“My Hell Is the Closet I’m Stuck Inside”

I'm at an impasse. The lyrics from that one Dave Matthews song keep rolling through my head, "So much to say, so much to say, so much to say, so much to say . . . ," yet somehow I cannot find the words to say it.

Do I talk about the Gatlinburg trip I took a month ago? A trip which at this point has left me bereft of any statements of substance.

Do I express my thoughts on a Mosque that many find misplaced? Do I really want to piss off at least half my minute audience?

Do I talk about my impending personalized autographed photo of Rupert Grint and go on and on about my ardent infatuation . . . again?

Then there is this week's big event - Aidan starts school full-time. At this I realize I'm long overdue for my ode to Aidan that I promised so many months ago.

I've started blogs involving my fickleness about my features, raving rants, my obsession with Oprah, building bridges between us, and quirky questionnaires. All of them incomplete.

"So much to say, so much to say, so much to say, so much to say . . . ," and so many things left unsaid.

"'Cos here we have been standing for a long long time; can't see the light. Treading trodden trails for a long long time . . . . I sometimes find it easy to be myself. Sometimes I find it's better to be somebody else."

You know, I used to just like Dave Matthews for the groovy music. Through their lyrics I find something much deeper . . . now I appreciate them.

More to come . . . eventually. What's to come - I don't know, but stay tuned and we'll both find out.

Why Did the Elephant Poop on the Ground?

The anticipation of the birth of my first daughter, my second baby, was great after a long, difficult, and somewhat high-risk pregnancy. First being on prednisone, then dealing with anemia after weaning off the atrocious steroid, those nine months of my swelling belly seemed to last an eternity. But when the day finally came and they placed my calm and content little one on my lap after a fairly easy induced labor, I fell in love. She lay there quietly sucking her hands and I looked at my husband and said something along the lines of, "I think I want to do this again." After having Aidan I wasn't sure that I would want more than one child, so I found it fascinating that after giving birth to Emie I was thinking about having three. Had I known that three years after at my second child's birth I would be handed a book called The Difficult Child at her annual well check-up, the thoughts of having a third child would have never entered my mind.

Who would have thought that this peaceful beautiful baby face . . .

. . . would have become this spunky monkey . . . .

So having just celebrated her third birthday, I thought the time had finally come to give you an overdue introduction to my daughter Emerson, a free spirited fire-cracker full of obstinate opinions.

The first two weeks of her life were quite calm and collected. Emie was a baby who ate and slept well. Our Eden like existence was short lived though; it took an emergency exit out the back door as Emie presented us with her pistol like personality. The incessant crying and late nights (some with no sleep) began and thoughts of another child quickly flew out the window. While much of the reason for her crying was due to a really bad case of acid reflux, I am now almost certain that at least some of that crying was in part Emie exhibiting the drama, willfulness, and sheer determination she demonstrates so freely today.

This adoring daughter of mine will do anything to be the center of attention. A fine example of this occurred only a few weeks ago while shopping at my local grocery. You see, my son had been telling a lot of "Why does a chicken cross the road" jokes, and my daughter had been using the rhythm of the joke to ask other questions. In her best jokester fashion on this day at the store she asked very loudly, "Why did the elephant poop on the ground?" I couldn't help but laugh out loud before asking her why indeed did the elephant poop on the ground. Her answer was her own laughter with no punch line in sight. I then proceeded to ask her where she heard the joke; she simply replied, "I made it up all by myself." At this I chose to keep my thoughts in my head, which was nodding side to side with a smile . . . Dear Lord Emie, you are obnoxious!

Her obnoxious nature has reached such a pinnacle of precociousness that it moved me to recently type the following two status updates on facebook:

"[I have] told Emie that for all the drama she creates, she best put it to good use someday and then walk me down the red carpet with her."

AND

"[I feel] like I'm in a movie filled with drama, angst and war. Emie is the star whose main goal in life is to waste every single second of the supporting actress's (that would be me) time and eventually drive her insane."

I mean, this is a girl who on a day I let her choose whatever she wants to wear, insists on arguing with me about whether her underwear goes on the outside or inside of her clothes, and upon asking her another day why she chooses to argue with me so much, she answers by belching in my face and laughing. So you can imagine that as her third birthday approaches, preparing for her party is a production like no other (thus yet another bit of a break from my blogging, sorry). She has opinions on what her cake should look like, what characters would support the theme, where she wants the party to be, and so on and so forth, and all at just less than three years of age. Despite her original wishes for a Spiderman party, we somehow (and gratefully) end up with Abby Cadabby's face gracing the cake I work on for so many hours. In the midst of the cake making process I hear more than once "I want my cake now!!!!" To which my reply finally is, "Then perhaps I'll throw this one in the trash." Silence is golden; mommy wins this battle . . . . So when the cake is finally completed, excitement ensues. Upon viewing it she looks up at me, smiles, and says with ardent enthusiasm, "Oh mommy, I love it so much! You did such a good job! Go mommy go, [insert claps] go mommy go!" and then squeezes my arm and says "Mommy I love you so much," and much like the day she is born and placed on my lap, my heart melts once more.

Emie is a girl much like my adult self, so it is inevitable that route of our relationship is going to be one of a collision course, but every crash is worth it for those heart-melting "I love you so much" moments. Her spunk and dogged determination is something I never had as a child, and in fact I was much more like my sweet and shy one, Aidan (who I will pay homage to soon enough). If she is like I am now at three years of age, I can only imagine the strong independent woman she can become by age 32. I have many dreams for her, however, whatever my dreams, they mean nothing next to what she can dream for herself, and I imagine the fearless fireball that is Emie is going to dream big and do whatever it takes to make said dreams come true (and perhaps even come up with a punch line for her now regularly repeated elephant joke, lol). So keep your eyes peeled, because just like any admiring mother, I believe there is a good chance Emerson is going to do something larger than life one day, and when she does, you can bet your ass I'll be shouting from the roof tops and boasting of her brilliance.

To my endearing Emie, always know that Mommy loves you so much too!

Diamond in the Rough

Sleeping soundly, dreaming peacefully, all is right in the world . . . until the blaring begins in my ears and makes me forget my pleasant dream. Ugh, I reach my hand over my head in an attempt shut off the alarm. I slam on the snooze, but to no avail, the pounding at my peace is not my everyday alarm which usually wakes me around 8, but is my ringing phone for which is now unexpectedly interrupting my slumber at 7:30. It takes a moment, but then I remember that it's Monday. Before I even look at the phone I know who is calling; I pretty much know what is going to be said before I even answer it.

I push the button and do my best to make it seem as though I have been awake for awhile. Even though I already know I'm going to have to call my husband in five minutes and sweetly ask him to come home for a bit to take our son to school, I let my friend explain his situation, that his oldest of two daughters is sick, and unless I want to risk my own daughter becoming ill, he is not be able to take my Emie to school on this "Manic Monday". The quiet morning I have planned to have at home has just been cancelled.

I sucked up the sleepiness, did what I needed to do, and tried to ignore the fact that I really could have used that extra 30 minutes of sleep. I also tried to ignore the fact that I missed a lot of time with my family the day before to run the errands, errands I could have been running while my daughter was a school had I known I would not be able to take advantage of my abode. Frustrated with the turn of events, knowing that driving back home and returning to pick up my daughter and her friend (my aforementioned friend's youngest daughter who was in tow) was going to waste an hour of my time, I glanced at stack of books on top of my laptop next to me on my path to preschool and told myself that if I couldn't do housework, I was going to find somewhere quiet to read during this two hour duration I needed to fill.

After kissing the girls goodbye and leaving them to learn, I begin to drive aimlessly in pursuit of a destination, a quaint place to read my books. I think of my favorite coffee shop, coincidentally much closer to the preschool than my home, and take a few wrong turns before arriving. I order cup of hot chai and sit it down next to my laptop to cool a bit. I sit staring at the laptop, knowing that bringing it in would inevitably cause me to put off my reading material. "I'm just going to check my email and facebook account," I tell myself. The next thing I know I am perusing my twitter feed, which I use mainly to follow others, because tweeting is not something I do so much. John Cusack, who loves to tweet, tweet, and retweet, has filled my feed with his thoughts, links, and a quote, a quote that I happen to fall in love with, and suddenly I'm on a quest to add this fascinating find to my email siggie, not an easy task for a low-tech girl like myself.

I end up spending a chubby chunk of my time figuring out how to add this quote to my signature, an experience which forces my fingers to pound away at the keyboard once again. Before I know it my two hours are up, and no novel reading in sight. Normally I would be bummed that I didn't take full advantage of my hazy little diamond in the rough, uninterrupted time to read, but in this case the diamond I do discover is much clearer, whiter, and has a much better cut. It sparkles very brightly and lights the sometimes dim bulb in my brain, for the quote of which I've mentioned has been the gem for which I've been searching, the opening line to something I've been working on since beginning this blog a few months ago, the opening line of an essay which should appear on a blog page near you sometime soon.

Diamonds are rare and hard to find, and finding this one has let me know that writing is what I'm meant to be doing right now . . . that I need to let go of the fact that not many are reading and that the stories I tell need to satisfy no one other than me. For the few of you who keep returning, I'm pleased that you enjoy what I write and I thank you for your loyalty. This day my wish for you is to be blessed with the ability make lemonade out of lemons and find your own sparkling diamond in the rough.

Questionable Quirk

I have a secret . . . . Oh all right, not really a secret, rather something that I have not directly disclosed about myself. I'm sure you've surmised by now that I have a lot of bad habits, and upon reading my blog you may have had the infrequent occasion to observe my penchant for this particular practice. Despite that this is something I strive to refrain from revealing here, there have been a few instances where I've divulged this egregious element in these black and white expressions of my essence. It is something I often execute in everyday life, so much so that I am often unaware of this iniquitous idiosyncrasy occurring – until . . . one of my kids demonstrates the said shortcoming of which I speak.

It was only a few weeks ago that I was sitting in my family room, probably browsing the internet (which I do far too much mind you), when Aidan reminded me of my above-alluded disparaging defect. Bloody hell, I thought to myself, I knew it was going to happen sooner or later. I stopped what I was doing and I looked at this innocent boy who returned my gaze with a smile before going back to drawing his pretty picture on the Magnadoodle, obviously unaware of his misstep. I took a breath, contemplating how I was going to handle this, wondering if I should press forward with punishment. I knew what I wanted to do, and that letting it go was the preferred path. I mean, how could I expect him to know any better when he observed my mistake many times? I was caught between the old cliché, "a rock and a hard place," trying to decide whether or not to do what I wished, or what society says is necessary. I took another breath, wishing I could tell society to sod off!

Ah yes, so here it is, the art of cursing – my potential propensity for potty-mouth . . . there is nothing like shouting the f-bomb after stubbing my toe, or saying "Damn!" when amused by something a friend has said to me. Swearing is something that has never been censored from my life; both of my parents have done it quite frequently in my presence (although ironically less frequently now than in my childhood), and as such speaking like a sailor is an art I began misusing around age 10. Having never been properly educated on the where's and why's for such explicative expressions, I have additionally never been good at censoring myself and reserving such swears for their appropriate use. Yes you have read that right, APPROPRIATE USE . . . . At this statement you may be starting to consider my sanity, pondering the possibility that I am barking mad for thinking there is ever such an occasion for such foul fair, but before you click the red x on the top right hand corner of your internet browser, deeming me dingy no doubt, I implore you to bear with me for a bit longer while I make my case in point. I present you with an example:

A phrase that most of us use on a regular basis is "have a nice day!" This old adage is typically what one says when intending to wish someone else a great afternoon, so to speak. It's considerate, genuine, and polite when it's used in this form. However, this ancient idiom is also something one (such as myself) may use when a telemarketer refuses listen to one's pleas . . . , "No, I do not want the latest edition Good Grammar and How to Use It! HAVE A NICE DAY! [CLICK]" In the latter instance, this often used expression is certainly not polite, nor is it any way genuinely wishing the telemarketer to have a blissful afternoon, and in the end one may have well just said, "PISS OFF," because that is certainly what one meant.

It is for this reason I believe that it's not the cursing that is wrong, but the purpose behind it. If you are using it to direct ill feelings toward someone or something else, then that is when its usage is definitely inappropriate, something of which I'm guilty of more often than I would like to admit. Saying the cursing equivalent of crap after being incorrect is directed at no one other than myself however, and therefore considered perfectly acceptable, in my humble opinion anyway.

So after hearing Aidan use a "four-letter word" for the first time . . . okay, the first time in a few years . . . I pondered, as I had many times before, about where the idiotic idea of curse words came from in the first place, and why do I have the bleeding responsibility of making sure my kids don't say these sodding senseless taboos? I mean, you think it would be more appropriate to teach my children the suitable use of such assumed slander rather than just telling them not to do it, which in turn could inevitably cause them run off to school and say them to their friends, because as you and I both know, it's always so much fun to do something that is forbidden, is it not? Coincidentally, Susan Sarandon talked about this very subject on David Letterman once years ago. I hoped find the interesting interview on YouTube for all to see, but alas no luck. I cannot recount the discussion for you word by word, but what I may never forget is Ms. Sarandon telling Mr. Letterman that she had recently given her six-year-old son (at the time) a leisurely lesson on the proper usage of the infamous f-word, and that he is indeed allowed to use it in the house if used in the proper sense (such as when stubbing a toe). I was intrigued as I continued to listen to her rationale and I thought she was genius in her decision, hoping that one day I too could teach my kids when and where it was appropriate to utter such unmentionables.

Now, fast forward several years from said interview; I am in a similar situation to Susan. I have a six-year-old son who has just iterated something I say all the time, but if he says it in school, I have no celebrity status to explain myself out of the sticky situation. Despite my deeming his treatment of the word extremely appropriate, I allow the correction of this off kilter conduct to commence. "Aidan," I say as calmly as possible, "can you please tell me what you just said?" He looks up at me again, this time with confusion on his face. "Damn," he answers honestly, but quickly adds, "I didn't know mommy. I didn't know I couldn't say it." I think about how his frustration with the mistake he has made in his drawing, and consider that I would likely have delivered the same dialect in his circumstance. Bugger, I think to myself, as I want to applaud him for using the word correctly, but then I do what I need to do to protect my child from earning a ticket straight to the principal's office one day. "It is okay honey," I begin consolingly; "I know mommy says it too, but it's a grown-up word, and kids aren't supposed to use it. You can get in trouble if you use that word in school, so please don't say it again." He nods, letting me know he understands and goes back to his work. I, on the other hand, grunt in frustration, knowing that one day when he can discern the difference, I plan to let him know that the occasional swearing slip-up in our house for the appropriate reason is okay with me now and then, and perhaps he may in turn have far better censoring sensibilities than I ever have had on such swearing.

‘Words Like Violence Break the Silence’

Talking, as I have previously established, is something I like to do frequently and for long periods of time. Much of this issue with my 'diarrhea of the mouth' is just part of who I am, but as I've stated before, it's been worsened by the fact that the only two people I get to talk to all day are ages six and two, and as interesting as my conversations with Aidan and Emie may be, they are not exactly the stimulating adult dialogues I crave so dearly day after day. So when presented with the prospect to speak with other, as my kids would say, grown-ups, I ramble on raggedly, even when my 'words are meaningless and forgettable', and the above mentioned children are assailing my arms and pleading for departure. Nonetheless, there are indeed times where I find 'words are unnecessary', and I wish to not be spoken to, and do not want to use my vast aptitude for verbiage to speak in return, but when that time is deeply desired, 'words like violence break the silence, come crashing in, into my little world' and I am walloped with the very verbal violence I've subjected so many others to time and time again.

The time someone else's chatter creates chaos on my composure and when uncommunicativeness becomes utterly important is when 'all I've ever wanted and all I've ever needed is here in my arms' – meaning there is a book is nested comfortably between my two hands. One of my favorite things to do is to escape into the world of someone else's imagination and not come up for air until I deem myself ready to do so. However, upon reaching the pinnacle of any narrative, I certainly become the most imperative person in the world to family, friends, and sometimes strangers. Emie predictably needs help on the potty; Aidan's toy inevitably needs batteries; Hallo, our precious pup, without doubt wants left outside; a friend indubitably calls to converse (which rarely happens due to my aforementioned defect); and my husband definitively decides this is the moment to actually have quaint conversation with his wife. Sometimes I feel as if I am about to split open at the seams when such situations strike and certainly am stirred to spout out, "Leave me the hell alone, I just want to finish this chapter". While that does happen on occasion, especially if it's my husband who has instigated the interruption, I usually put on my polite grin and address whoever it is that needs my attention, attention which is only precious to others when I am doing something I enjoy so immensely, such as perusing the pages of my favorite plot.

Of course, since I am indeed inspired to share such seething with you at this moment, you can confidently come to the conclusion that this interruption into my escape in fact happened today, when I was thoroughly engrossed in the first book of my favorite series of novels. I took said book to the gym, and doing so must have meant I was wearing a sign that said, "I'm desperate, please talk to me." I promise you, I have went to the gym many a time with no reading material and no one ever wanted to share with me the cute things their little tots did that morning or what their favorite movie was, but if I have a book in hand, I suddenly achieve the popularity I once longed for in high school but would much rather do without in moments like these. By now you are probably begging the question of why I would take a book to the gym in the first place, as one would not reasonably go to the gym to read. Well no, I do not go to the gym with the sole intention to read, rather to take my 9:30 class. However, my son Aidan is a walking kindergartener, which translates to me having to drop him off at school at 9:00 and pick him up at 11:30 each day, in turn leaving me no time to return home before or after class, but just enough time to sink into in my favorite story. Today however, I was beaten with a barrage of bedlam on my brain, which has now left it bouncing like a raft on the rapids of a river rather than in the peaceful placidity and alternate universe of my beloved book.

So my friends, today I have been reminded of a lesson I learned long ago . . . karma is a bitch. I have complexity to conquer, one of becoming cognizant of when to cage the cackle. There is indeed a time to Enjoy the Silence, and I am not the only one who wishes to partake of such pleasures. Perhaps I may get the sweet silence I seek if I remember that what goes around comes around and that you only get what you give.

The title of this blog and all single quoted phrases are from the song Enjoy the Silence, written by Martin Gore and originally sung by Depeche Mode.

Old Fashioned Progressiveness

The other day I was reminded that some still hold the notion of women being old fashioned, or even unaccomplished, if they make the decision to stay home with their children, and I want to know why that is. This concept is something I have not considered or been bothered by for some time, but the provocation I feel from this assumed idea resurfaced recently when I realized a friend of mine was upset by an anonymous comment made on his blog post. The lady (I assume) responsible for the remark was insinuating my friend's thoughts "[take] us back to a time when women were expected to stay home and were taught to hang of every word of their husbands," simply because he appreciated the fact that a girl he once dated loved his funny stories, particularly ones about odd things that happened to him. The point of his blog entry was far from her implications about it in my opinion, with my interpretation of it being that despite strange and bad things coming to pass, situations inevitably occur just as they should. Nonetheless, I can't deny her wayward comment struck a nerve.

Honestly, I want to know . . . what is wrong with wanting to be the one who spends the majority of my kid's time with them? By staying home our family has a great number of advantages including flexibility, more time together, and less stress (for the family unit that is). There are obvious drawbacks as well, most of which affect me, but what is a bit of sacrifice for a few years if it means the overall betterment of my children's well being and our family as a whole? Sure, we could have more money if I held a paying job, but then again my husband has a great occupation and we are budget conscience, so we still live comfortably on what he makes alone. Obviously if I produced an additional income we could buy a bigger house, have nicer vehicles, and go on more exotic vacations, but we do not need these luxuries and do not believe having any of these indulgences makes our lives any better, or makes us any more important for that matter. Personally, I am not forwarding my career or putting any money toward my retirement at this time, both of which are things I would like to accomplish, but why do I have to make such accomplishments now? I plan to go back to school, I plan to have a career, someday, but right now for me, it's my kids who are my focus. I will only ever get this one chance to savor these adorable moments that fly by me each day. In the end, it doesn't seem like that much of a sacrifice at all.

Now I know these convictions do seem conservative, but are they really? I actually consider myself to be a fairly progressive person, and even pride myself on it at times. It is not of my opinion that women stayed home "back in the day" because it was right for their kids or their family, not that they couldn't or didn't think it was befitting so to speak, rather they were mainly inclined to stay home for the reason that was in fact the norm of their time and even as the commenter said, "expected" of them. However, today I believe it is more the standard and even sometimes anticipated that women to go to work and kids to go to daycare. Consequently, aren't I being progressive by doing something so seemingly old fashioned? If truth be told, the implications of this above mentioned woman's comment are almost as suppressive as the allegedly once held belief that it was a woman's duty to stay home with her children. I, on the contrary, don't believe it is an obligation at all; alternatively it's a choice that my husband and I were fortunate enough to have in this two-income trap world. My husband and I know how privileged we are to have this opportunity and we are grateful for it each day.

Finally I want to make it clear, if I haven't done so already, that these are decisions I believe are in the best interest of myself, my kids, and my family, and that it is a choice made for my family alone. I am not a mom warrior on some war path trying to convince every woman that it is better for the world if all of us moms stayed home. I stay firm in the belief that we all have choices in this life, and the decision for my kids to be at home is one I made long before I started dating my husband, at a time when I was just being hopeful that I would indeed one day be privileged enough to meet the right person, get married, and have my beautiful babies. It was not pressed upon or expected of me; it was just something that was inherently important, if not instinctual. In fact, it was primarily imperative that my kids be home with one of their parents, meaning I could have easily been the one making the daily commute to my job if the circumstances had been different. I won't deny that I always hoped I would be the parent to stay home, but being the progressive person I believe myself to be, I was surely in favor of the stay-at-home dad as well.

So at this point I guess it is all in the perception of the reader as to whether my thoughts are old fashioned, progressive, or maybe a bit of both, but that is the beauty of humanity, that we all see things through a different pair of eyes. It would be a very boring world if we didn't.

Is It Really Worth Blogging About?

So my idea to start a blog began on facebook with the following status update:

Amber will surely go mad by the time Emie [my daughter] is a teenager. Everything is a battle with her. I let her pick out her clothes to wear today to avoid the battle we have each morning, but that wasn't good enough. She had to argue with me about whether or not her underwear goes on before her jeans. REALLY? She's not even three yet.

To which my friend Martin replied:
Amber, please start a blog. :)

The conversation continued as such:

Amber – About what, my children's antics?

Martin – Yes, all about your life as a mom, wife, and beautiful woman in Columbus, OH . . . first person narrative is compelling . . . yours will be great! Plus, new hobby! ;)

Amber – Martin, you are truly too much. I actually have considered it, but not sure that anyone but you would be interested. We'll see. :)

Martin – Are you trying to say I'm not important? :)

Amber – Okay Martin, I will write it just for you, because you are so very important. ;)

Martin – Now you are being patronizing. ;)

Amber – Now Martin, do you really find me to be the kind to patronize? I'm hurt. Lol!

Martin – No, you're the kind of good friend it's okay to tease. ;)

So I decided to indulge Martin and I typed a note on facebook. Since those few short hours ago, I have come to my senses and decided to start my own blog site instead. I give you my copied and pasted note from fb as my first post. I appreciate any comments you may have, whether you post them here or on my links to here from fb. Enjoy!

So if any of you were privy to my latest status update today (01-26-10), you will know that a friend recommended I start a blog. 'A blog, REALLY', I thougt to myself, 'what on earth do I have to blog about'? I am a stay-at-home mother of two who spends her days fixing meals, chauffeuring the kids, and doing various household chores, who happens to have a variety of interests that include reading, crocheting, and as of recent writing. Additionally, if you know me well, you know I can talk just about anything, and do it for a long time. My friends often do not wish to converse with me on the phone and wish I would use text more often. I often use email and facebook as methods of communication, but even my letters and messages there are quite long. I have gotten better with age at learning when and how to shorten said messages and cut down on the conversation time, but being the stay-at-home mom I am, with a husband who uses up most of his words for the day at work, I thrive on any adult conversation I can get. I used to be an introvert, but since I started staying home with my kids, I find I will talk to anyone about almost anything, and even let complete strangers know what I think of their opinions and am more than happy to share mine. So when you combine this all these factors together, perhaps I do indeed have something to blog about, and I will begin with the thing that should, in theory, occupy the majority of my time, and yet is the bane of my existence, housework.

I swear I was born with a metaphorical silver spoon in my mouth, one that was meant to be there but never really was. In my younger years I had to work for almost everything I wanted, so it seems odd to me that I dream of having a full time maid, and that maybe one day when I have a job outside the home I will fulfill that dream. Inevitably though, that dream will come with another set of sacrifices, so for now, I will say I am blessed to stay home with my kids, and doing housework is part of that bargain. However, if you have read my 'about me' section here on fb, you will know that "I procrastinate better than anyone I know". I often put the housework on hold to do my aforementioned favorite pastimes. In fact, I hate housework so much that I will even put it off to do a not-so-favorite pastime of cardio and light weight-training, of which my motivation only comes from the end result. I will find any reason in the world to put off a project I do not want to do, and as with exercise, only the potential end result provides me with the drive to 'just get it done'. I have tried many times to create new habits and overcome my lack of motivation, but to no avail, as the end result always seems to be back-loaded laundry and clutter that is often otherwise classified as laziness. The fact that I'm typing this blog and admitting this to the world (okay, just my 130+ fb friends) is proof positive that I will do anything to get out of the 'must-do's' of everyday life. I seriously need to read 'The Road Less Traveled', but then here I am back at square one, reading and not doing the blight of most working class people, such as myself.

So as I am trying to finish this up, I must state that my husband suddenly got the urge to talk. "What are you doing? Are you typing a blog? You know we have a blog site that I set up . . . . Look, 'Scrubs' is on TV tonight." I told him to watch something else while I finish this, which means I must enjoy what I'm doing. So perhaps you will see more blurbs from me in the future and I may actually put the blog site my husband set up to use.

As I close, I must dedicate this to Martin, who always thinks far too highly of me, yet inspires me to believe I can do more than I ever thought possible for myself. My friend, I apologize if you felt patronized today, but you know me, I can hardly contain myself when I have the opportunity to be a smart-ass. ;) I enjoy reading your blog, which I continue to believe will be far better than anything I could ramble on about, but thank you for believing I'm capable writing something that others would be interested in reading. Maybe you will be right (for once, lol) and can someday say "I told you so!"