So I know most people feel about January the way I feel about watching football. I don't know what's going on. And its not from lack of exposure- I've asked questions. I know. Its just that I don't ca-aaa-re. It takes forever to watch and is usually disappointing. OK this is a bad analogy but I think you get where I'm going. Most people are less than enthusiastic about January just as I am less than enthusiastic about never mind. Especially here in SLC where January means ten-degree weather and inversion so thick you can't see the gigantic mountains. January means paying off the credit card and no more Christmas splurging and trying to get to the gym and organize your house and your life and reading really depressing books because happy books make you even more depressed than depressing books. Oh and everyone EVERYONE is deathly ill. But you know, I was trying to be optimistic this January. I honestly didn't mind a break from all the holiday bustle. Bustle? That's right- bustle. And I didn't mind an excuse to hibernate inside my house reading Catcher in the Rye, drinking hot chocolate, and organizing the crap out of my medicine cabinet. For a week. And then I became as annoyed with January as everyone else. Through with the bitter cold. Through with my family being sick the entire month. Through with January being all up in my business. I'm like, come on January back up. Not cool.
Its just been a really awkward month. Due to all the illness and changes that come with a new year I haven't quite gotten back into a routine. And I think the lack of fresh air and sunlight and overexposure to Pinterest is making me twitchy and irritable. And you know what happens when I get twitchy and irritable- I blog about it. And I develop adult ADHD. I woke up this morning with all kinds of intentions to finish the laundry and clean downstairs but got distracted and ended up making blueberry muffins and going to the library with my daughter. Which, granted was a better use of my time, but even afterwards when she was watching her quiet-time movie the laundry didn't even occur to me. I started a book, got distracted ten minutes in and ended up on Goodreads. What? No fooling I still haven't done the laundry. I did not intend to blog today, yet here we are. January is literally making me crazy. Like a crazy lady who spontaneously makes blueberry muffins instead of fulfilling her cleaning responsibilities. I guess things could be a lot weirder. On the bright side, its a bit past midnight which makes this the final day of this awkward month. So, just another three months of cold and colorless SLC winter and we'll be right as rain...
*yay*
Wednesday, January 30, 2013
Tuesday, December 18, 2012
Checklist for the End of the World.
Its been a busy year. Too busy. Like, there-are-so-many-things-vying-for-my-attention-I-can't-focus-on-one-long-enough-to-blog-about-it busy. I intend to cut back. But the truth is, whenever I find myself with a quiet moment alone I panic- "How long will this moment last?" "What shall I do with this moment?" until said moment is wasted in indecision and I end up huddled in the corner of my closet checking facebook on my phone, which is the last way I would choose to spend my time. Just as eating stale gummy bears from my pantry isn't the way I'd choose to spend my daily caloric intake, but as there is nothing more delicious in the house, I settle.
Its no body's fault but my own, really. In trying to be a productive, responsible, creative, hygienic person, I have inadvertently created a mental list of expectations I can never meet. For some reason I think I should be able to go to the gym, write a book, raise a family, teach piano, maintain a clean and awesomely decorated house and shower no problem. I know women who make this look like cake. Red-velvet cake in an alternate reality where I'm a friggin' super hero and not an anxiety-ridden mother of three high-maintenance children who refuse to dress themselves in weather-appropriate clothing, eat most foods, or sleep. Because realistically I can either raise a family and shower OR go to the gym and teach piano without showering while one of my children throws a ginormous tantrum because I insisted she wear socks to school.
And then there's the economy, and family members who can't stop making self-destructive decisions, and the upcoming zombie apocalypse to prepare for, and Christmas.
Sorry, I had to go eat stale gummy bears in my closet by the light of my phone, discovering more ways I am inadequate via Pinterest. Let's bring it down a notch: I have a good life. I married my best friend, we have three beautiful and healthy children, and a sweet little house with a yard. And if the world ends Friday it wont matter that I never ran a marathon or finished a book. It wont matter that my house wasn't perfectly clean or that my kids had some bizarre sock-prejudices.
And when the sun rises Saturday morning and life goes on, I hope I can remember that I'm meeting my real goal every day I get out of bed and serve my family, every day I make someone else feel loved. Maybe if I stopped trying so hard to be perfect I could actually enjoy being good. Instead of settling for facebook and stale gummy bears, maybe I should settle for quiet moments alone and just let myself be happy.
Its either that or 5-hour energy drinks. Your pick.
Its no body's fault but my own, really. In trying to be a productive, responsible, creative, hygienic person, I have inadvertently created a mental list of expectations I can never meet. For some reason I think I should be able to go to the gym, write a book, raise a family, teach piano, maintain a clean and awesomely decorated house and shower no problem. I know women who make this look like cake. Red-velvet cake in an alternate reality where I'm a friggin' super hero and not an anxiety-ridden mother of three high-maintenance children who refuse to dress themselves in weather-appropriate clothing, eat most foods, or sleep. Because realistically I can either raise a family and shower OR go to the gym and teach piano without showering while one of my children throws a ginormous tantrum because I insisted she wear socks to school.
And then there's the economy, and family members who can't stop making self-destructive decisions, and the upcoming zombie apocalypse to prepare for, and Christmas.
Sorry, I had to go eat stale gummy bears in my closet by the light of my phone, discovering more ways I am inadequate via Pinterest. Let's bring it down a notch: I have a good life. I married my best friend, we have three beautiful and healthy children, and a sweet little house with a yard. And if the world ends Friday it wont matter that I never ran a marathon or finished a book. It wont matter that my house wasn't perfectly clean or that my kids had some bizarre sock-prejudices.
And when the sun rises Saturday morning and life goes on, I hope I can remember that I'm meeting my real goal every day I get out of bed and serve my family, every day I make someone else feel loved. Maybe if I stopped trying so hard to be perfect I could actually enjoy being good. Instead of settling for facebook and stale gummy bears, maybe I should settle for quiet moments alone and just let myself be happy.
Its either that or 5-hour energy drinks. Your pick.
Wednesday, July 11, 2012
Read to Pink Floyd.
I haven't written anything beyond the occasional face book status update in many months. You see, sometimes when I say what I'm really thinking at 11:47 on a week night, I wake up at 7:13 the next morning with a horrible panicked feeling- "Did I seriously just admit my Easter Bunny contempt to everyone I know?" "Did I describe in detail my weird crush on Joaquin Phoenix?" What the what? I was kidding- whatever. So harelips are kind of hot. In a piratey sort of way.
Anyways, I have held a six-month long internal debate whether society as a whole is better off with or without my thoughts. And while the jury's still out, I do take comfort in the fact that my influence- for good or evil- is minuscule. Like a tiny little scule. So small. Almost non-existent. So, I worry needlessly. That said, I really don't like Easter Bunnies or any bunny for that matter, cute and fluffy as they may be. A pink-eyed devil tried to take my arm once and I've not met a bunny since that made a good impression. Just think of all the bunnies you know- Playboy, Bunicula, Roger Rabbit, the bunny from "Monty Python and the Holy Grail." Despicable creatures all.
Which does not segue into "I am terrified of the future" like I thought it would. My little girl is starting first grade in two weeks, meaning two out of three of my children will be gone until 3:30 every weekday until they finally grow up and leave me a withered college-dropout with a disproportionate hatred of bunnies (there's my segue!) Although I love to watch my children grow and become increasingly independent, the reality of my eventual uselessness has been crashing down on me like a sack of hot nickles. What will I do in three more years when all of our children are in school and I have eight hours of uninterrupted nothing? The possibilities appear in my head so numerous and loud, it sets my head spinning. The thing to do is go back to school and get my degree, obviously. A degree in what I don't know. Creative writing? Not very profitable. None of my interests have ever been profitable- and if they are not profitable does it warrant a student loan? And all the while that nagging ache in the pit of my stomach- "have I been a good mother? Am I a good mother? Will I be a good mother if-?" Eventually settling into that dull, depressing pain- time's insistent progression- they're growing up so fast.
I am afraid to make them my entire life, and afraid not to. And often afraid that it wont matter anyway if I completely lose my mind. On the upside, some very successful writers have been insane. Lewis Carroll for instance- writing about rabbits, obsessively worried by the ticking of that bloody pocket-watch...
Anyways, I have held a six-month long internal debate whether society as a whole is better off with or without my thoughts. And while the jury's still out, I do take comfort in the fact that my influence- for good or evil- is minuscule. Like a tiny little scule. So small. Almost non-existent. So, I worry needlessly. That said, I really don't like Easter Bunnies or any bunny for that matter, cute and fluffy as they may be. A pink-eyed devil tried to take my arm once and I've not met a bunny since that made a good impression. Just think of all the bunnies you know- Playboy, Bunicula, Roger Rabbit, the bunny from "Monty Python and the Holy Grail." Despicable creatures all.
Which does not segue into "I am terrified of the future" like I thought it would. My little girl is starting first grade in two weeks, meaning two out of three of my children will be gone until 3:30 every weekday until they finally grow up and leave me a withered college-dropout with a disproportionate hatred of bunnies (there's my segue!) Although I love to watch my children grow and become increasingly independent, the reality of my eventual uselessness has been crashing down on me like a sack of hot nickles. What will I do in three more years when all of our children are in school and I have eight hours of uninterrupted nothing? The possibilities appear in my head so numerous and loud, it sets my head spinning. The thing to do is go back to school and get my degree, obviously. A degree in what I don't know. Creative writing? Not very profitable. None of my interests have ever been profitable- and if they are not profitable does it warrant a student loan? And all the while that nagging ache in the pit of my stomach- "have I been a good mother? Am I a good mother? Will I be a good mother if-?" Eventually settling into that dull, depressing pain- time's insistent progression- they're growing up so fast.
I am afraid to make them my entire life, and afraid not to. And often afraid that it wont matter anyway if I completely lose my mind. On the upside, some very successful writers have been insane. Lewis Carroll for instance- writing about rabbits, obsessively worried by the ticking of that bloody pocket-watch...
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