••• Tuesday, January 31, 2006

So Glad We Med 

I'm up for air. Briefly.

Over the weekend I spent over 10 precious hours studying for the test. And then a couple more hours on a report for work. I did finish reading and outlining (on color coded index cards, even. What a fuckin' dweeb.) the study manual that covers DSM-IV diagnoses and recommended treatments. And there were meds.

Lotsa meds.

Even though a good time was had by all, my brain feels like the tip of a magic marker that's lost its cap. All dry-eyed and fuzzified.

And, because I have had nothing to think or talk about for days, but testie psychobabble, I thought I'd distract myself with a pleasant, topically benign MEME.

And it goes something like this:

Four jobs you've had in your life:
1.Reality Checker
2.Rapid Cycler
3.Auto Mechanism
4.Disease Model
Four movies you could watch over and over again:

2.Man of La Munchauser
3.Bi-Polar Express
4.Freud Green Tomatoes
Four places you have lived:
1. Great State of Denial
2. Panic, Pennsylvania
3. Moody, Alabama
4. Normal, Illinois.
Four TV shows you love to watch:
1.Sex Files
2. Arrested Development
3. The Median
4. Everybody Idealizes Raymond
Four places you have been on vacation:
1. Jungstown, Ohio
2. Catatonia, Spain
3. South of the Borderline, Mexico
4. Delusion Islands
Four websites you visit daily:
1.The Obse*ssive Comp*ulsive Foundation
2.The Obse*ssive Comp*ulsive Foundation
3.The Obse*ssive Comp*ulsive Foundation
4.The Obse*ssive Compu*lsive Foundation
Four of your favorite foods:
1. Bacon, fetish and tomato sandwich.
2. Word salad
3. Ego Waffles
4. Creme DeMentia ice cream sundaes.
I tag anyone with the proper psychotropic credentials.

I Wanna Hear You Say It
That you love me.
And my shawl.
Because I'm not going away until you do.
Say it.
Say. It.

I love you.
I love your shawl.
You both so pretty.
I could bawl.

My plan today was to share a more functional shot of my shawl, with the new ruffle. For some reason, though, the new ruffle looks an awful lot like the old one.

But it's not.
It's different.
It's better.

And I love it, so.

My other plan for today was to use my obsession with my new shawl to deflect from the real issue, which is that,on account of the testie that ate my magic marker,I have no knew knitting knuggets to share.

I know, this is going downhill muy rapido.

And it's bed time.
And med time.

So, just say it.

::If you already said it in response to one or both of the two previous posts on this shawl, (thank you!) you are under no obligation here. But you can still say it. Again. Of course. You know, like a positive role model for those who feel too shy to come forward. A big sister sorta thing. Yeah. See? It's an opportunity. To reach out.::

All right.
Say G'nite Gracie.

*Does that misplaced asterisk on compulsive bother anybody?

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••• Friday, January 27, 2006

WTF Wednesday 

So I've been studying.

Remember high school psychology class, with Pavlov and his drooling dogs? Classical Conditioning, they called it. I shall never forget, because my psych teacher, Mr. Murphy, ingrained the response sequence into our gritty, substance-infested, oozing brain holes, by repeating these words over and over, while jumping across the room:

Bell---->Meat Powder----->Salivation
Bell---->Meat Powder----->Salivation
Bell---->Meat Powder----->Salivation

Now I'm studying the grown up, graduate school version of this dog lover's classic.

The practice exam I took last night, posed this butt clencher:

1. In the aversive counterconditioning of a fetish, the fetish object is the:
A. conditioned stimulus.
B. unconditioned stimulus.
C. conditioned response.
D. unconditioned response.

The correct is answer is "A". With this explanation:
The aversive conditioning of a fetish involves pairing an aversive stimulus with the fetish object until the object also comes to elicit the response of aversion. The fetish object is the conditioned stimulus, since it comes to evoke aversion through conditioning (i.e. pairings). The aversive stimulus is the unconditioned stimulus, since it elicits aversion naturally, without conditioning.

And got it right. Yeah. Here's how: First I mentally recalled the image of Mr. Murphy, circa 1974, hopping across the classroom. Then, I wondered "What the fuck is meat powder?" And then, I took a wild guess.

I think it's gonna all right.

Now here's a little Meme for your WTF pleasure.

Ten Top Trivia Tips about Marcia B.!

  1. In the Great Seal of the United States the eagle grasps 13 arrows and Marcia B..
  2. If a snake is born with two heads, the heads will fight over who gets Marcia B..
  3. Marcia B. can sleep with one eye open!
  4. It is impossible to fold Marcia B. more than seven times.
  5. Marcia B. is the sacred animal of Thailand!
  6. Tradition allows women to propose to Marcia B. only during leap years.
  7. Grapes explode if you put them inside Marcia B..
  8. Michelangelo finished his great statue of Marcia B. in 1504, after eighteen months work.
  9. California is the biggest exporter of Marcia B. in the world.
  10. A female ferret will die if it goes into heat and cannot find Marcia B.!
I am interested in - do tell me about

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••• Sunday, January 22, 2006

B is for Breathe.
::When it comes to pulling posts outta small dark places, themes are the way to go, I’m telling you..::

This school year I took on some new responsibilities at work. I agreed to this partly because I was tired of feeling overwhelmed by the constant, life-sucking, brain-numbing challenges of my usual responsibilities (which I still carry), and was truly looking for newer, more interesting ways to be professionally sucked out of my mind.

I agreed to it mostly because a superior, who I happen to like and respect,begged asked me in a really pathetic nice way, using the magic words "I need you." "pretty please." ::Not that I'm all that or anything. It's a case of In the village of the blind, the near-sighted pig didn't see it coming until it was too late.::

Truthfully, I am kind of excited about these new professional venues. Each are unique and unrelated to the other and offer totally different leadership opportunities. In one group I'm learning a hell of a lot about speshul ed rules and regs, and in the other, new diagnostic skills.

In relation to my regular workload, these new responsiblities weren't expected to be too taxing. At this moment in time, however, my regular job and the two new assignments are on a time- pressured collison course and feeling like a three-way train wreck about to happen.

The good news is that this is a temporary crisis and should be easily managed by my staying late a couple nights a week, or bringing work home for the next few weeks. No big whoop, right?

Which brings me to the next level of my personal stress strata….

Let’s Get Testical..
You remember that little testie thing I was talking about a while back? The professional licensing exam that's waiting to kick my soc*ial working ass? Since receiving my Permission to Take the Test Verification notice in the mail, several weeks ago, I've been under the impression that I had until Sometime Around the End of March to take it. As in, around 2 months of study time.

The other day I pulled out my verification letter, to get the specific date for Sometime at the End of March. I wanted to find out if it was, like, the 29th or 30th of March. This is important information. Competent people want to know.

So I pull out the letter for a look-see and about lost my mind. Current Examination Authorization Expiration Date: March 10.

B is for Breathe. As in, a vital element for sustaining life.
B is for Bitch. As in, Sonnuva.
B is for Bungling Butthole. As in, that would be me.

Next, I called the national Testical Registration hotline to set an exam date and found out that the latest I can take the test is March 4. Six days before March 10th and several thousand days before Sometime at the End of March.

All along I had planned on studying at work after hours, a couple times a week. With all these new expectations nipping at my ass, I'm thinking I'll be now be working on work work after work, which will put me studying at home into the wee hours. And long off my medication.

Needless to say, I’ll be busy. I’ll be not knitting. Much. Or blogging. Much. Or Blog visiting. The good news is that one of my new assignments will pretty much be over by the End of March. You know, about 14,043 days away.


I have put in 11 hours of study this week and outlined half of one study manual on note cards. Now I’m thinking I should stay off the sauce while working the note cards:

And girls are better at taking testies?

::The card is supposed read "Overtly Aggressive." And yes, there was wine involved. A yummy pinot grigio. Did someone slip me a Freudian Micky?::

::Can someone slip me a Freudian Micky?::

::Any Micky?::

Shawl Enough
I redid the ruffle on the shawl in the Iroho (sp?). And I love it. In fact, I wore it to work Friday, with jeans and a maroon turtle neck sweater. I wore it like a scarf, only shawlier. For the record, I received lots of compliments. From a Knaggle of Knitters, i.e., tough audience.

Why am I telling you all this? Because I know that many of you took to gaggin’ in your mind's throat when you saw the shawl last week. Because my husband said it was cute and "kinda Dixie." And because I'd be not surprised if it made the the underground edition of You Knit What?

But I love it. K?

Love. It. K.

Picture? Sure. But I just want to say that photography doesn't do it nearly the scrumptious justice it deserves. But I've nothing to hide. I am not ashamed. In fact, I'm thinking of wearing to work it again tomorrow. So there.

::It looks much cuter being worn. The ties kind of twirl and twist as they hang. But I was too skank for a picture today. Stanky skank. Maybe sometime near the End of March?::

Enough of this triflin'. I gots shit to do.

I love deadlines. I like the whooshing sound they make as they fly by. -Douglas Adams

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••• Friday, January 20, 2006

B is for Blonde. Boy. My Boo.* 

ABC A-long

In all my years of dating, I never once fell for a blonde guy. ::I did once go on a date with a blonde guy. One time. One bleh. He was a mushy kisser, sloppy drunk and overall pud. Don't get me wrong, in no way am I generalizing these qualities to all blondes. I’m just stating what happened to me. I like da boys widda brown hair and da beefy mitts.::

So, for the first 28 years of my life, my heart was a relatively blonde-free zone. And then this guy came along, and stole it right away.

From the day he was born, My Boo has always been gentle-natured and easy going. In fact, he slept through his first night home from the hospital. Six hours. Of course, I thought he had died in his sleep. Come to think of it, sleeping is still one of his personal strengths.

Not only was my baby boy low maintenance, he was also resilient. For example, as a newborn he was nearly starved to death by his mother, on account of her lacking something in the lactation department. Not that I didn't try. For the first two weeks of his life, my son was munching momma every waking moment. Happily. So I was both surprised and horrified to find out at his two week checkup, that he had lost over two pounds.**

My doctor, while supportive, was very concerned and gave me a couple of days to put some meat on my baby's bones. Otherwise, he'd have to put my boy in the hospital, where he would be properly cared for. ::Okay. My doctor didn't say that last part. But that is exactly what I heard.::

At that time I was also referred for a mandatory stint at La Le*che Leak Boob Boot Camp for the Mammarily Inept. ::Okay, that's a lie too.::

My doctor did encourage me to keep feeding au naturale,while supplementing with formula. If any of you have tried this, you know where this is going. And I hear your snort of sympathy.

I intended on following the doctor's recommendation, but after watching my baby snarf down that first bottle of rat-turd-infested, ground-glass-dusted, toxic elixir known as formula, and seeing for the first time in his short life that he was actually full. I wept. And weaned. Cold Turkey.

And as I watched my boy plump up on the toxic elixir, after just two days, I couldn't stop thinking about the other thing my doctor told me at that first appointment. That he would've diagnosed my boy with Failure to Thrive if he hadn't looked so alert and happy.

I couldn't starve that boy into a bad mood.

::It took years to live down the intra-family notoriety of being the mom who almost breast fed her baby to death. Out of loving support and concern, my husband at the time nicknamed our baby "Biafra." Gawd how I miss that man.::

My boy also survived my new-mom jitters, which went into hyperdrive after the starvation incident and eventually developed into a severe case of Post Partum Depression.

19 years ago, PPD was not talked about much. In fact I’d only just heard of PPD from our Lamaze instructor, who had been hospitalized for it. She must be a loon, I remember thinking at the time. Who’d ever heard of such a thing? And then I forgot about it.

Oddly enough, when I was going through the PDD cycle of depression, anxiety, obsessions, etc., I didn’t really notice. It was only after I came out of it, that I realized how disturbed I had been.***

When my boy was five, his father and I divorced. Even though it was devastating for all of us, his father and I vowed to keep our son's best interest at heart, always. And we did. Always. If we did anything right through that emotional clusterfuck, it was that.

As always, my boy survived that soul rendering like the champ he is. He never once lashed out at either one of us, even as a teen, and despite having every right to do so. A few months ago, my boy confided that the post-divorce years spent in our new home were the happiest of his childhood.

This was an amazing thing to hear. Because after the divorce, I always imagined that under his happy,content and loving facade, my son was permanently damaged, and harbored great resentment towards his parents, over the destruction of his family.

But it just wasn't so. He's just a sweet, easy going, magically resilient boy. Er, man. Now. Even more amazing; I can't take credit for any of it. It's how he came to me. A sweet package deal.

::Snip emotionally encumbered self-absorbed tangent.::
::You’re welcome::

Well, most of you know the rest of the story, as depicted here last year. After weeping through, around and in between every significant milestone of his senior year of high school, I successful launched my boy off to university last fall. Although he is not blazing any amazing, academic trails ::Au contraire, mon frere. It did not go well, that first term report card. But I think/hope he hit his head on the freshman year learning curb and from here on in, it'll be all good.::

In the event of the academics going down the toilet, he does show promise at the Texus Ho*ld Em table, and is actually earning a pretty decent living at it. And if that doesn’t work out, there’s always the PIBLFSSBG(Professional Intramural Basketball League for Short Skinny Blonde Guys). The boy’s got skills.

I could go on all day. But since we’re only into the second week of this alphabet adventure, I better save some things for the rest of the year. Later this weekend we'll be getting testical and there will also be a knitting knugget.

Stay tuned.

Food, love, careers and mothers, the four major guilt groups- Cathy Guisewite

*I started calling my boy “My Boo” just after he was born and billions of years before it became Coo’.

**I could write volumes on this experience, but I won't. I will say that it took a long time to get over this one. How hard can it be to feed a baby, for rice cakes?

***I had it bad. Suicidal/homicidal bad. Afraid-to-drive-on-bridges-or-stand-on-hotel-balconies-because-I-might-drive/fling-self -over-bad. Of course, the bad perm that left rows of 2nd degree burn scars on my scalp wasn’t much of a mood enhancer, either. But I digress.


••• Sunday, January 15, 2006

The Post That Wouldn't. 

Finally, the Knitting. ::I should be studying. I'm not. After I get this post up. And the laundry done. And it feels right...:

Over the New Years holiday weekend, I was working on this baby sweater for a co-worker:

Yes, it's the Flax Jacket from one of the Minnows books. It's my baby gift stand-by. Cute and easy, knit in one piece to the armpits, and the sleeves are knit from pick up stitches, top down. The yarn is Cottonease (I speak it, do you?). In Blue.

Anyway, I had anticipated getting the sweater done over that weekend, and traveled to town, to the local yarn store, for buttons.

Just buttons.

So, after picking out the buttons, I performed the perfunctory stroll through the store (you know, just to be polite), whereupon I spied this:

It's Musa, by Lana Gatto. And it was love at first git-nekked-and-roll-around-together-on-the-floor. Really, I was mesmerized. It was sooo soft. And beautiful. I kept touching and squeezing and squeezing and touching. I even sniffed it. Twice. I even sniffed it. Twice.

When the clerk came over to see what I was looking at, she said "Ohhh," with a knowing smile.

I'm not the first? I asked.

No, she laughed.

I think I just layed an egg. Says I.

It's a common response, she replied, with a knowing nod.

But I'm ligated. I said, with a tremble of fear.

It's powerful stuff. Love carefully, she added, ominously.

I grabbed one skein (240 some yds, on 11 needles, great scarf potential) and headed for the register. When the yarn lady said the stuff has been flying off the shelves and might I rethink the single skein purchase, I was about to cry. So went to the shelf to fetch the rest.

::Is it hot in here? Or just me?::

Needles to say, it was impossible very difficult to start back on that damned Cottonass, I mean Cottonease. ::Sorry Bron. While I do appreciate the Cottonease, it felt like a string of turds after that other stuff.::

And needles to say, that baby sweater is as of yet, undone.

A while back, I fell in love with this pattern, after seeing it at my new neighborhood yarn shop:

It's Sursa, from Cornelia Tuttle Hamilton's Book Number Two.

So the Musa and the Sursa, were meant to be. Or so I thought. Here's the finished product.:

The ruffle, er, the ruffle-like-substance, er the unruffle, is done in Noro's Iroha. ::Have you touched/sniffed that shit? I'm learning that there's a whole nother yarn world out there, all mine for the rolling around in.::

But, as you can see, sort of, it's less ruffle than it is annoyingly loose rev. stockinette edging. I was really going for a funky look with the choice in contrast. Without an effective ruffle, it looks like something my grandma's cat dragged in from the tacky neighbor's pile of curbside pickup. Circa 1964.

I think the problem with the un-ruffle is that the gauge on the yarn I used for the main body is bigger than what the pattern calls for. The pattern instructions are very specified yarn specific, which is kind of annoying. For example, they tell you to knit the shawl until 125 grams of yarn remain, instead of giving a specific length. Like, who carries a scale in their knitting bag? Okay, maybe I don't want to know.

Here she be, on the shoulders. Just imagine a brilliant, funkafied ruffle, where that other stuff hangs:

Anyway, it's already ripped out and awaiting a new attempt.

I always feel badly that I don't do much knitting on this knit blog. But maybe that's a good thing. I'm boring myself to tears.

The Banana Split
In comments, Stacey Joy wondered what I was doing with a banana in my purse. Truthfully, I thought that item would raise more interest. In fact, the first draft of that post contained an explanation, but I changed my mind.

I'm weird about my bananas. There is typically a 15 minute window in a banana's development, when it is of perfect ripeness for consumption. If I transport my banana with my other lunch stuff, it gets all icky from being near the cold stuff. So I keep it in my purse. Sometimes I forget to take it out. That's gross. And that's that.

And while you're at Red Lipstick, check out the booty full booties. ::Spontaneous Ovulation Warnings are in Effect::

And now, I need to go study. As soon as I clean out the refrigerator and organize my recipe file and pluck the pubes from my chin and finish the laundry and trim the dog's nails and call my mom and apologize for all the horrible things I did as a teen, that she never knew about.

After that, I study.

Have a Monday, everyone.

::Sorry for late edit. Made mistake applying Red Lipstick's address::


••• Saturday, January 14, 2006

The Woodchoppers* are Coming! 

A few times a month, I have cause to stop at the 7-11 near my workplace, for coffee. For a couple of years, the morning drive coffee jockey was a middle-aged woman I affectionately referred to as Bronchial Betty.

Bronchial Betty was a really nice lady, with a really bad cough. A deep, hungry, wet cough. Chronic. The sort of cough that wracks and shudders the body, sending a quiver through anyone within lugie-shot earshot, and prompting Catholics in the vicinity to cross themselves and mutter a prayer. Or a curse.

Despite her being gimp of lung, Betty was a quality commander of the coffee cache. Whenever I came into the store, I was sure to find a fresh pot or two brewing and the stainless countertops still moist from a recent cleaning. ::At least I hope that's what it was. Cough.::. And I especially appreciated that Betty was always chipper and friendly, despite her inability to finish a sentence without stopping to yak up a kitten.

Some time last fall, Bronchial Betty disappeared (I heard she ran off with the plumber who was treating her cough.) and was replaced with Buy a Boundary, Bob. BBB is friendly. Too. And intrusive. And strange. Obnoxious. Even.

And he doesn't keep the coffee brewing, and pays no attention to the sprinkles of sugar on the counter or the Slurpee and coffee lids fraternizing in the same bins. But the worst part about Bob is when he waits on you at the register.

How's your day been, so far? ::6:50 a.m.:: Can you believe this warm weather? You look real nice today. Did you get that jacket at Valu-City? It almost looks like real leather.

However, with the help of my silent but deadly internal mantra "Shut-up you fucking moron.... Shut up you fucking moron...." I can usually make it to my 7am meeting with a hot cuppa, and no one getting hurt.

So yesterday, I'm at the cash register with Bobnoxia. He's blathering the usual dumbass shit. I'm thinking the usual fucking moron thoughts. Waiting for my change. Suddenly, he breaks rank from his usual banality and says "Is that a banana in your purse?"

No, I'm just happy to see you. I say, before I can stop myself.

Is that Russian? He says.

My banana?

No, your accent. You have a Russian accent.

Downtown Gra*nd Rap*ids, sorry.

No, we have lots of Russians living around here. I know Russian. That was Russian, says Bob, in an increasingly edgy voice.

Suddenly, I felt just a wee bit uncomfortable. So I grabbed my coffee, purse (with banana) and fled the scene.

After a quick mental debriefing in my car, I looked up to see Bob watching me from inside the store. I smiled. And fought the incredibly powerful impulse to put my banana to my ear and put in a call to the Motherland. To make my final report. On Bob. The Woodchopper.

*A couple of months ago, The Cakers came home from daycare, and said to the dog "Cheddar, you Woodchopper!" What's a woodchopper? I asked. It means craaaazy. She said. With her eyes all big. It's now a favorite term of endearment around here. Go ahead and try it. Ya Woodchopper.

A Knitting Knevent Knaught
I've been trying to post on the same knitting project since New Years, but could never quite get it done. Then I would progress on the project, which made the current un-post in progress obsolete. So I'd start over with a new draft, then knit some more, and take new pictures, and on and on.

In the meantime, I've been really busy in the rest of my life, so in the evening hours (my only blogging/knitting time these days. Remember, I work full time. The life of a Woodchopper.) I chose knitting and sleeping over blogging. Therefore, I fell further behind.

So, Wednesday night, I was almost done with the post and ready to bring her home. Yes, the post that was not to be, on the project that nobody knows. And along comes Ms. Bella, the cat, who climbs up on my lap and commences to make mad passionate love to my nostril, with her nose, and otherwise annoying the hell out of me.

But I really needed to get the post done, so I give her some lovin',with the hope that once satisfied, she'll run off for a smoke and a nap. ::No honey, I never think that way about you. You are my beloved. My orifices are your orifices. Any time.::

After a fairly lengthy session with the cat, I open the saved draft post::I really did save it. Really.:: to find only this:

It's a self-portrait gone coolly bad, of me in my finished, untold project. Before ya get all creeped out, I did upload this picture, along with several clear ones of the project. And I had text. Lots of text. All gone.

And yes, I usually type in Word first, then transfer, but for some reason, I like to do my final editing in Blogger, which this time, was extensive. And now gone.

Yesterday I had the special encounter with Bob,which took all blog content precedence, of course. All that being said, there's still no knitting content. Today. But it's coming. Soon. I just have to reupload the pictures and try to remember all the fascinating details of what was probably my best. Post. Ever.

In the meantime, I'd like to bring a special joy into your lives...

I married the first man I ever kissed. When I tell this to my children, they just about throw up. - Barbara Bush


••• Monday, January 09, 2006

I'm So Far Behind... 

I think I'm ahead.

I ran track in high school one year (And yes, I fell down); the 880 and 1 mile events. I wasn't too bad at the 880. I even earned a ribbon. But the mile? Bleh.

In one race, I fell so far back that I was eventually lapped by all the other runners. But just before that impending moment of humiliation, for about 400 meters, I was out in front. All alone. Looking like a winner.

The winner.

And as I trotted past the grandstands, grinning like a fool, I pretended I was just that. The winner.

Moments later, of course, I was overcome by the herd victorious and thereby doomed to trot the final lap of shame. Alone.

But trot I did. Still grinnin'. Just a little.

I have some knitting updates, and planned on posting them tonight. But I fell behind. Right now, it feels like the Sand Man cometh, and is about to lap me. So I'm just going to trot along to bed, and pretend it was my idea.

Maybe tomorrow will be another day.

p.s. Thanks for all the words of encouragement on my ass, and stuff. Be sure to read the comments on that last post. MamaCate knows exactly. And Ryan, boot cut are perfect for my middle age lumps. Waist high mom pants just squeeze my gut up my boobs.

pps I'm way behind in stuff. And stuff. I'd meant to respond to some comments. But for now, I'm squealing out of here.


••• Wednesday, January 04, 2006

Acceptance. My Ass. 

I only had one New Year’s resolution for this year, which was to find and remove the last of the pencils from under my boob. But then I came across this woman,and changed my mind. Now, she gets boobs.

Be sure to check out her other blog, which is alleged to be more chatty. And her Christmas Day post is a must read. You can almost smell the boozey breath of the carolers in the park. Oh yeah, and her profile. Read her profile.

Back so soon?
Okay! Okay!

You Say You Wanna Resolution?
I never could do the New Year resolution thing. It's not entirely due to my possessing the attention span of a flea. And neither is it directly related to the fact that I am so oppositional, I routinely defy myself. ::An ex-beau once called me Terminally Oppositional. Quite a compliment, coming from a clinical psychologist. Later, I wondered if he wasn't on some level, wishing me dead. I always preferred to think of myself as Fiercely Independent.::

What I don't like about resolutions is that they are not human-friendly. Being human is a process. Every day of living brings a new thought or perspective, on something. No day, in the life of a human, is exactly the same as another. Resolutions, however, are not fluid, or process-oriented. Resolutions are rigid. Resolute. Even.

One year, I made a pitiful attempt to incorporate the New Years resolution with human process, as follows: Starting January 1, I will no longer be fettered by the corollary implications of being a self-serving, lazy, redundant, brazen boozer and part-time strumpet. I was back in therapy by the ides of February.

I like Stacey Joy's idea, of an annual plan. While she didn't necessarily say that her plan would be in lieu of a New Year's resolution, I really like the idea of a New Year Plan. A plan is process. Fluid. Malleable. In fact, it can be written into a New Year Plan that the Plan can be cancelled at any time. ::Makes for a nice soft landing, when falling off the commitment wagon.::

We're On the Segue to Hell
I just barely made it into the new, cool, year-long meme thangy (i.e. guaranteed post material, at least once every two weeks) The ABC Along*. For those knot in the know, it's about the ABC's. And pictures. You can read all about it at Anne's blog.

This week's picture is sponsored by the letter A.

A is for Acceptance.

Over the past year, I have had a difficult time accepting the changes in my body, brought on by middle age. For several months, with the assistance of my best friend Denial, I was able to cling to the hope that one day I will get back into my favorite jeans, which are two sizes smaller than my current ass.

Even after adjusting for size, I continue to shop for clothes with my old, er, former body shape in mind. I guess I still see myself as that girl. But the styles that once became me, now betray me. It's not a good look. These are the things I must accept. Unfortunately, my closet is still filled with the clothes of Denial, which means that most days I go to work looking either skank or frump.

Therefore, Marcy's New Year Plan for 2006 will be about Acceptance. I will not only accept and embrace my plumper, juicy ass, I will also dress her up in the finest, most stylin' of garb.

From now on my pants will be boot cut. And worn with belts, with shirts tucked in. (I can't do the shirttails hanging under the short sweater thing. I always worry that I'll accidently tuck them in, after using the toilet. And how embarrassing would that be? I can't even think about it.::

I'm going to redefine my look, in a style befitting both my personality and my new bod.

::Okay, I'm really tired and put way too much pressure on myself to get this post out, tonight. But I will, dang it.::

The bottom line is that the vibrant, sexy, stylin' young thang that I thought I used to be, is still here, somewhere. I need to pick her up and dust her off and give her a big smooch.

Then take her shopping.

And maybe someone should do us all a favor, and drop a hint along the same line, to Mariah Carey? I mean, did anyone see her New Year's eve getup? It looked like a little something she picked up at Tonya Harding's last garage sale.

And, so ya know, I'll probably be cutting back to two posts a week for a while.** Things are hopping at work and home. And I still have to get to studying for that big test.

A is for Aye Really Tired. G'night.

*I'll post the ABC webring thangy later this week. Dude. It's late.

**With the same number of commas.

Edit Note: This post was edited 7am, Thursday, for your reading comfort. I am now late for work. I'll probably be fired, which means there will be lots more commas in all your respective futures.

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••• Sunday, January 01, 2006

Happy New Year.

From My Relevance, to Yours.