"You should write a book...."

Also....a good friend told me recently, "Sarah, you should write a book."  She had seen a few of my facebook posts.  They made her laugh.  I like love to make people laugh.  It's my favorite thing.  So....anticipate more posts with a humorous bent.  Because that's how I roll.  Nothing's funnier than getting rid of all your old crap, right?

Okay. Whatever.  But still.

Life is funny.

Truth is funnier than fiction. 

And my life is full of a LOT of funny truth.

Generation to Generation

So.  Two-and-a-half-year hiatus.  We have a new kid and a new house.  And so all the clutter is now in the garage.  Where no one but the bug man will see it.  So, here's to new beginnings on this blog, and seeing if I can make it a habit.

The decluttering dilemma that came upon our family during our move was:  how long will we hand down some of these family "treasures"?   We wondered if our kids might want to keep some of the pieces of furniture that have been in the family for a long time.  There were, in particular, two pieces of furniture that were reupholstered by my husband's grandmother. 

The question arose:  Do you love the furniture?  Or do you love that your grandmother touched it? Or worse:  Did someone tell you that it had to be loved by you, because it was a family treasure?  (I suspected the third question was in fact my husband's situation, because the furniture in question was pretty ugly not exactly my style.)

I was partially sympathetic because I also have things that were made by my own grandparents that are considered "treasures."  But how many generations will want to look at the scrapbook of Grandma and Grandpa Schneider's trip to Alaska in 1977? 

Will my children?  Will their children?  Will their children's children pack it carefully in a box when they move from Nebraska to Colorado, only to uncover it five years later when they decide to move to Oregon and wonder WHO ON EARTH saddled them with this stinking photo album?

How long will we pass down these things from generation to generation and ask them to consider these things "treasures"?

So lately, when I look at something and don't know if it has a home in our new home, I try to imagine:  will my great-great-grandchildren care about this?  Do I want them to have to think about it and curse my name for calling it "valuable"?  If not, then....maybe it's headed to the good will.  Let somebody else think they found a bargain.

Dear 2012....we're in this together.

Well, after the bug man came to our house again, I got to thinking about my blog, and how I might just be inspired to write again.  It's been a while.

And then I opened up the blog and realized that the last time I blogged was the last time he was here.

Oh dear.

And so it's time to begin afresh.  Time to renew this clutter-extraction project.  The room of doom looks like an episode of "Hoarders" and I am inspired to make some improvements.  To get specific about my goals.  To go deep and create the life that I am envisioning.

The days are getting longer and hope is in the air.

2012, you and I are going to work together.  You give me each new day and I'll give you the best I can give for that day.  2012, we're in this together.

The Bug Man Cometh

We have a bug man who comes to our house about four times a year.  It seems like more than that to me because in the last couple of years, I've noticed a feeling of dread when he's going to come. 

Don't get me wrong:  he is delightful.  Friendly, helpful, seems to care about the fact that we live in the country, so always leaves a healthy supply of mouse poison.  For this, I am eternally grateful.

But every time I get the message on the phone that he's going to be in our area and will be at our house.....a little knot comes into the pit of my stomach.  Because there are no secrets from the bug man.  He starts in the basement.  Every time.  This is not bothersome to me.  It's not a finished basement, so we use it primarily for storage and exercise equipment.  Nothing to hide. 

Then he goes to the main floor.  Again...this doesn't really trouble me, except that sometimes, after he's gone, I realize that the family skivvies were left to dry in the laundry room....but then I remember...it's probably nothing he hasn't seen before.  But then.....he goes upstairs.  Upstairs to the rooms that no one ever really goes to except us, because they're not part of the activity center of the house.  The rooms that get much more easily cluttered because there's no fear of being discovered....except for these four times a year.  And once more when the handyman comes.  He's got our number too.

Both Scott (the bug man) and Steve (the handyman) have seen (dun Dun DUN) my craft room.  Or, as I have been known to call it, the room of doom.  It has become the dumping ground for the boxes that have been worked on, then thrown back together in a desperate attempt to tidy things up when company is coming.

Each time he's here, it's early in the day.  There's barely time for a shower before he's here normally...but today was just a little different.  He came just a couple hours later than normal, so I was thrilled that the beds were made, the laundry was put away, life was pretty good upstairs.  Except for the room of doom.  This time I was awake enough to at least mention it.  "I'm sorry," I said.  "It might be hard to find a path up there."

And for a little moment, I kind of hated myself.  Sorry you can't find a path there, buddy.  I'm just a mess of a housewife.  June Cleaver doesn't live here.  If she did, she would probably really piss me off.  In all her skinny, perfect, obnoxiousness.  Did I mention, Mr. Bug-man, that while my husband has been out of town, we've been eating TV dinners?  That's right.  And the kitchen is still a hot mess.  You're probably not surprised that we've had fruit flies.  I wonder if you think....

And that's where I have to stop myself.  Because that's what it comes down to every time. 

I wonder what he thinks.
I wonder what she thinks. 
I wonder what they think. 
I bet they think I'm awful. 
I bet my husband is secretly wondering if there's some kind of class he can send me to.
I bet my daughter will wonder the same things once she gets a more complicated thought system going, unless I get my act together before her long term memory starts really humming.  I've still got time, right?....
And on.
And on.

It's a constant and ridiculous thing I do to myself.  "What they must think of me."
It's a tyranny and it's something that I cannot shake.  The fear of the thoughts of others.  It's ridiculous when I read it in black and white.  It's something I'll never ever be able to control, and  something I'll never ever be able to fix.  
It's an enemy without form; no body, no shape.  Just the wonderings of what's going on behind those eyes that have glanced inside my home and seen that it's less than perfection.

So today, instead of declaring war on the fear of the thoughts of others, instead, I take a single step to make my own thoughts a little more positive.  That, I am sure, will chase away the worry about what others think of me.

Today I had an okay day.  Not fabulous, not horrible.  My daughter and I watched way more television than we should have, but it was ridiculously rainy outside--not even worthy of going out in the car kind of rain.  So tomorrow I'll try to do better.  A few more puzzles to educate her little developing brain.  A few more flashcards.

While she slept, I did some office work for the new part-time job that I started.  About an hour and a half worth of getting acquainted with the goings-on.  Not fantastic, but not a bad showing, either.  Tomorrow I'll try to do better.  And that's all I can ask of myself for this moment.

A Work In Progress

"This life therefore, 

is not godliness but the process of becoming godly, 

not health but getting well, 

not being but becoming, 

not rest but exercise. 

We are not now what we shall be, but we are on the way. The process is not yet finished, but it is actively going on. This is not the goal, but it is the right road. 

At present, everything does not gleam and sparkle, but everything is being cleansed." 

--Martin Luther

If You Want To Be Somone Else, Change Your Mind

There is a great, I mean great song by Sister Hazel called "Change Your Mind."

The chorus offers these magnificent lyrics to the listener:

If you want to be somebody else,
If you're tired of fighting battles with yourself
If you want to be somebody else
Change your mind...

And so, recently, I've been doing some mind-changing.  And I think it's changing my life.

Two things are helping me in my cause.  Actually, I should say, two people.

The first is Dave Ramsey.  Apparently lots of people know about this guy, but I just recently heard about him for the first time.  I've got my hands on a copy of his "Financial Peace University" lectures, and it's just possible that he is completely changing the way I think about the way I spend and save money.  Just by listening to him, I feel like I might be able to have a little more control over my finances if I wake up, pay attention, and DO what he is telling me to do.  (Wake up, woman!  This is YOUR life!!)

The second is my Grandma.  She's 95.  One of my heroes, because she is so sharp, so clever, so organized.  AND she drinks bourbon at 4pm every day.  Brilliant.  She possesses lots of qualities I'd like to have, but don't ever seem to be able to acquire. 

Recently, she was going through some jewelry and tried a bracelet on my wrist.  When it didn't fit around my wrist, I said to her "I have really big wrists."  (That is actually true.  I've never been dainty.  And it's not like fat really collects at the wrists.)  At this moment, she stopped, looked up from the bracelet right into my eyes and said without flinching, "You Need To Lose Weight."  "I know," I said, cheeks red, heartbeat quickening.  And then as suddenly as she said it, she went back to the jewelry.  The moment was over.  I wanted to cry.  Run out of the house and not come back.  Get out of there before tears bubbled up.  But I took a deep breath, had a little moment while she looked through the jewelry and went on.  It was a horrible, horrible moment.  I was angry at her, then angry at myself, then angry at her again.  That cycle continued for....oh wait....I don't think it's done yet.

And so, on return from the vacation that included the visit to her, I started to get serious.  The C25K running began again in earnest.  Fruits and vegetables were purchased at the grocery store.  The remaining oreos that were purchased for my husband's class at the beginning of the week are, miraculously, still in the cabinet.

I'm starting to change my mind.  I'm starting to think about taking care of myself.  For the sake of a daughter who needs a good example.  For the sake of my Grandma who dared to tell me the truth.  For the sake of me, who needs to be healthier and needs to wake up, take control, and change my mind.

Disney sponsors a Princess Half Marathon in February.  It might be the perfect excuse for a winter getaway. 

Maybe even bigger changes are just around the corner.

One step at a time.

Okay. Break's Over.

It all started a few weeks ago.  I came downstairs to find that the washing machine had been agitating for over an hour while my daughter was going to sleep.  (Scratch that....while my daughter was not going to sleep.)  The timer was just sitting there at the same place it had been when I had started the machine.  "Hm.  Weird," I thought.  The next morning, the next load, same business.  I had to gently nudge the machine to do its appointed task every 15 minutes or so.  If not reminded to stop, it would keep spinning and spinning and spinning for lengthy periods of time.  A call to the local appliance place gave us the sad news that this would be at least a $200 repair. 

So that turned into appliance shopping.  Another few days of researching, shopping, asking around for recommendations.  Two nights before they delivered the flashy new washer (and dryer....thanks to my Grandma's recommendation), I realized how much work it was to unload everything out of that tiny room.  And then I remembered the overwhelmingly deep desire to paint it only moments after beholding its formerly stenciled glory. 

Quickly, a gallon of paint was purchased.  A friend was called.  Late night hours were kept.  All in an attempt to get at least the corner painted where the machines would be.  Everything else could wait until after the delivery.  And did.

Being the mother of a toddler means that big projects such as these only get accomplished during the two hour window between her bedtime and mine.  And for at least a week, she did not cooperate on her end of this.  So the painting took longer than expected and was only completed by a dear friend who knew what he was doing and took matters into his own hands.

And then it was time to hit the road for vacation.  10 days.  One vehicle.  Two suitcases.  One gigantic box of snacks for the road.  One toddler who graciously took up as little room as possible to make up for all of the stuff that was required to travel with her in the first place.  Countless tote bags.  Countless tote bags.  (God bless you, sweet husband.  You're a patient man, and the best packer I've ever met.)  Three people visiting family and friends alike.  

All this to say that since the day that the washing machine kept on agitating, there has been no blogging.  No plumbing the depths of my emotions to figure out how to clean out my messy life. 
Lots has happened in that time.  Lots of new stuff has now been imported back to our little yellow house in the woods and so the boxes have, once again, grown, much to my chagrin. 

But I am renewed, refreshed, and ready to begin again.  As all journeys go, this one has had a bit of a setback.  But tomorrow is a new day, and I have big plans.  Bigger than what I've ever been able to accomplish before.  Break's over.  Time to get back at it.