Renovate

I started exercising a couple weeks ago.

I know what you're thinking: SERIOUSLY??!!??!!?? (remember when you used to write questions like that and pass them to your sixth grade best friend)

Yes. I'm as serious as a dictionary.

Or maybe even a thesaurus.

Yeah. Seriously.

Anyway, come to find out that what they say is true: exercise DOES make one feel better. I would go so far as to say optimistic, even.

Come to further find out that most of my blogging inspiration is housed in a somewhat sarcastic, often pessimistic place. A solid structure built with a hefty amount of annoyance. A cottage in my mind that Endorphins have turned into a construction zone. Cones, barrels and yellow tape. The works.

Or

I am just too exhausted to find things ironic or infuriating. Or to type.

(have I mentioned how tired I am?)

?????!!!!!??!!?!

In the mean time, please have your fill of pictures. As it turns out, my physical dwelling has recently been the recipient of a few minor changes, as well.

Behold, the much-anticipated entry wall:
(with a base coat of turquoise and a red bow)



(and after lots of aggravation, por fin el fin)


Also, my orange cabinet, which made its public debut a while back in a post related to skinny jeans:


(and my new turquoise lamp...is it not to DIE for? Now I need to paint that green wall. I'm thinking dark brown?)

I welcome any and all suggestions (unless you hate my turquoise wall, in which case I say to you good day). Also welcome: volunteers to help choose paint, volunteers to tape off baseboards, volunteers to babysit while I paint (or nap), volunteers to bring me cookies and keep me company while I paint (or nap).


La Fin.

Write

My cute little sister-in-law just started a blog for anyone who wants to hone their creative writing skills. I thought some of you might be interested. She just posted the first assignment. If you want to participate, just leave your e-mail address in my comments (or if I have your e-mail, just let me know), and I'll see to it that you get an invitation to be an author on the blog. That way you can publish your work when you're ready. No pressure. Just loads of fun.

Now, isn't that a great idea?

Hostage Situation

If I had the time, I would tell you all about why I don't have the time.

If I had the energy (and if a certain 3-year old hadn't just broken my new camera), I would upload photos for your viewing pleasure.

If I had the brain function, I would creatively write the socks off you. And your mother.

But I don't.

Why?

Because I am being held hostage by my new gym membership:

I go to bed too early to do anything fun.
I get up WAY too early.
I spend all day in a haze of drowsiness, just surviving until I can get a nap, after which I only survive until I can go to bed, at which time I wake up every hour because I know I have to get up.

If you hold the secret to leading a normal life WITH exercise, please let me know.

Now.

And nobody gets hurt.



*Please know that if I could muster up the gumption necessary, I'd work the whole "hostage" thing like you wouldn't believe. I love you that much. But for now, this is all I can do.

I'll Bet You Think This Blog is About Me

You guys are unrelenting. I never said skinny jeans look GOOD on me. I only said, and I believe my exact words were, "I get it."

They just look like regular jeans when you pull boots over them, only they don't bunch and feel weird. I thought it was a great discovery, because I (like most of you silly commenters) didn't think that I (large hind quarters and all) could wear them! They are a great alternative to my almost-invented new invention: thigh warmers.

I am of the mind that in these cold winter regions, it is silly to even wear pants at all. Most of my coats come down below my rear end, and my boots come up to my knees, practically. So, all that anyone sees of pants is the small portion between knee and saddle bag. I don't like to spend money on jeans that no one can even see, so I was about to invent the thigh warmer. Much like the leg warmer, it would wrap around only a small section of leg. I had to put my inventing on hold when no solution could be found to keep the thigh warmer from shifting, exposing skin to the dangers of frost bite.

But now I needn't bother my mind with such things, cause skinny jeans are my new best friend. I even have a "st ends" half-heart necklace to prove it. And you, yes YOU, should consider getting yourself a pair. I would reiterate my sentiment that they should only be worn with boots, only I have lately been contemplating the possibilities of skinny jeans + short dresses + high heels. I think I might try it come spring.

COME, spring!

Also, I hesitate to post pictures of myself. It makes me feel (everyone say it with me now) so vain. And self-conscious. That said, I must address the many requests to see a picture, not to mention the blackmailing tendencies of my cousin, Rindee, who vowed to boycott my blog if I didn't post one! I will NOT stand idly by as my blog is boycotted. It would be irresponsible.


Skinny jean strut

Skinny jean chorus line

Skinny jean Super Woman pose

Skinny jean + girl

Now look what you've done! I'll bet you wish you hadn't asked to see pictures, don't you?

Don't you?

Don't you?

p.s. Carly Simon wore skinny jeans. Erie, isn't it?



p.s.s. Quickly, let's think of something else for me to write about so that this atrocity won't be on here for long. Here are options:
1. my new orange cabinet thing
2. everything I know about pistachios
3. a sad story about never eating sugar again
4. how to drink a gallon of water per day without drowning

Just Call Me Peg

Skinny jeans.

*shiver*

They never made sense to my better judgment. And why can't we just call them what they are: a dumb idea from the '80s (yes, I realize they are originally from the 1950's, but that was before the '80s got ahold of them) that didn't get better with time?

Or with a name change.

I mean, sure, I have seen a handful of women who look good in them, but usually those women were 10 feet tall with the hips of a toddler. A boy toddler.

I tried to steer clear of any store shelf bearing the ugly burden of skinny jeans, knowing without trying them on that my extra creamy, large curd thighs...

*gag*

...would reject their emphasizing taper like a stomach rejects week-old sushi.

*dry heave*

Then I bought boots. Oh, how I bought boots. And my calves and toes rejoiced in the new-found warmth and happiness that was bestowed upon them.

But alas.

All boots were relegated to infrequent skirt-wearing, as every pair of so-called "boot cut jeans" were proven too narrow for overlap, and too wide for tucking.

And then I crept over to the skinny jean shelf.

*deep breath*

I braced myself for what I knew was just asking for self-loathing, and I tried them on.

*guffaw*

I laughed. And almost threw up.

Then I scrambled to pull on my boots.

I turned slowly toward the full-length mirror.

I held the door knob for support.

I opened my eyes.

*gasp*

Now I get it.





WARNING: Skinny jeans are not to be worn without boots. Exposure to skinny jeans worn with flats is not recommended, and may cause deep emotional scaring. Like the 1980's. Yeah, I said it.

Twenty-Ten, Good Buddy

One thing I know about myself is that I can't make me do anything I don't want to do. It's true. Just as soon as I make a resolution, my mind goes into stealth mode, concocting rationalizations, excuses, and plans for breaking it. It's a mean game my mind plays with my heart. It doesn't want me to succeed. So to trick myself, I skip resolutions, hoping to reverse psychologize myself into perfection. So far it hasn't worked, but I keep trying. What's that saying, "If what you're doing doesn't work, do it harder"...?

However,

Right now I am feeling like a new woman, ready to take 2010 by the horns and wrestle it to its knees. When I'm done with it, it will be begging for mercy. Or your money back.

And what's my master plan, you ask? I don't know. That's the beauty of it. I'm just going to go with the flow. I'm going to let my motivation be my guide. Instead of applying blunt force trauma to the side of my will power, I will ride each and every wave of inspiration until it fizzles, and then let it go, hoping that I gained a little wisdom along the way.

I'm going to trust myself in life's hands. No more squeezing painful lessons out of things that would be pleasant if I allowed them to be. I want to appreciate and accept new experiences without complicating them. I hate to say it, but I believe what I am trying to say is that I will now be "living in the moment" (but just so you know, typing that made me a little nauseous. I should just stencil "live, love, laugh" on my headboard and call it a day). I will enjoy that which is good, and writhe and scream through that which is uncomfortable - but pretend to enjoy it, anyway. Cause that's what life's all about. And I am pro-life.

I am intent on abandoning the rut I dug these last thirty years, and digging a new, more interesting and creative rut. Then I will let myself fall into it with a sigh of relief. Cause digging makes me tired. And sweaty.

Let's review:

1. 2010 is going to be my year of awakening
2. I still have no definitive resolutions, nor have I decided whether or not to make any
3. I may or may not start a career in bull wrestling in 2010
4. There is a small chance that I have split personalities
5. I have nothing against people who stencil "live, love, laugh" or "live in the moment" (or anything else, for that matter) on their headboards (etc.). My very personal decision not to do so is very personal
6. Blog posts that make sense are nowhere on my horizon



Happy New Year, my friends.

I Prefer a Box

Tonight I took the kids to get ice cream. It was one of those spontaneous gestures of good will. One of those far-too-infrequent attempts to make the most of a bad situation. An effort to take the pieces of my shattered Monday evening plans and fit them together to make a beautiful, albeit different than expected, masterpiece. I was thinking outside the proverbial box.

It always works in the movies. And on other people's blogs.

I forgot that spontaneity is not my gig. I have to have a plan. Then I have to visualize success with that plan. And I especially have to prep my children before exiting the van, by telling them all the flavors of ice cream available, in order to prevent unnecessary, sanity-crippling tantrums and frustration-inducing indecision. Stopping at a never-before-seen gas station restaurant doesn't fit into my carefully constructed box.

I think we would have all been better off if I had just deposited my children on the couch, turned on Sponge Bob, and stomped upstairs to pout (pouting is better than yelling, right?) until bedtime. Just me and my box.

Just like I had planned.

You see, my life is not like the movies. Or like other people's blogs.

Sorry.



p.s. Who wants to be my #20 follower? 19 is such a lonely number.

p.p.s. The first person to become my #20 fan, I mean follower, can count it as their Christmas gift to me! It'll save you $ in the long run. Just think about it.