Here's to being resolute!

I have a thing for resolutions.

Being abnormally task-oriented, I find myself freakishly motivated by lists and goals.

And so, at the beginning of every year, I take great joy in creating the mack-daddy of all to-do lists: New Year's Resolutions.

Of course, my momentum tends to wane when I can't accomplish everything on my list in a period of about 24 hours.

So the whole year-long resolution concept is a bit null and void for me.

I'm quite sure I don't remember a single resolution from last year; not a one.

But then again, last year, I didn't have a blog, which just so happens to serve as an excellent social networking tool, but can also do double-duty as a Commitment-Enforcing Officer - i.e., once I put it out on the World Wide Web, it never truly goes away.

In essence, I have to do it. (Or perish from the public humiliation I'll surely receive after I admit that I did not do a single one of the three things I intended to accomplish this year. For shame!)

It's a bit of a trial by fire, but in this case, I feel it might be necessary.

So, what do I hope to accomplish all the livelong year?

What does 2010 hopefully hold for me? What are my must-dos for the next 12 months?

And, most importantly, what will you have to read about incessantly for the next 365 days? (My sincerest apologies, in advance.)

***

1. I intend to create more community.
I have this nasty little habit of prioritizing necessary tasks over social opportunities. For instance, after I got married, I found myself forgoing time with friends to stay home and finish all the dirty laundry. Or I'd insist that before I was allowed to go grab dinner with some close confidantes, I had to finish writing my holiday thank-you notes.

I cut phone calls short to go make dinner; I interacted less with the women around me because I'd choose to stay home and bang out some project instead of going shopping or to a pottery class.

I blamed it on the fact that I spent most of my working days surrounded by needy teenagers and my nights surrounded by adults I was in charge of training; I maintained that, sometimes, I just needed to be alone, even if that meant sitting on top of my washing machine folding underwear instead of having a cup of tea with a friend.

But seeing as how I'm soon moving to an entirely new city - where I know approximately zero people - I can't do that anymore. There won't be my stand-by group of friends waiting for me to emerge from my freshly laundered solitude.

The fact is, I won't have any friends there.

If I want them, I'm going to have to make them.

I'm going to have to drop the broom and dustpan and get back out there; back out into the real world. I'm going to have to join a women's group at church, participate in a book club, bake with my neighbor, or - eek! - join a complete group of strangers for a playdate.

I didn't realize how difficult this would be for me until I went to my first blogger meet-up last week. Seriously, I was so nervous, I almost talked myself out of going. I was sweating like a pig by the time I got myself there with "What if they don't like me?" fears.

Thankfully, the women I met there were wonderful. I was reluctant to leave - after chatting with them for more than four hours! I sincerely felt like I'd been in the presence of long-time friends.

From Left to Right: Jess from All-American Jess, Justine from Almost There, Lil' Woman from Little Woman, Little Home, and me

It was as I was driving away from these lovely ladies that I realized how important it would be for me to participate in other "play-dates," of sorts.

A girl can only do so much laundry before she gets lonely.

2. I want to focus on peace, not perfection.
I take multi-vitamins, but barely sleep six hours a night. I run, cycle and lift weights, but rarely stretch or do self-massage. I want a baby, but have a coffee addiction so severe I'm afraid to see what will happen when I have to quit cold turkey when I get pregnant.

I'm one big, walking oxymoron.

For so long, my life was about being healthy and attractive. Even if that meant drinking fake sweeteners, eating fat-free, rubbery cheese, and running until my feet were so swollen that I couldn't stand on my own most mornings.

As a trainer, I'm all too aware of the difference between healthy and high-strung, and I'll be totally honest, I flirt with the line in between a bit too frequently.

So this year, I'm vowing to sleep more, to practice more yoga, to cut way back on caffeine, and to eat to nourish my body - not to shape it.

I want to be at peace with life and my body's processes, instead of focusing on how my body appears or what it's supposed to be doing. I'm going to learn to accept the fact that my body will not ever appear as it did when I was 21; that my body is inevitably going to change when I get pregnant; that my hips will probably not be any worse for the wear if I don't do cardio six days a week.

Even if that means I - gasp! - gain a couple of pounds. (Quick Note: I deleted and re-wrote that last sentence four times. Obviously, I'm still not totally comfortable with the idea. This is going to be an interesting year, me thinks.)

3. I hope to pray more and control less.
I worry. All the time.

I worry about car accidents and the war in the Middle East and how many trans-fats there are in my husband's lunch.

And because I worry, I cry. A lot.

I get so freaked out that I often break down into tears. All the time.

And if I'm not crying, I'm usually trying to manhandle God's will - and everyone else's, for that matter - under my control. I'm constantly arm-wrestling for a sense of power or a sense of security. (Boy, I sound like a bit of a tyrant here, don't I?)

I find it very hard to have uncertainty in my life; I find it very hard to just let things happen. I much prefer to make them happen.

In fact, if I had my way, I'd schedule when it would be most convenient for them to happen.

Except, when trying to schedule and win a Thumb War against myself and life in general, I often lose.

And then, the tears kick in again.

So this year, I'm going to release my destiny, if you will.

I'm going to let it happen when God intends it to happen; I'm not going to man-handle my existence into the box that I deem satisfactory, even if I cry myself to death from the discomfort it causes me.

I may put my desires out there in prayer, maybe even voice them among my friends, but then, I'm going to let them go.

I'm not going to fixate on things that have to happen or things that must be done a certain way.
Because when I do, it makes me a bear to live with (my poor husband,) and it makes me unhappy. (Poor me!)

I'll do what I can do to make life great for my husband, myself, my family, and those around me.

And the rest I'm leaving up to Someone wiser - and far less tearful - than me.

***

So cross your fingers and say a little prayer that we all get what we're resolute about in 2010.

I know I'm already thinking months ahead, dreaming of babies and an easy, successful move by the East Coast.

And I'm really hoping these three resolutions will prepare me for whatever changes the next 12 months hold.

So here's to the New Year! May it bring us all our hearts' desire!

Happy Tuesday everyone!

I'm sorely afflicted

No, seriously, I am.

Sorely, sorely afflicted.

I'm pretty sure I need serious medical intervention.

But because I have no time or money to get it, I'm turning to the next best thing to a certified, professional M.D.:

You all!

So, allow me, my personal blog docs, to paint you a picture...

You're driving down the road after a long day at work. You're en route to the gym in brisk, moving local traffic between the hours of 4:30 and 6 p.m. You're rockin' out to whatever suitable tunes you can find on your radio because you are way to old-school to actually own and use an iPod. You're sipping a cup of green tea/juice/extra-shot latte and periodically peeking over at your cell phone to see if anyone is trying to ring you over your screeching, non-iPod-enhanced singing.

Then, it happens.

Your eyes begin to tingle.

You're eyes begin to water.

Your eyes begin to ache for just a smidge of a rub or just a little scratch.

If you have enough time, you swipe at a tear duct - gently - with the back of you hand.

But, before you can ponder whether or not you've somehow gotten an ill-fated eyelash embedded on your retina, the problem escalates.

And by escalates, I mean shoots up such a steep incline that you go from slightly itchy, watery eyes, to a face that feels like it's puffed up, on fire, dripping chilli oil, and spontaneously combusting all at once.

Your face is, in fact, aflame.

Or at least that's what your sensory overload is telling you.

Opening your eyes feels like somebody is shoving sand onto your pupils and rubbing it around your eyeballs. Your nose has started to run in time with your tear ducts. Your face literally feels like it's being stabbed with fiery glass.

You and your guardian angels manage to get you off the side of the road without killing you or others, so you can rummage around in your car, blinded, and try and find a half-used napkin from your breakfast bagel or an old sweatshirt with which you can rub your face as dry as you can get it, scrubbing furiously at your eyes in an attempt to get off whatever the heck is actively burning your face away as you sit, parked, with traffic whizzing by as if they haven't the slightest idea that you are, in fact, going blind right before their very eyes.

By the time the pain subsides and your vision returns, you're panting, maybe even crying panicked tears, thanking the Lord above that you managed to maneuver your way to safety and keep your face all in one day.

You are, legitimately, freaked out.

And by "you," I totally mean "me."

For the last couple months, this has been my almost daily routine.

I've taken to stashing boxes of tissues in my car, for pre-emptive swipes that sometimes, but rarely, stave off what I've come to call Burning Face Syndrome.

I've tried switching up my eye make-up or not wearing any at all.

I've tried protective sunglasses, diverting the car's air vents away from my countenance, and even washing my entire face before I hop in the car at the end of the day.

Nada.

Nothing's worked.

The Burning Face Syndrome lives on.

Of course, when the syndrome first struck a couple months back, I immediately Google-d my symptoms and basically convinced myself for several days that I was, in fact, dying of some sort of eye cancer, which would leave me blind at best and leave me, well, dead at worst.

However, I'm fairly certain that's not it; I'm fairly certain there's something much less suspicious and far more standard going on.

(Also, I don't have any known, standard allergies, and I've got perfect vision, so those two things are out.)

So now, before I break down, go broke, and actually find myself an optometrist, I thought I'd check with you all. Has anyone else had an experience like this? Any tips you'd like to share with me?

I'd really appreciate any help you can spare.

Until then, I'll be here, waiting. Hoping and praying that when I venture out from work once again, Burning Face Syndrome won't strike.

But if you see any headlines that read "Woman Loses License, Sight After Face Catches Fire in Rush Hour," expect a bit of a blog hiatus.

Can't say I didn't warn you.

***

Happy Tuesday everyone!

Living dangerously. And coldly.

When we moved to our current home back in August, it was approximately 145 degrees here in bright, sunny North Florida.

We couldn't take off enough clothes to cool down.

It was a "naked sweat," in other words.

So we didn't even think twice when the owners of the home we're living in told us that the heat was not electric but was, in fact, gas - a fact that would require us to have a "gas man/woman," if you will, come and fill our tank with more than $600 worth of gas before the not-so-long, cold winter, if we intended to use the heat at all this year.

So, we did what any normal, sweaty Floridian would when presented with our almost year-round enemy: Heat.

We decided we wouldn't use any of it this winter.

"We don't need no stinkin' heat!" we proclaimed.

Now, before all the rest of you located at higher latitudes start to laugh at the notion of Floridians really ever needing heat, let me just say this: It does freeze here during the winter. It is, after all, North Florida. So, yes, we don't have "snow days" or sub-zero temperatures, but we do still chip ice off our cars and experience degrees in the 'teens. It's cold enough to own two sets of clothing; winter clothes and summer clothes.

That being said, back in August, my summer-altered brain forgot all this; my summer-altered brain laughed at the notion of wearing anything with sleeves on it.

My summer-altered brain was hot.

We simply maintained that with enough layers, and with the body heat we'd collect under the blankets when sleeping, we'd be fine.

Worst-case scenario, we'd plug in those little space heaters when doing things like getting dressed and taking showers.

Sounds totally logical when you're sweating in a sundress, right?

Well, my friends, winter has come, and my summer-altered brain is gone.

I'm also seriously beginning to doubt my summer-altered decisions.

Because when I arose Sunday morning, the indoor thermometer said the house temperature was hopping between 45 and 50 degrees.

And me?

Well, let's just say I risked a bladder infection over lowering my bare bum onto an icy-cold toilet seat that morning, and I didn't find it at all funny when I clicked on the TV after church to find Cold Case re-runs playing away, oblivious to their own ironic presence.

The piece' de resistance was when the chicken breasts I started thawing for dinner defrosted faster in the refrigerator rather than out of it.

Because, baby, it's cold outside. And inside, for that matter.

Still, no omniscient TV show, frozen blocks of meat or frigid commode were going to deter this girl from her frugal winter. After all, we're Floridians? Who says we really need heat, right?

My husband does, that's who.

Yes, my husband says he wants us to turn on the heat.

Screw our well-thought-out frugal winter. The man has had enough of living on a budget, apparently. The boys wants the heat turned on. Stat.

But it's not because the boy is cold.

No sirree Bob.

My Arkansas-born boy wears shorts with sweatshirts - a poor fashion choice but a daring clothing combination nonetheless - even when its positively frigid outside. We jokingly call him a "walking furnace" around here, from time to time. My husband is not easily chilled.

So, even without the heater, the hubs isn't cold.

No, my husband wants the heat turned on for a whole different kind of reason, for a whole different kind of heat, if you will.

My husband, in fact, is sick of me being cold.

Or, more specifically, he's sick of me donning my new cold-weather-coping mechanism:

You see, I spent the entire weekend in pink-and-red, snowflake-printed fleece PJ pants; striped-blue, knee-high, booty fleece socks; an orange thermal shirt; a brown, knit beret; and my husbands' XXL navy hoodie.

I've been sleeping in this lovely ensemble. I've been eating in this lovely ensemble. I even decorated the Christmas tree - at 1 o'clock on a Saturday afternoon - in this lovely ensemble.

In essence, I look like a very warm circus freak.

A very warm circus freak who also enjoys looking like a shapeless lump of lounge-wear on her off days.

When he looks at me, I'm pretty sure he's wondering where his wife is, under all these layers of clothes.

I'm pretty sure he's wondering when the heat will return to the body that I may or may not still have, buried under all these layers of wool and fleece.

Sorry, honey.

I guess all I can tell you is: Expect your wife and her body to emerge in about three months.

Until then, don't you dare turn on that heat.

***

P.S. According to our weather forecast, we can expect high-60s, low-70s beginning tomorrow until the end of the week, when we'll get another freeze. Thanks to the fickle nature of Florida winters, it looks like I'll be able to lose the sweatshirt. The hubs will be thrilled.

P.P.S. I realize that using gas to heat, cook, and run a home is hardly novel to anybody else. But to me - and a lot of native Floridians - it is. I've never lived in a home where we used gas for anything. I've never even cooked on a gas stove. So while I'm sure I'll get some good-natured ribbing for this, trust me, I don't know the first thing about "filling up a gas tank."

P.P.S. In case you missed it, I had a guest post over at my dear friend Sam's blog, The Ruby Turtle Hippie Times, this past Saturday. She was kind of enough to let me ramble on about two of my favorite things: Christmas and books. So go on over and check it out if you get a chance.

Happy Monday everyone!

Terrified of the T Word

All right. I'm just going to say it.

I'm a reluctant technology user.

Honestly, I am.

I know.

It's like speaking blasphemy in the blogosphere to admit that, and if you click "Stop Following" on all your tech-savvy iPhone touch-screens right now and never visit my humble little blog again, I don't blame you.

But I am. It's the truth.

Technology, and more importantly, it's ability to keep us all inter-connected 24-7, freaks me out.

Proof positive?

I was a blog stalker for more than a year before I started my own blog. A year!

And why?

I was totally afraid of the commitment. Afraid that I'd be four posts in, get tired of it, and quit.

And trust me, if you had my track record, you would have a fear of (journaling) failure, too.

Do you know I own a box - A BOX - full of journals and diaries from my childhood, all of which have two pages filled up. And then? Blank paper as far as the eye can see. I, apparently, had trouble following through.

But I beat the odds. Just this once. Turns out, I love blogging. I do it daily. It's my form of relaxation, entertainment, pleasure and socialization. This journal will not be left blank.

I'll admit, I was surprised by my love of this new online journaling process. I was surprised how much each comment, post and new friend made my day.

And because of that, I'm pretty sure I won't find anything else like it. Lightening doesn't strike the same place twice.

Which is why I'm going down, kicking and screaming and fighting, fighting, fighting, when it comes to the T word.

Yes, that's right.

The T word.

The one that sounds like a mix between a bird's tweet and the pitter-patter of little feet.

Twitter.

Ah, yes. Twitter.

I do not, nor have I ever, tweeted.

Technically, I have an account. (I know some of you have found me.) I set it up a couple months back because I wanted to see something some celebrity had tweeted.

But as for me? I'm a complete Twitter newborn. You've never heard/read me summarize my happenings in 140 characters or less.

And I'm still not sure if I ever will.

I mean, the word limit alone freaks me out.

Short and sweet, I am not. Verbosity could be my middle name. I was the kid in high school who had to have page limits enforced on all school assignments. When I was home-schooled, I once wrote my mother a 16-page, SINGLE-SPACED book report. When I was all of a 11 years old.

I have a long-standing history with words and their overuse. I can't imagine it's going to go away overnight.

But even if I managed to reign in my War on Terseness, there's so many other potholes along the Twittering path.

For instance, am I really comfortable with the whole world watching/reading my every move? Do I want them knowing my deepest, darkest secret?

I mean, what if, (gulp) you all actually find out what I've been trying to hide from you all this time?

The sheer and utterly horrible fact that I. am. boring.

Like, totally dull.

For instance, just take today.

If I was really committed, and I had begun to tweet along with the changes in my day so far, I would have recorded the following:

6 a.m. Coffee pot not working. I am in serious trouble.
6:20 a.m. Rigged coffee pot to work with butter knife. Now running late.
6:45 a.m. How are there already children sitting outside my classroom?
7 a.m. Jammed the one working copier in the entire school. I'm going to be so popular when word gets out.
7:30 a.m. Is it weird to Tweet while using the teacher's restroom?
7:45 a.m. Class hasn't started, and I've already got a crying kid. No, wait, she's just shivering. In 100-degree weather.
8 a.m. I am Tweeting on the job. This is wrong.

Still awake? Yeah, I thought not.

Sure, maybe, with a little practice, I'd get better. Maybe I'd develop a knack for creating the world's cutest/funniest/most insightful Tweets.

But in the end, I'd still I'd have to constantly update them. Tweets do have an expiration date, I'm told.

And that, my friends, is a lot of pressure. How exactly would I do that while teaching my kids? Or working at the gym? Or lounging around on the floor of the house?

I love that we can pre-schedule posts on Blogger for this very reason. Because if it wasn't for that, I'd be coming at you live around midnight every evening. You know, when all of you young moms and professionals are bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, eager to do some light reading, I'm sure.

Then there's the simple fact that a Twitter account is just one more tech-savvy Trapper Keeper, one more Internet item that I have to keep organized, productive, interesting, and worthwhile.

I don't want my Twitter account to fall into various states of disrepair and neglect, much like its predecessors, who have up until this point been my connection to the outside world and simultaneously, the focus of my inner rage.

Sometimes, I want to throw my phone at the wall when it rings. Incessantly. Over every little thing.

I live in fear of that stupid buzz that lets me know that I have missed "14 new text messages," or better yet, "8 new voicemails."

I dread that moment when you tell someone, "Um, I actually can't talk right now," but they obviously didn't listen or don't care, because baby! they CAN talk right now! And they will. Or they'll text. Same difference.

And then there's always e-mail, the evil step-sister of social networking and 24-7 communication.

From my extensive data collection and research on my own inbox, I'd estimate that I receive approximately 3,598 e-mails a day, most of which are work-related.

All you teachers out there understand. An e-mail for a teacher is never a good thing. No one delivers praise and support via e-mail. That, they'll do in person. E-mail is the shield of protection in the academic world.

To put it midly, e-mail and I are like Pavlov's dogs and the ringing bell. Except I cry instead of salivate every time I hear "You've got mail."

And don't get me started on Facebook. I'm the worst Facebook-er ever. I don't change my profile. I don't upload photos. I rarely ever search for new friends. And the only people who seem to want to chat it up with me on that thing are men and women I supposedly "went to high school with" but have no recollection of ever meeting. I'm not so sure all is well in Facebook land, at least on my little piece of the social-networking pie.

So when I say blogging works for me, and is the only thing that has, I mean it.

I love you guys so much my heart breaks for you when life gets hard and rejoices with you when it brings happiness. You don't stress me out. In fact, I can't get enough of you all.

Which, again, is exactly why I'm back at this place.

Back in this space where I'm beginning to question my own methods, my own stay-put-and-wait-till-they-work-out-all-the-kinks-and-the-terrain-is-safe attitude.

Because I've watched you, my fellow bloggers, the wonderful people who have restored a little bit of my faith in technology, fall prey to the T word one by one.

You all are Twittering.

You all have crossed over.

You all are having fun, silly, semi-private conversations that I know nothing about!

While I'm still back here, churning my own butter and writing archaic blog posts that lack the quick wit of a 140-character joke, you all are the cool kids, hanging out, drinking punch and running for student body president.

I think it's safe to say I've developed a little bit of FOMO (Fear of Missing Out.)

Take a couple of weeks ago, when I inadvertently read a bit of a nice, friendly exchange between my dear bloggy friends Gina and Brittany on Twitter.

I actually got a little jealous.

Yes, jealous. Me, a full-grown woman, jealous of another two, full-grown women, who I'm pretty sure simply wished each other a good morning.

Like I said, FOMO.

And said FOMO is driving me forward, toward a place I'm not entirely comfortable, but a place, nonetheless, where I'm told there'll be lots of friendly faces.

I'm standing, currently, on the precipice between Twitter and The Technology of Yore.

Wondering, just wondering, if I should toe over the edge.

So, I'm turning to you all.

Do you think I should Twitter? Why? Do you think Twitter is a reasonable thing to keep up with? Do you find it takes away the enjoyment of blogging? Any of you out there old-school hold outs like myself? Why?

Anyone? Anyone?

Sigh. Everyone's probably already on Twitter this morning.

And the FOMO worsens.

***

Happy Thursday everyone!

Also, take a second and go check out my friend Katie's fall scarves swap!

It's a fun, easy, fashionable swap that everyone everywhere can benefit from! Go on over, say hi to the wonderful Katie, and sign up! I'll "see" you over there myself;)

To labor or not to labor; that is the question...

We've got a nice, long weekend coming up.

A nice, long weekend that I've always seen as being pretty much useless.

Case in point. A conversation I had with my students yesterday:

Me: ....and then, we'll go over the results on Monday.
Random Student (RA): Remember, we don't have school on Monday, Mrs. C.
Me: Oh, yes, we have a three-day weekend. Bummer.
Another RA: Bummer?!? Are you kidding?? I love three-day weekends. They're awesome!
Me: I'd prefer to save them up for in a month or two. You know, when I actually start to get sick of you guys.

Yes, I actually said this to them. And yes, they laughed. They are my seniors, and this is their second year with me.

But seriously, come talk to me in November when I've had to make two different yearbook deadlines, run Picture Day, kick a couple students out of my class, have "The Talk" with the poor children I catch making out near my room, stay at school grading papers till 10 p.m., field a couple phone calls from irate helicopter parents, take away about 28 more cell phones, confiscate the entire 11th-grade classes' iPods, mill the entire Class of 2010 into the shape of a "10" and snap an aerial shot of them, wear permanent blisters into my heels from being on my feet all day, and drink up most of the coffee supply available in the Colombian rainforest.

Then, I will need a three-day weekend.

Now? Not so much.

One of the regular two-day variety will do just fine.

But, we've got to usher in fall and say good-bye to summer somehow. And I'm not one to turn down chips, salsa, and college football. (Keeps the hubs happy, you know.)

So I've got a three-day weekend, whether I'm ready for it or not.

And therefore, I'm left with a dilemma.

Three days. Three whole days.

Think of all the STUFF I could get done.

I could have the cleanest house, the most organized cabinets, heck, if I really wanted to, I could write every lesson plan I'd need for the rest of the academic year. I could drive to the craft supply store an hour away and stock up on enough goods to make all my Christmas gifts. I could cook and freeze enough meals for September, October and November. I could start a fall garden. I could re-design my blog, paint my house, hit every garage sale in the greater North Central Florida area.

I could be the crazy lady that is always screaming to be let loose from my insides.

You see, I have a really hard time relaxing.

I like to relax; I need to relax. And, when I'm mid-week, I'd give anything for another day to sleep in, clean my house, read a book, and just relax.

But I can't.

It's physically impossible.

You give me a block of more than two free hours - two free, unplanned hours - and I start to get the itch.

The un-scratchable and yet irresistible itch.

The itch to do something, anything, remotely important.

After all, a woman's work is never done, right?

Like I said: I'm crazy.

I can't let God's little gift of a three-day weekend slip by without using it for something "worthwhile," something I should do, something I need to do, but something I never have time do it, because in the grand scheme of things, it tends to ranks below work, eat, sleep, and love my husband.

But when Tuesday rolls around, my students and fellow faculty will be well-rested. They, being normal, functional people, will take advantage of their three-day weekend, returning back to the grind calmer, cooler, and more collected.

I, however, will be picking pieces of dried paint out of my hair and rubbing my tired eyes while sipping coffee, which will cause me to slosh and spill it down the front of my white pants and shoes, which, gasp! I'm now definitely wearing after Labor Day, which I would normally have remembered not to do, except I'm too tired from painting the house all weekend to care.

It's not my fault; I have a sickness.

Still, just look at the reason for the three-day weekend: Labor. Day.

Is it just me, or does the very holiday itself seem to imply a subliminal message from God that, indeed, I should "labor" on my day away?

And while we're on the subject, I want to let the American government know that I'm not really that keen on the holiday being called "Labor Day." Even as a kid, it sent me mixed messages. I never understood why you'd name a day off with a word that implied anything, well, laborious.

Call me old-fashioned, but I like a holiday where I know what to do and who to celebrate.

Take President's Day. Now that's a holiday I can get behind.

Purpose of the celebration? Presidents.

Easy. Understood. I get it.

And then there's Thanksgiving.

What do we do? Give thanks.

Well, all right. I would assume as much with a name like "Thanksgiving." Count me in. Can do.

But Labor Day? LABOR Day? It's no wonder I feel as if I should use the day for work of some kind.

Still, I hope you all have a lovely long weekend. I hope those of you that live in a state with more than one season start to feel the autumn air creep in. I hope you all laugh and play and cheer your favorite college football team to victory. (Unless you're cheering for Charleston Southern, because then, unfortunately, I'm cheering against you. Go Gators! And I mean that in the nicest way possible.)

I hope you sleep in on Monday. I hope you can at least entertain the idea of donning a sweater in the late afternoon and making a warm mug of apple cider. I hope you enjoy your time with family and friends. I hope you get the day off you deserve, a day off where you can relax, say good-bye to summer, and usher in fall.

And I hope you don't run into my inner crazy lady, who may or may not be mowing the backyard at 7:30 a.m. Monday morning.

Have a good weekend everyone!

***

And don't forget to enter my Workout Wednesday giveaway!

Dear Evening Brittany...

I know we've never met, seeing as how I run with the early-hours crowd and you hang out alone at night, so allow me to introduce myself.

I am Morning Brittany. We inhabit the same body, but that's about all we have in common.

You see, I rise early and am in charge of getting our body to the gym and then to school, where I have to fight off lots and lots of insults, epithets, and germs, slung at me by cranky teens. I grade papers, do laundry, and efficiently sort through and answer e-mails.

I ingest a healthy breakfast and several cups of coffee, all carefully designed to keep our body going throughout the work day, making sure we have enough energy to do what we need to do.

I do this, all of this, even though I live a fairly miserable existence. When I am forced to awaken at 5 a.m., I am groggy and tired and pretty much hate the fact that I have to get up. My only happy thought is: "Don't worry, Morning Brittany. You will be able to get back into this bed in a mere 16-17 hours. Just fight through the day, and you can return to your pillow and blanket."

But see, the thing is, Evening Brittany, you've been robbing me of my sole consolation prize lately. You, frankly, have been functioning so selfishly that, when I arise, I can't even muster up the courage to count down the hours until I get into bed again.

For Lord knows what reason, you get a second wind when you take over at around 5 p.m., Evening Brittany. While I've been dragging us through the day, miserable, tired and wishing/hoping/dreaming of a good night's sleep, you get the ridiculous idea that your time, the night time, is prime time.

You read blogs. You watch movies. You eat snacks. You cuddle with the dog. You hang with the hubs. You start craft projects. You read books. You sift through magazines. You exercise, again!

You do everything but take a hot shower and put us to bed!

Why, Evening Brittany, why?

Why do you think it's a good idea to "just read one more chapter," or "scan over my Google Reader one more time, real quick," or watch "just one more episode in the 18 Kids and Counting! marathon. What's 22 minutes, plus commercials?"

I'll tell you what it is, Evening Brittany. That's 22 minutes out of our sleep time! That's 22 minutes I need if I'm going to continue to get our rumpus out of bed again in what often becomes less than six hours!

Where does your energy come from, Evening Brittany? How can you stay awake till midnight when I so clearly can't function at my 5 a.m. report time?

Oh, wait, I know. It's all the crud you insist on ingesting at around 7:30 p.m!

Sure. Popcorn is high in fiber, but must you eat the whole bowl? And don't think I didn't see the huge bowl of fruit salad you ate last night. And yes, I also saw that scoop of vanilla ice cream the fruit was so "cleverly" hiding. It's like you don't even care about all the careful consideration I gave every morsel I put in our mouth earlier that day. You will blow it all away for a night-time apple-cinnamon muffin!

Evening Brittany, listen to me. Put down the late-night Chex Mix and listen to me.

I've had enough. I can no longer function after you go off on your constant late-night solo parties with your books, blogs, and DVDs.

We have to sleep a little.

Now, wait a minute. I'm not asking for the moon. I'm not even asking for nine hours of sleep. I'll take eight, or heck, I'll take seven.

Please, just remember me when you get home and get inspired to do all the things you don't have time to do during the day. Think about your pillow and blanket.

Think about your dog. Yes, the dog is on my side. See him staring at you from the hallway, looking back and forth between you and the bedroom? He knows it's time for bed! Why don't you?

I appreciate you taking the time to read this, Evening Brittany. I know your time is short, what with all the blogs and books you want to read. I'm sorry if I was too blunt; I'm sorry if I hurt your feelings. I just ask that you take this into consideration the next time your Google Reader calls to you.

Until we meet again (you know, when Afternoon Brittany decides to take one of the two naps she takes every year).

Sincerely,
Morning Brittany

A note-worthy obsession

I feel as if I have to confess something. I normally try to keep this kind of thing under wraps, but I can no longer deny that I have a pretty odd habit.

A habit that I can now safely say has manifested itself into a weird, obsessive-compulsive addiction that I am in no way considering giving up anytime soon.

I love index cards.

No, seriously. I LOVE index cards.

I probably use, on average, about 35 a week. I buy them IN BULK at Sam's Club, simply because I use so many that buying en masse is not only enjoyable (for me) but also economical.

And no, I don't write down recipes on them (although I should); I don't make flashcards on them (thank goodness those years are behind me); I don't even write and practice speeches and lessons on them (because that would be entirely too normal.)

What do I do? I keep daily lists and to-dos on them.

For every day of my life, for the last two years, I have written daily to-do lists on index cards.

Now, I know that doesn't sound terribly odd, but if you knew how it normally works, it might freak you out. And as I'm not one to miss out on a chance to scare any of you, take a peek:

1. On Sunday evening, I prepare seven notecards, one for each day of the following week.

2. On each daily notecard, I write down exactly what I want/must/hope to do that day, whether it be grade papers or mop the floor. There are no limits to what I can put on each notecard. (Remember how I mentioned all the little notebooks I tote around? Yeah, well, those are my index-card reference materials.)

3. Then, I create addendum note cards, meaning: If Tuesday's notecard specifies that I must go grocery shopping, I create an addendum notecard that details my shopping list. Or if Thursday's notecard indicates that I have to pack for a weekend trip, Thursday's addendum notecard has my packing list. (Now, it has to be said. These notecards are not carved in stone. Throughout the week, I often jot down new to-dos - especially if I don't finish something from the previous day's notecard - or add new addendums as need arises.)

4. Then (and this is the really sick part), each morning, before I start work, I take the day's index card and re-write the list on a sticky note, in the order I want to do each item. (The sticky, Post-it-like nature of these allows me to shellack them to my desk or laptop, so I always have a handy reference tool.)

Edited to add: I want to make a note that this little Vera Bradley book of sticky notes took my obsession to a whole new level. I mean, this was like my dream come true.

5. (And this is where the real OCD kicks in) I systematically, after I complete each task on the Post-It, take obscene amounts of pleasure in crossing it off the sticky little list.

Ahhhhh. It's an amazing feeling. Seriously. Crossing items off each list is one of my favorite feelings in the whole world. I enjoy it so much that I'm fairly certain I have an unhealthy obession with it. I mean, I've actually started to panic the few times I couldn't find my list (again, hence the extreme beauty of a sticky note.)

Now, I realize what you're thinking. This woman must be anal retentive. She must have very specific dos and don'ts, and she must have very strict, rigid, stern rules.

And that, my friends, is the weird part about all of this.

I don't. I'm really, really not your type-A, OCD personality. I'm not a neat freak. I have an always-cluttered desk at school. I haven't seen the bottom of my purse or gym bag in months.

In fact, I'm fairly horrible at throwing the notecards and sticky notes away once I've completed them, meaning all that desk and purse clutter? Yeah. It's old, discarded, scratched-off notecards. (I also have this weird fear that someone is going to find these notecards in the trash and be able to trace back over my every move for the last year. I'm the CIA's dream...other than the fact that I haven't committed any crimes of national security, at least that I know of.)

I feel kind of socially irresponsible admitting this, with Earth Day so recently behind us. I mean, I do realize how many trees I kill with this obsession. And I do want you all to know that I've tried creating electronic lists. It didn't work. I didn't get the satisfaction of the illicit Scratching Off of the To-Do List (This, by the way, is the same reason I can't get behind the Kindle. I like to feel a book in my hand, get the satisfaction of turning a page, and note my progress through a good read. An electronic book? It's just not the same!)

So, are you judging me? A little? I don't blame you if you are. It's weird, I know.

But at least now...

I can now scratch "Blog" off today's sticky note.

Happy Tuesday!