Calculations

Hours remaining before final exams begin: 114.75

Hours remaining before (rough draft versions of, at least) final exams are due to the front office: 25.5

Number of exams to create: 7

Number of exams in partial existence: 7

Number of exams finalized in even rough draft form: 0

Number of days already spent half-heartedly "working" on exams: 8

Number of estimated hours needed to complete exams: enough to cause panic

Amount of intrinsic motivation I have to finish exams: 0

Number of anxiety dreams about final exams: 0

Number of anxiety dreams about all the other crap I'm dealing with these days: at least 5 that I can remember

I'm doomed.

Sometimes the Road Seems Endless. It's a Good Thing I'm Building Up My Endurance.

You may have noticed that I had a bit of a meltdown yesterday, dark attempt at humor notwithstanding. I'd love to tell you that things improved after that last post, but I'd be lying. And since my resolution last year was to live with honesty, and I'm still working on that, I won't lie to you.

My day got worse.

Maybe I should rephrase that. Other than an unexpected (read: I forgot all about it and was caught off guard by the reminder that I would have to sit through one of those mind-numbing time-wasters) staff meeting after work, there wasn't much that really was BAD about the day itself. The roads were driveable. No one delivered horrible news to me. A dear friend offered to write one of my vocabulary exams--and in the spirit of asking for and accepting help, which was another resolution/lesson of my last year, I accepted.

Yet my mood continued to spiral down until the panic was in control and logic was out the window. Rage started taking over: anger at the world, life, the universe, everything. I wanted to hit something or someone. I drove home and desperately worked out. For those forty-some minutes, in which I was pleased to discover I'm getting a handle on this Zumba workout, I was able to let go...mostly. And then the rage came back. So I took a long hot shower. And the rage came back. I texted a friend and she called me back and I paced in the snow for who knows how long pouring out my anger and hurt and panic and fear.

She told me I'm allowed to break down, I'm allowed to have my weak moments, I'm allowed to admit that sometimes LIFE SUCKS. If I don't let go and let it out from time to time, it will just build up and fester and prevent me from being strong all the other days and times when I need to keep it all together. Since that's the sort of thing that got me into my huge mess last year in the first place, I have a feeling she's right.

You see, while talking to her I finally put my finger on the trigger to yesterday's debacle. I had been going through my exams from previous years so that I could draw from them for this semester's exams. And I was missing exams from this time last year. Why, I wondered, didn't I have anything for my eleventh graders at all?

And it hit me. Last year at this time I fell into a black hole. Last year at this time I was absent from work for around three weeks. I vanished. I had no exams prepared, piles of papers left ungraded, and no lesson plans left for those struggling to make sense of my classes. My amazing colleagues pulled everything together for me. They parcelled out the papers and got them graded. They pieced together exams from other teachers' after consulting with my students about what we had covered. The head counselor even created, from scratch, an essay exam for my Media Literacy class, since I was the only teacher in the school who taught or had ever taught that now-defunct elective.

(They did this, mind you, without a word of complaint or censure or guilt-tripping. They were deeply worried for me. When I finally returned, all I heard from anyone was how relieved they were that I was back and that if I needed ANYTHING, just ask. They have continued to be a source of amazing support and love and generosity in all the time since. I am so blessed.)

But yesterday, when I realized why I was missing so much information, I was swept back for a moment into that time of despair. While I am so very, very much better in almost every way in comparison to that time, nevertheless...It was so difficult to revisit that darkness, even for a moment. And then the sheer weight of responsibilities and the chaos of my life and the uncertainty of this time, a year later, crushed me.

When I am at that level of stress and panic, the best thing for me is some sort of physical outlet. If I creep into a corner, the darkness wins. So even though I had already done a grueling workout, I took a walk. I walked down the road as quickly as my legs and boots and the snow would let me. After only a few minutes two pieces of advice came to me--Heidi's mention of meditating techniques and Arby's advice to pray. I knew there was no way I could put together an extemporaneous prayer in my mental state at that time, so I began to run through the Lord's Prayer in my mind, over and over again. Gradually I found a rhythm to the words. It became a chant, a mantra and prayer that moved from my mind to my tongue as I found myself marching down that dark, empty, snowy road.

Our Father which art in Heaven
Hallowed be Thy name
Thy kingdom come
Thy will be done
On Earth as it is in Heaven
Give us this day our daily bread
And forgive us our debts
As we forgive our debtors
And lead us not into temptation
But deliver us from evil
For Thine is the kingdom
And the power
And the glory
Forever and ever
Amen

As the words became smoother and flowed more naturally off my tongue, my mind finally could focus enough on what I was saying. Certain parts jumped out at me.

Give us this day our daily bread: I struggle constantly to focus on the day at hand. I have learned not to linger on the past much, but I worry about the future, all the things that are to come and over which I have so very little control. Here I ask for what is enough for this day. This one day, this one moment, and the simplest needs. Bread. Nourishment for body and (if one goes off into the philosophical and religious significance of the word) soul. Sufficient unto this day...And that's what I need. Enough for this day. Tomorrow will be time to ask for what is needed for tomorrow.

Forgive us our debts: So much of my darkness, both last year and now, was of my own making. Debts are both sins (the word trespasses is often used here) and what is owed. I feel, so very often, that I owe so much, too much, to everyone. I feel as if I have wracked up such a tremendous load of spiritual and emotional debt that there is no way I can ever repay it all. And I'm right. I cannot pay it back. So here I ask that those debts be forgiven--both the sins and that which is owed--so that I may walk free and light again.

As we forgive our debtors: But there is a codecil. Just as I ask to be freed of those debts, so must I free others. When I cling to resentments and angers and hurts, I not only refuse to grant that freedom of debt to others, I also refuse to free myself from the burden of being the debt-holder. When I harbor anger because someone has hurt me, I only poison myself. When I harbor resentment because someone has not acted or done or said what I want from them, I only worsen the situation. Last night I expected someone to be a mindreader, to magically understand that I was in a very bad state without my having to really express it verbally, to somehow know exactly what to say and do to handle the situation. I had to let go of my resentment and, without anger and without censure, let that person know what was going on and what I needed. I let go of the debt. And we were both freed and lightened and drawn closer in understanding. This is how it needs to be, both with those we love and with God.

Lead us not into temptation/But deliver us from evil: Tom Shippey suggests that these two lines emphasize the dual nature of evil. One kind lies within us--it is internal in both source and effect. Therefore we (I) ask that God not "lead us"--or perhaps, more clearly, allow us to lead ourselves--into temptation and darkness. This is all too real to me. Most, if not all, of my distress yesterday was created within my own mind. It was my own darkness. It was my own evil. And if there was an external source of Evil playing on that weakness last night, urging me on towards acts and words of anger, misplacing my own pain onto others...well then, we (I) ask that God "deliver us" from evil, both of the internal and external sorts.

God has that power.

After almost two miles of walking and chanting, I was finally calm enough and clearheaded enough to think through my situation and my reactions; thank God that I had not, in fact, said or done any of the things I had felt the urge to say and do; and work through where to go from there.

So I went home. I did and said what was needed, and I received the comfort that I needed.

And I ate pizza.

And today is better.

I am not naive enough to think this will not happen again. But this time last year I had almost none of the tools or support or wisdom that I needed to face my darkness, and yesterday's experience taught me that this year is indeed different.

It's another day. It's another step on that winding road, and even though the fog lies thick on the path right now, I know I've seen a glimpse of the joy that lies ahead. So I'm choosing to continue walking.

But MAN do my legs hurt.

Sometimes It's All About Being One More, and Sometimes It's About Being One Less

I have made a crucial decision.

January sucks. 

Okay, that's not a decision. That's the reason for the decision. Let me get there.

January 2009 was the month when I hit just about rock bottom and disappeared (somewhat literally, especially from the point of view of my workplace) and somehow had to figure out a way to crawl back out of the hole I'd created.

January 2010, while certainly nowhere near the depths of last year, is not exactly going swimmingly. Eleven days in and I'm wondering when the gods are going to let up on whatever it is they're ticked about. I'm sure there's some sort of symbolic retribution and hubris and whatnot involved, but it bothers me that centuries after all that went out of style (you know, with the whole Fall of Rome and what I can only assume was the advent of Ragnarok since the Norse gods haven't exactly been showing up lately) the ghosts of capritious deities past are still messing around with the lives of mortals.

Why yes, I have been working on my Mythology exam. Your point is?

January was named after the Roman god Janus, one of the few of their gods not adapted from Greek culture, who was the god of beginnings/archways/doors. Apparently, Janus does not like me. He seems to be presenting me with the beginnings of bedlam, the doorways to doom, the archways to angst.

I'd really rather not.

So I think I'm going to get rid of January.

Just, you know, cut it out. Kaput. Gone. Hasta la vista. I'm going to stick to eleven months, which really is a better number than twelve, what with being prime and a nice double number. Neat. Orderly.

I know, I know, you probably wonder what my deal is with months, and perhaps (please, God!) things will exceed my low expectations like November did and the holidays did and all that, but for now...

You see my year? This one goes to eleven.

Some Days Are Worse Than Others. Today, For Example.

I should be writing exams.

I should be grading papers.

I should be writing a recommendation letter for a former student.

I should be creating sub plans for Wednesday when I'm in the curriculum committee meeting all day.

I should be figuring out financial terms and logistics for my divorce settlement.

I should be organizing my life and staying on top of things.

Instead I'm struggling to keep focused on anything at all, eating chocolate like it's gone out of style, and wondering why my anxiety meds aren't helping much today. I have zero sense of humor. I am fairly sure I have yet to smile at a student today. I haven't yelled either. Just stared. Working does nothing but increase the panic. Activities that usually relax and rejuvenate me are doing nothing. I even read a couple of blogs that should have had me laughing and instead found myself staring dourly at the screen, wondering if anyone would like to take over writing my blog until I get over this dark time.

It seems like almost every possible little thing is triggering my anxiety today. All I can think about is somehow making it through the remainder of my classes, making it through the staff meeting this afternoon, making it through the brief meeting with colleagues about the final exams, making it through the commute home, then getting into workout clothes and sweating my way through the Zumba workout. That would be almost an hour that leaves me with no room for outside thought, no time to worry, nothing but physical movement and breathing and gasping and jelly legs. Right now that hour of working out seems to be the only thing I have any ability to control or handle.

But then the hour would be over. And reality would face me again: pain, stress, uncertainty of future, fear of failure, fear of what others think of me, fear of what tomorrow holds.

This is all I have right now. There's nothing else to offer you.

And These Are Just the Ones I'm Willing to Put Into Print. Imagine What I'm NOT Telling You.

Oy. And vey, for that matter. I received very few responses to my plea for help yesterday, which makes me think that (1) you aren't able to come up with good ideas either, (2) most of you either already know everything about me or (3) don't care, or (4) you hate me.

And in Arby's case, #4 may be true even though he posted a topic idea. (Of course, this is the same sort of sadistic stuff I would do to him if he asked for topic ideas, so I can't hold it against him. Too much. We English teachers, former or current, are a twisted people.)

So...what do I write today? Monica had a question about my most embarrassing moment, and when I read it my mind instantly filled with a dozen memories all clamoring for attention. The sad truth is that I remember my embarrassing moments (and yes, that is VERY plural) all too well. Probably for the rest of my life. Because I'm special that way.

This topic also works because I managed to slip on some water in the hall this morning and take a very ungraceful fall. Fortunately there weren't many students around yet, so I was only mildly embarrassed. Unfortunately the students who were there treated the event like I was some poor elderly person. You know, all like You've fallen and you can't get up! Did you break a hip? Can I help you? Should I call the administrators? An ambulance? The SWAT team? Are you sure you're okay, ma'am???

I'm thinking I would have preferred some mocking laughter. Maybe even a little light finger pointing. Then I wouldn't have felt about, oh, eighty or so.

Back off, AARP.

In the larger scheme of thing, there are a few embarrassing moments that top the list for one reason or another, and since I already confessed the fall this morning and my brilliant head-bashing from last week, I might as well continue to bring laughter into the world at my expense.

You're welcome.

The Humiliating Incident of the Stranger at Half-time

I rarely attend sporting events, but back in college I did go to one college football game at the Spartan Stadium. I have no recollection whether we won or lost. What I do remember is during half-time when we were actually sitting on the benches rather than standing on them, I looked around to see if I recognized anyone in the student section. Because I was so popular, yo. I spotted a guy just a couple of rows back and thought Hey! Isn't he in my lit class? I think he is! 

And instead of just smiling and nodding and moving on, I decided that I was going to show the people I was with that hey, I KNOW people, okay? I am COOL and stuff. So I called out to him, Hey, Tim [we'll say that was the name, because this detail escapes me]! Did you get that reading done? Crazy stuff, isn't it? or something along those lines. He looked a little surprised, and he smiled at me hesitantly, so I carried on, manic smile plastered across my face, babbling about the last lecture and the paper that was due and blah blah blabbidy blah.

His friends started chuckling. Then he did too. And that's when I realized: Tim (or whoever I thought he was) didn't have a beard. And this guy did. More of one than could have been produced in the two days since we'd been in class together.

I grinned again, trying to pretend huge waves of humiliation were NOT in fact washing over me, turned back around, and made sure never to look behind me the remainder of the game. Yeah. I was one Cool College Chick, alright. *snort*

A Rose by Any Other Name

One of my great failings as a teacher is my persistent inability to remember names. Every year I offer extra credit to students who can get me to remember their names after the first two weeks of school--through positive means, of course. Spray-painting my car is a no go. I always warn them that my brain is capable of blanking completely at any moment, however, and so I will most likely get their names wrong many, many times for the rest of our time together.

There was one time, however, when my little problem became, well, a little more problematical.

Parent-Teacher Conferences are rather exhausting. Before the advent of online grade checks, parents did not always know how their children had been doing before they came to see the teachers. After endless streams of five-minute conversations with parent after parent after parent, one's brain becomes a little numb. At least, that's what I tell myself when I remember this one conference about five years ago.

My line was huge that fall, for whatever reason, and a set of parents I had never met sat down and told me their child's name and hour. He had a common first name--Justin or Andrew or Alex or something like that. Let's call him Alex. I grabbed the grade sheet from that hour's pile and launched into my explanation about why Alex had a less-than-desirable grade and how he needed to turn his work in on time and pay more attention in class and blah blah blah.

His parents looked at me a little shell-shocked, mumbled something about this not having been a problem before and they'd absolutely get right on him, and stumbled away, presumably weeping inside about their wayward son.

Twenty minutes later another couple sat down. And they gave me their son's name. And I realized, to my horror, that I had mixed up the two boys and had told the parents of an A student that their son was nearly failing my class.

The telephone conversation I had the next day was such fun.

Gone with the Wind

My tenth grade year (during which I was in Michigan) there were three girls with whom I was friends: A, L, and C. We hung out. We were a pack. We fractured immediately after that year, but it was the one furlough I was here in the States when I felt like I belonged to a little group, however dysfunctional and bitchy we were.

I was quite socially awkward, really, but tried to fit in. So when C threw a birthday party and invited lots of people and I was there too, I tried my best to be cool. You know, one of the gang. At first, all went well. We did some sort of mall activity, and afterward went to C's house for food and movies. I have never been one of those girls who limits her food intake to supermodel levels when in the presence of males, and I was hungry that night. So I loaded up my plate with chips and salsa, sat on the floor, and dug in while Batman Returns ran on the VCR. About five minutes later, the Great Disaster occurred.

I farted.

It wasn't huge, it wasn't long, it wasn't even nasty: it was one of those all-too-audible poots that just escape.

It might as well have been the loudest, longest, nastiest farts ever produced by a member of the male species as far as the other teens were concerned. Gales of laughter broke out, and one girl managed to squeeze out through her giggles, Oh look at her plate! No wonder, with all that salsa!!! And more laughter ensued.

In my memory, every face was on me, every mouth was gaping open, every finger was pointed. It was horrific.

I ran into the kitchen and called my dad and begged him, through sobs, to come get me rightawayrightnowican'tstayhere! Then I huddled by the wall and tried to disappear. Another girl that I knew a little came in and opened her mouth to say something--and I slapped her. I slapped her face and hissed that she and everyone else was horrible, mean, awful, and I wished they would all just go away. She did.

I found out three weeks later, when we finally started talking to each other again, that she had come in to see if I was okay and to try to comfort me.

C never even spoke to me about it. She was having too much fun with her other friends to care.

Eventually I got over it all. But to this day, that remains one of the most humiliating events of my life, all the more so because the consequences lasted for weeks. My soul still shrivels a little thinking about it.

Ah, good times.

Not That I'm Desperate For Topics or Anything *Ahem*

Okay. I mentioned before that it gets tricky these days to come up with topics for this blog, because of the whole minefield of my personal life and whatnot. I mean, posts about the Great Toilet Paper Hanging Debate are fabulous in their own right (and yes, Lauren, I absolutely came up with that one while sitting on the pot after a friendly debate over that very topic with someone), but I can't write about that every day.

(Though seriously, take the little poll over in the upper right-hand corner, because that's blog fodder for next week. You have until 9 a.m. next Wednesday, January 13th, to vote.)

So I'm going to take a page from a few other bloggers' books sites, so to speak, and ask you, my beloved readers, to help me out. In the comments on this post, please ask me questions, humorous or serious, that you would like me to answer. I don't promise to answer them all (especially if doing so would set off one of those mines), but I'll do my best!

And if you have a brilliant topic in general that you think I would write about well, please feel free to send that my way as well.

Please don't let me down! I don't care if you're a longtime reader or a recent visitor, a family member or someone I've never met: JUST LEAVE A COMMENT! (Well, you know, with a question or topic suggestion.)

You can DO it!

Because It's Not Just Kids Who Have a Sense of Toilet Humor (Warning: Not for the Overly Squeamish)

For decades people have discussed, debated, argued, and even screamed about an enormously important issue that is central to the lives of most Americans. Friends discuss it in a friendly fashion--unless they are roommates and on opposite sides of the issue, in which case the friendliness vanishes. Advice columns cover the topic once annually to address the flood of letters. Spouses seek counseling over it. For some dating couples, this crucial issue can be a deal breaker.

I speak, of course, of the Great Toilet Paper Hanging Debate.

Over or Under? Chances are you have an opinion, and it's a strong one. For many, the directionality of the toilet paper roll on the toilet paper holder is passed down from generation to generation. In peaceful households, all are in agreement, until some interloping in-law introduces riotous disfunction when he or she loads a new roll improperly. In other, less fortunate households, the debate rages on between family members, leading to sneak attacks and middle-of-the-roll alter[c]ations.

Most advice columnists say there is no Right or Wrong way to hang the roll, that the choice is ultimately up to the individual--and therefore an ongoing issue for debate. However, I am happy to inform you that there is, indeed, a Right way to hang the toilet paper roll, and I have incontrovertible support for my position.

Diagram courtesy of treehugger.com

I'm so sorry, Under people, but you are Wrong. The only Right way to hang toilet paper is Over, and there are three strong reasons for this.

Any parent who has potty-trained a child knows that the ultimate goal is for that child to be able to wipe his or her own butt. Even after the days of diapers are long past, every parent knows all too well the lilting song that issues from the bathroom, often loudest in public restrooms, of Mommy! Daddy! Come and wipe me! There may no longer be a soggy disgusting diaper of which to dispose, but for quite some time you must still place your hands into the depths and wipe off what your child cannot reach.

Or you could just deal with some truly disgusting laundry and bad cases of rear-end rash. Your pick.

Therefore, anything that simplifies the transition to your child being able to do the wiping is all to the good. Watch a child attempt to gather toilet paper sometime. Toilet paper that hangs Over the roll is simpler by far for those chubby little fingers to grasp than the elusive end trapped behind the bulk of the roll in the Under position. Be kind to your child. Use the Over position.

A similar situation applies to adults as well. No doubt everyone has experienced middle-of-the-night bathroom adventures, usually complicated by an inability to wake fully during the experience and a reluctance to turn on any lights. In such a semi-somnolent and darkened state, the last thing anyone wants to do is fumble for the end of the toilet paper, again trapped behind the bulk of the roll in the Under position. Likewise, not all toilet paper hangers offer easy access to Under-hung toilet paper, particularly in public restrooms. Just yesterday, at a doctor's office, I found myself in the highly frustrating situation of fighting to get more than a few shreds of flimsy single-ply paper off an Under-hung roll a little too big for the limited space between hanger and wall. Granted, I would have struggled somewhat even if the roll was Over-hung, but the fight would have been far simpler to win. At the very least, the shreds of paper would have been significantly larger and more useful.

Besides the issue of easy access, however, we must acknowledge the crucial component of cleanliness. Bathrooms and toilets are already germ factories, and any reduction we can make in the general nastiness is vital. When toilet paper is Under-hung, people's hands come into contact with far more paper than necessary, especially on second and third wipings (for those of us who are thorough and therefore civilized). Just imagine the filth that is left behind for the next person to use that roll! I shudder to even think of it.

So if you have been hanging your toilet paper properly (i.e. Over), then give yourself a pat on the back--once you've washed your hands thoroughly, of course. And if you have been falling into error all this time (i.e. using the Under method)...

Repent. There is still time to mend your ways. Forgiveness is freely offered.

I'm generous like that.

Because, Apparently, When I Get Anxious I Attack Myself

I forgot my cell phone at home today.

I have chosen to believe that this is the reason for the tightness in my throat and chest and arms and all those other lovely symptoms of a low-level anxiety attack. Because honestly, I am so tired of the drama.

It's my own drama, mind you. I live it, I fight it, I even create it. (I know, big surprise.)

But I am tired of it. And lately I've been feeling that urge to just run away and leave it all behind. Yesterday I chose to bury myself in bed and force myself to take a brief nap rather than call work and tell them I'd be gone for another couple of days, so sorry, can't be helped, and drive Somewhere, Anywhere. Even though it would only be for 48 hours because I will be there on Wednesday to pick up my boys from daycare. It would have been a temporary running-away. I'm not leaving my children.

That's for damn certain.

Running away doesn't solve anything, though, so I slept for about twenty minutes instead and then got up and did some grading and read some of a fascinating critical analysis of Tolkein's work (which even inspired me to underline and comment in the margins all academic-like) and exercised for about forty minutes and ate spaghetti and very consciously chose to Chill Out.

I should probably do this more often. Well, except for the spaghetti part, though I am looking forward to my leftovers at lunch. Tonight I will have barbequed chicken and I'm thinking perhaps there should be something green and vegetably as a side.

Stress and anxiety are generally agreed as being Bad For Your Health, and I've been evidencing this lately. Among other things, I've been increasingly klutzy, which can be rather embarassing when the evidence cannot be hidden easily. Last week I managed to get all distracted and close the door to my car's trunk on my head.

...

Done laughing? Good. Let me explain, just a little. My car (a Saturn Vue) was in a closed garage with enough space to open the trunk and place things inside, but not enough to stand directly behind it while doing so. I had been putting things in the trunk and got distracted by some falling leftovers in the bag in my hand and tried to close the door.

My head kinda sorta got trapped between the (closed) garage door and the car door. Which left a nice big bleeding dent in my forehead. Right in the middle, where my hair will not cover it. I also had some nice lumps elsewhere on my head, though I didn't notice them until much later, after the throbbing faded in my forehead.

I am proud to say that I managed to refrain from crying or screaming. I applied ice and waited almost an hour to make sure I wasn't concussed before I drove away.

It's been interesting to watch the progression of the gash. It's been even more interesting to field the questions I get from everyone. Those who do not know me well ask if alcohol was involved. There are also the looks of concern that say, very clearly, Yeah right. You hit your head on a door? That's an old one. Quite a few mothers assume one or both of my children must have been at fault.

The general response to my (truthful and self-deprecating) explaination is...laughter. Some people are more polite and at least TRY to conceal their mirth. Others just guffaw.

It's okay.

Really.

Because no one else can make me feel any stupider about it than I already do. And I'm okay with that.

Obviously, having a Master's degree does not mean a person is always all that bright. And I can't be perfect all the time. That would be too boring.

God forbid that I be boring. Then I really would have something to panic about.

I'll Keep You Posted (Ha Ha) On How This One Goes

There are many resolutions I could and should make for this year, this year of Clarke-ian significance, this Twenty-Ten. (Am I the only one relieved for a date that's easy to say, finally?!?) If I were to list all the resolutions that crossed my mind in the last few weeks, this is what you would see--though of course, this means I AM listing all the resolutions that crossed my mind in the last few weeks. Whatever.

The List I Could Write and Maybe Would If I Was More, You Know, Masochistic

1. Exercise for at least half an hour at least five times a week. And walking around while teaching can't count.
2. Eat healthier food cooked at home rather than resorting to fast food and boxed carbs so often. Tossing frozen peas in mac 'n' cheese is insufficient. Of course, it would help if there were even any frozen peas in the freezer to begin with.
3. Get papers graded no less than one week after they are turned in. Oh, and actually remember to return them to the students too.
4. Make more money and spend less.
5. Be neater. Okay, just be neat. Tidy, even.
6. Write wonderful, witty, inspiring posts on a regular basis. Perhaps win some blog awards.
7. Write a book. Or at least a good portion of one.
8. Stay caught up on reading blogs too. And commenting.
9. Get rid of the house. Please. Anyone want to buy a house? It's a nice house. I just don't want it. Oh, and if you would actually pay what we OWE rather than what that pesky housing market says it's WORTH, that would be so nice.
10. Win friends and influence people. Without having to read some stupid self-help book.

So some of these are actually within the realm of possibility, at least in part, especially if I have a little will power. Numbers 1, 2, and 3 are quite reasonable. Well, maybe not five times a week for number one. Three times? I could at least try.

And I've even gotten a decent start on some others. Number four, for example. I'm trimming excess spending already. I also am looking into picking up some tutoring hours--I advertised on Craigslist and I've already gotten a couple of bites. It would be nice to pay off some of those debts...

(Hey, if any of you live in the area and want a really good Language Arts tutor for your kid, let me know! Seriously. I'm good at it and I could use the money. Ahem.)

Numbers 6 through 10? Well. We'll see. (I really, really would like number nine to come true, but it's a little tough to make it an actual resolution.)

Ah, but number five...

I've never been the neatest person in the world. Okay, Mom, stop laughing. You too, Lauren. And SoccerSister. And soon-to-be-ex-husband. Oh, and all you former students.

Sigh.

This does not mean, however, that I do not appreciate a clean environment. I do. I just am not all that great at the little stuff. The not-leaving-things-all-over stuff. The maintenance stuff. The Clutter stuff.

Recent months have influenced me for the good, however. First, sharing residences with an ex (you know, the whole trading off on the house with the kids thing?) means that each of us needs to leave the place neat and tidy before the other person moves in on those toggle days. It keeps things sane and (more) drama-free. So I've been having to clean up and tidy much more than I did in the past. I'm getting almost used to it.

Also, Joe's house is delightfully clutter-free and he keeps it very tidy. He tends to keep things as simple as possible in his life, and I've found some inspiration in that. This approach worked pretty dang well for Christmas, and I'm thinking maybe it's one I could apply to other areas of life too.

So my real, very concrete, very doable resolution for 2010 is to Declutter. Specifically, every weekend when I have custody of the boys and therefore am in the house, I will produce AT LEAST one large box or bag of Stuff to donate or toss.

Trust me, there's enough to keep me going all year.

Today I went through the boys' toys and books and clothes, and I managed to produce a very large bin of books and toys for donation, a garbage bag full of trash, and a small pile of outgrown clothing. So I'm already good for the first custody weekend of the year! In two weeks, I plan to tackle my own closet. That may take a month...

And overall? The word of the year, this nice, neat, tidily-numbered year of 2010, is SIMPLIFY.

Because my life is complicated enough without cluttering it up with all the extras.

In Which I Ramble and Debate Existence as an Appliance

So I seem to have added a follower in the last couple of days, which is amazing because hello, haven't been here much. Nevertheless, gratifying and all that.

I seem to be in a blogging block right now, and even though I understand WHY, it's a little difficult to figure out how to overcome it all. Because people, there are so many things I CAN'T talk about on here that it's becoming difficult to figure out what I CAN talk about.

Things I Can't Or Won't Discuss On Here (At The Moment or At Least At Any Length):
1. My divorce--you know, all those legal things and not wanting to create drama if I can help it
2. My ex--because he doesn't want me to and I'm not sure how to write about him anyhow
3. My boyfriend--because he also likes some privacy and it seems like a lot of my family is all weirded out about me having one anyways and, you know, the divorce is still ongoing and all that crap
4. My angst--well, I could, but I don't want to because there's been too much of that and I'm getting sick of myself already

So on the rare occasions lately that I've even sat down at the computer, I find myself in the virtual equivalent of blank face and gaping mouth. What I do write seems to come across flat and uninspired. My sense of humor seems to be lacking, for one thing, at least when I write here.

Believe it or not, I still do have one. It just seems to be reserving itself for Real Life. Ask my friends--I've been making jokes and laughing and being snarky as usual. Really. But when I sit down here...it all seems to fade.

This post was a lot funnier in my head. You know, while I was sitting on the toilet thinking about posting something for once.

Isn't it phenomenally unfair how the best posts seem to come at the worst times? I'll be driving or in the shower or on the toilet or in the middle of teaching or cooking (ha!) or out on a four-wheeler or something, anything that means I cannot sit down right that minute and even jot ideas down, much less get online and write the post. I'm a brilliant writer in my own mind. Unfortunately, my mind doesn't come with a secretary.

That would be an awesome invention, you know. Some sort of device that could plug into the brain and record ideas when you want it to. Then you could work with the text later. Oh, I know there are those little note takers and voice recorders and all, but really, I need something that jacks into my brain directly.

No doubt this would lead to all sorts of horrific brain hacking and greymatter viruses, though, and then we'd just all be destroyed.

Of course, my brain already was hacked by the two little parasites I grew in my womb. I'm pretty sure they downloaded most of my brainpower between the two of them. It's hard to resent it too much, though, because they are awfully bright and brilliant and beautiful, those boys.

Me (cuddling boys close after mediating a wrestling match to determine who got to hug me the most): I love my boys!

DramaBoy: I love my girl!

The Widget: Yeah, I love my grill!

Me (laughing): Oh, so I'm a grill?

DramaBoy (grinning mischievously): Yeah, and I'm a stove!

I'm glad SOMEONE has a sense of humor around here.