist measurement is. Eager for a new means of telling myself that I'm totally not fat, I grabbed the tape measure. 

Bad choice. 

According to Real Age, my waist is about three and a half inches bigger than the big end of "ideal". 

That's not THAT much, right?

But is that the waist measurement statistic I grab on to? 

Of course not.

I decide instead to fixate on the fact that my waist is NINE INCHES bigger than the girl's on Make Me a Supermodel. Now, I appreciate that I am twenty years older than this girl and that I am never going to be a supermodel, but, still, the horror of NINE INCHES burrows into my brain and stays there. 

Nine inches is a lot of inches, yes? 

Now I'm like a dog with a bone with this whole waist measurement thing ...

On Real Age they have a waist loss tracker, so I get in there and enter my data. 

It asks for my goal. 

Um, my goal's not to feel like I tub-o-lard. 

How does that translate into numbers? 

I thought about it for a couple seconds and decided to shoot for the big end of "ideal" since I do have what is politely called a large frame (meaning I have shoulders like a linebacker).

Then it asks for the date by which I will reach this ideal (though still on the big side) state.

Great. 

Again, I'm in unfamiliar territory. 

The site tells me that half an inch every two weeks is reasonable. (Can't they just say an inch per month? Or 1.3 cm per fortnight?) I decide that three inches by summer's end should be do-able, so that's what I type in. 

So, now I have a new number to strive for. 

Another benchmark to reach. 

Great.

My real goal for myself, though, is to self-improve in the way that makes me no longer feel compelled to compare myself to supermodel wannabes. 

To reach that elusive goal of not caring about what the scale and the tape measure say.

To just appreciate the strength of my legs. 

My lungs. 

My heart. 

Now THAT would be some improvement. 

But, until then ...

Whiskey Tango Foxtrot

Last week I ...

went hiking three times, 

did not eat ice cream after dinner (but I wanted to),

ate fruit with breakfast every morning,

and only had one BAD meal (pizza, two slices) 

... and gained one pound.

?!?!?!

A Healthier Alternative to Gwyneth

I'm gonna go make my Team Scarlett t-shirt now.

It Wasn't Supposed to Be Like This

Our whole Campaign for Visible Vegetables thing has hit a bump in the road, and several bags of past-their-prime vegetables ended up in the trash rather than fulfilling their vitamin-rich destiny in our bellies; 

however, we have been making excellent progress on the Day-Glo Easter Bunny Cake Eating Project.

Wonder Buns

I'd been wondering about the no-bread-with-lunch diet thing, but then I saw a super large woman groping a bag of puffy, white hamburger buns at the store today and thought, "Yep, too much bread'll do that."

Unlimited Talk

I've had a couple unrelated things jump out in front of me lately that have added up to an inspiration for my next few weeks of blogging. 

One is the closets, baskets, and storage tubs I live among, mostly filled with clothes I never wear and stuff I never use. Edit! Edit! Edit! How many episodes of What Not to Wear must I watch before I'm finally able to do this?!

Another was the way the word discipline struck me the other day. As in I have none RE: diet, exercise, fiscal responsibility, filling the gas tank before it hits E, and so forth. 

Then there's the colleague who NEVER shuts up and makes me want to scream on a daily basis.

Next came a reference to Jim Brandenburg's book Chased by the Light. (World-famous photographer limits himself to taking only one picture per day for ninety days straight. Now that's discipline!)

Finally, there was an email with too many words. I'll leave it at that.

What all these things taken as a whole have led me to is a bit of a writing experiment. Basically, I've hatched up a plan in which I will limit myself to writing only one sentence per day on my blog. I will blog every day through the end of April, but each post will only be one sentence long. 

It will require me to stick with something, and I'm going to have to learn how to edit like crazy, but I'm going to give it a whirl. 

FAQ's

Can you include pictures?

Yes, though it's said one is worth a thousand words, I've never really taken that literally.

Will fragments be okay, or will complete sentences be required?

I'm giving myself permission to use fragments sporadically and without guilt. 

What about the titles of your posts? Couldn't you just sneak in a whole 'nother sentence there? 

I'll strive to keep the titles brief and title-like rather than using full-blown sentences.

What if someone comments on your blog? Will you be required to write single-sentence replies?

It's not a requirement that others limit their comments to one sentence at a time, but I'm going to stick to my one-sentence rule in replying to those comments.

But, couldn't you go all James Joyce and use some sneaky English major, ninja punctuation tricks, adding a bunch of semicolons and stuff, basically writing WAY more than a sentence each day but being able to call them "sentences" on some sort of technicality?

Yes, I suppose I could. 

I'll resist the urge, though. 

I am, after all, a highly-disciplined person.

Inside and Out

There are a couple of movies out there that, no matter how many times I've seen them, I will always stick with when I'm channel surfing. I am this way about all the Ocean's movies, Notting Hill (a bit embarrassing to admit, but true), Good Will Hunting, and The Devil Wears Prada. Are they the greatest films ever made? Not really, but they make me smile, and between Bravo and TBS, I'm pretty sure to land on one of them at least once per week. 

Another movie I feel this way about is Bridget Jones's Diary. I don't love la Zellweger, nor am I a huge Hugh Grant fan - despite the previous Notting Hill reference. I stick with this one for Colin Firth. More specifically, for the moment when he, as Mark Darcy, speaks that simple little line all women dream of hearing: "I like you. Very much. Just the way you are." Sigh.

I couldn't help but think of Mr. Darcy and his heart-go-pitter-pat line as I stumbled upon a string of other programming this week. 

First stop: the BBC's documentary Perfect Private Parts. This fascinating, disturbing, and sad film is about labiaplasty  - plastic surgery in which women have their labia reduced, reshaped, and generally revamped to make their vaginas, um, prettier. 

The film-maker interviewed several women who had either undergone the operation or were considering it. Their reasons varied, but most were centered on having had their privates criticized (and in some cases ridiculed) by men. I'm not a big believer in plastic surgery to begin with, but this struck me as just so bizarre. To go through the risks and pain of surgery to alter a part of you that is so inherently private. It's not like your nose - seen by everyone all day long - this is your vagina, for god's sake. 

And who really knows what one's supposed to look like, anyway? 

Well, apparently some men think they do...

I could not believe that the men they interviewed had such specific opinions as to what an acceptably-attractive vagina looks like. I blame porn. It's all waxed and out there in the movies, so now the general population thinks they gotta look like that too. Isn't it fabulous how porn gets to influence how college-educated, gainfully-employed, and generally-not-crazy women feel about their bodies? Ah, yes, just as it should be. Right-o.

Among the women who chose not to go under the knife, several were shown at gatherings with other women, where they sat around spread-eagled and discussed their relationships with their vaginas. Really? This is necessary for some people? It was all very solemn and empowering as they sat around in little robes on piles of silk pillows in a dimly-lit room. Each woman took her turn to talk about what she liked and disliked (mostly disliked) about her vagina, and the other women would say reassuring things like, "I don't think it looks like a cauliflower at all." 

When the woman who organizes these things started speaking with great earnestness about how the vagina remembers things, my first impulse was to giggle (as did the film-maker). Then I thought how that might come in handy, picturing myself scrambling around the house getting ready for work in the morning and glancing down to say, "YOU didn't happen to notice where I set my keys, did ya?"

I had barely recovered from Perfect Private Parts when I got a gander at an infomercial for Waterworks Natural Vaginal Therapy. It's a metal (reusable!) vaginal cleansing system invented by a gynecologist named Dr. Dave David. (I'm not making a word of this up, by the way.) Think of it as a tiny, interior shower. Or, better yet, don't think of it at all. 

The premise of this ad is that vaginas are super stinky, and plain old bathing just isn't enough to cut through these noxious fumes of womanliness. We must rinse ourselves out with this little gizmo, or else men will run from us in utter disgust. Seriously, they interviewed a slew of women who deeply believe in the power of Waterworks Natural Vaginal Therapy and would attest to the fact that it has changed their lives for the better. 

Now, I always figured that things of a life-changing magnitude were a bit bigger in scale: becoming a parent, losing someone you love, climbing Mt. Kilimanjaro, etc. Turns out it's actually as simple as squirting tap water into your vagina. And paying $29.95 + shipping and handling, of course. Who knew?

The third and final chapter in my inadvertent, gynocentric trilogy of sorts is a bit more reassuring. It comes in the form of the Discovery Channel's The Science of Sex Appeal. The section I saw focused on the power of scent. It was revealed that, when a woman nears ovulation, she takes on an odor that cognitively impairs men. Literally. When a woman produces this smell, men are drawn to her. He is the moth, and her scent is the flame. 

Take that, Waterworks Natural Vaginal Therapy!

Men's brains are, it turns out, programmed to like us, as Mr. Darcy would say, just the way we are. 

The F Word

We had a big wind storm go through our neighborhood last fall, and some people who live by the lake had their stone chimney damaged by a branch from a big oak tree that grows right up next to their garage. It took the whole top off the chimney, and, as I drove by the house this winter, I'd notice the blue tarp that had been put over the damaged part until it was warm enough out to fix it.

Well, the warm weather has come, and the homeowners are making some improvements to the property along with getting the chimney fixed.  What is somewhat surprising is what they've done to the tree. Or rather, what they haven't done. Instead of cutting it down because it's in the way of their expansion (or because it thunked one of its big branches down on their chimney - and has plenty more where that came from to toss at them in another storm), they decided to build a new section of their garage and patio AROUND the tree - so it pops up through a specially-built hole in the roof's overhang. This is, in my opinion, a rather impressive act of forgiveness. 

Seeing their willingness to not only forgive but embrace that which has "done-them-wrong" got me thinking about my own ability to forgive. 

My self-assessment upon reflection: I am not a particularly forgiving person. 

I harbor anger, resentment, and petty jealousy about far too many infractions - real and imagined on my part - by friends, family, colleagues, et cetera - to be doing myself any good. And most of what I'm clinging to says more about my own failings than anyone else's.

This can't be healthy. 

I gotta let some stuff go.

So, I'm going to do a little spring cleaning of the soul, and you get to come along for the ride.

I'm not going to name any names, but my hope is that by committing to writing my intentions to forgive these folks - on the internet, no less, where everything is true and real - that I will be better at following through on forgiveness than I have managed to be in the past. 

Here it goes.

I forgive you for talking shit about me. I never heard your exact words, only the interpretations of others long after you'd said them. I'm going to assume that you were coming from a place of concern for me rather than intentionally trying to be mean. I hope you can forgive me for gossiping about you in an extremely seventh-grade moment of retaliation. That was small of me, and even though we're no longer really friends, you deserved better than that.

I forgive you for not being able to read my mind and know exactly what I want/need from you. You're on the mark more often than not, and I need to be better about appreciating that. For someone who doesn't actually live inside my head, you do a mighty fine job. I hope you can forgive my occasional lack of patience. 

I forgive you for succeeding at the things I still struggle with. Rather than feeling resentful of your accomplishments, I should be inspired and motivated by them to improve myself and tackle the tough stuff I've been avoiding. You are a wonderful person. I am proud of you; it just gets buried under far less-appealing feelings sometimes. 

Are there more I need to forgive? Of course. 

But there's only so much mental clutter I can carry to the curb at one time. 

For today, I'm making progress. 

And I forgive myself for not being able to get it all done at once.

The Llama Days of Mid-March

March is supposed to come in like a lion and go out like a lamb. Here we are, smack-dab in the middle of the month, which would be like what? A moose? A llama? I dunno. 

Anyhow, having had my first taste of fifty-degree weather, I feel myself overcome with the giddy excitement that we of the northern climes feel every year when we sense that, though spring is not yet officially here, it is altogether possible. 

Bursting with hope, I set about on the tasks crucial to marking the arrival of potential spring. First among these is the packing away of the wool clothes. Farewell, tweed skirts! Adieu, itchy wool cardigan! You have served me well through the dark times of winter, but your cotton cousins need to break free from their bonds of winter storage and find their way back to their rightful place in my closet. 

Sunshine on My Woolens

Though this is a joyful time, it is not without its trials. As the warm-weather clothes emerge from storage, I have to check for fit. (Translation: This is when I find out how much weight I gained over the winter.) Knowing that I had half a donut and an entire cupcake yesterday, I decided not to try that khaki skirt and those black pants that only work when I'm feeling skinny. 

My floral-print blouse still fits, and I'm going to take that as good enough until I've put down the laptop for a while, laced up the ol' walking shoes, and gone around the block a few times. This is, after all, a time of hope. 

Skills

As I drive to work in the morning, I often see people out going for walks by the lake, jogging, biking, etc. (One lady in our neighborhood has a bunch of exercise videos, one of those yoga ball things, a picture window, a big screen TV, and great devotion to working out at 7 AM. What she lacks, however, are drapes.) 

Anyhow, as I look as these people, I often think that if it weren't for the fact that I have to go to work, I'd be spending glorious, morning hours engaging in these same healthy activities - except I'd have drapes, of course. 

Yes, I'd get up early, have a nutritious meal (eaten at a leisurely pace), read the paper in its entirety, and then slip into something spandex and head out to fill my lungs with the refreshing air of the sunrise hours. That's precisely what my life would look like if it weren't for the whole gainful employment thing bringin' me down. 

I started spring break with the ambition of slipping into such a life for one amazing week. (It should be noted that I start ALL spring breaks this way. And winter breaks. And summer vacation, for that matter.) I imagined myself starting my days with exercise and filling the remaining hours reading great books, tackling enormous home remodeling projects, and treating myself to the occasional well-earned nap. Things didn't really pan out that way, though. 

Now, as my break nears its end, I'm left to ask: What the hell did I DO all week? What did I accomplish? The best way I can think of to explain how I've wiled away the hours this week is by offering you a newly-updated edition of my slacker resume:

Resume of a Slacker

Objectives: to secure a position in which I can utilize my slacker skills, to continue to learn and grow as a slacker

Education:  

Master of Arts in Reality Television Viewing

Bravo! University

majors: Top Chef, Real Housewives, and Project Runway

minors: Millionaire Matchmaker and Make Me a Supermodel

(Additional coursework completed at hulu U.)

Bachelor of Arts in Magazine Reading

Conde Nast College

majors: Reading periodicals that encourage me to eat better, exercise, be smart, and self-actualize (Health, Mental Floss, and O) while eating salty, crunchy snacks and wiping fake cheese-covered hands on sofa cushions. 

minor: mindlessly reading blogs & online entertainment "news", particularly those pertaining to Gwyneth Paltrow and GOOP backlash

Bachelor of Science in Junk Food Preparation and Consumption

Minnesota Institute of Processed Meats and Cheeses

graduated summa cum laude

Career Highlights

•  Fell asleep during third episode of America's Next Top Model marathon after eating a hot dog and some brownies. Woke with face in puddle of drool on arm and shirt. Opted not to change into clean shirt.

•  Reacted to discovery of dog poop on family room floor by saying, "Well, I guess I don't need to take him out again for a few hours."

• Only changed out of pajama bottoms to drop daughter up at daycare at 7 AM and pick her up at 4 PM. Cursed societal demand that I put on pants when leaving the house.

• Brought bag containing "homework" reading assignment into the house on Wednesday. Have stepped over it repeatedly in the entryway every day since.

• Took pillow cases off bed to launder. Threw extra blanket over "naked" pillows to avoid hassle of re-casing them. Have slept like a baby that way since Thursday.

Specialized Knowledge and Training

•  Able to identify healthy bowel movement due to random channel-flip to Tyra Banks Show. (What WON'T that woman talk about?!)

•  Can turn toddler into Wonder Pets! addict with steady supply of DVD's, chicken nuggets, saltine crackers, and apple juice.  

•  Can kill two hours by creating own SNL Shorts Film Festival on hulu.

• Can kill even more time writing blog about what a slacker I am while avoiding laundry, dirty dishes, and homework. 

Who Am I To Judge?

I have a bad case of remodeler's envy going on right now. I am fixated on tearing apart our kitchen and bathroom - both of which would require a full-on gut jobs. Unfortunately, we don't have a couple extra grand hiding in a coffee can on top of the fridge, so all I can do is dream.

Unable to actually change my surroundings in any real way, I've been gettin' my fix at HGTV's website, specifically in the Rate My Space section. People send in pictures of rooms in their homes and invite others to rate their spaces on a scale of one to five. 

It is, in a word, glorious. I have learned that ...

a. my hideous kitchen ain't all THAT hideous after all, 

b. lots of money doesn't necessarily lead to lots of style, and 

c. judging others can be a whole lotta fun!

I know I'm being shallow and judgmental when I cruise this site, but that's kinda what it's designed for, so I'm just going to set guilt aside and revel in this a bit.  

It's hard to say which I like better - the people who totally own up to their room's ugliness and desperately seek the counsel of others OR the folks who've dropped a small fortune to create a room befitting the home of one Blandy McBlanderson, Mayor of Blandsville, USA. (Hardwood floors. Granite countertops. Beige paint. Yawn.)

What could possibly be finer than seeing the crap that other people treasure? There's just something about seeing someone's butt-ugly rooster collection cluttering up their kitchen that gives me a tiny, gleeful surge in the superiority center of my brain. And I'm gonna chase that high. Yes, I am.

Speaking of high... there was one twentysomething who was seeking advice for updating her kitchen. I wanted to comment on her page that, based on the shocking number of liquor bottles on top of her fridge, I felt she needed AA more than HGTV right now. Of course, I'm too nice to actually post that to her. So I put it here instead. 

The comments/advice are also fabulous. One woman actually suggested that someone should stencil seashells on the walls to liven up her bathroom. Um, I don't think the '90's are small enough in our metaphorical rearview mirror yet for their trends to be considered retro, so ixnay on the encilstay. Okay?

I also give a thumbs-down to anything that involved using a hot glue gun. 

And all things described as "country" and/or "shabby chic". 

And all rooms with a sign with the word ANTIQUES on it. 

Man, I am GOOD at this judgmental stuff!

The question now is whether I post pictures of my pad on the site and face the judgment of others...