TBD...

I was trying to think of ways to make this a more interactive situation. I didn't come up with much. One thing I thought of was to post pictures. Like, I had one that I took of this ginormous bruise I got from testing that whole theory about wet things being slippery and played it fast and loose around some icy front porch stairs. But the picture looked obscene. It wasn't terribly obscene. I mean, while it IS on my backside, I covered my crack with my hand. So you weren't looking at anything that you could identify as my backside. And yet somehow, the bruise itself looked – obscene. Another word doesn't really come to mind and I'm thinking another word couldn't do it much justice either. The bruise is finally dissipating but there is still a mighty knot in the square center of it. I considered taking a picture of my guts pre-exercise and excising sugar. But that felt more obscene than the picture of my bruise looked. So, I nixed that idea. I could post a video of me reading stuff to you but you are busy – reading the stuff I just wrote for you. I would offer up a twitter party but I still can't get the hang of twitter. Other people have stuff to say on there all the time. And they know real hashtags and everything. So, I'm thinking I would be a lousy host. Also, not for nothing but it is a little disheartening that there are uhm, dead people that have a larger following than myself. I realize it's not a popularity contest but still. It's one thing to say it's not a popularity contest and another to lose – to dead people. For now, I'm stumped. I am open to suggestions. I don't want y'all to get bored or anything.

I wanted to clarify what I said last time about cutting out sugar. I will still be eating fruit which has natural sugars in it. I'm not actively looking at labels and upon seeing sugar in the ingredients winging it across the store and going on a rant wherein I profess the unholiness that becometh sugar. I know you might have been a little worried about that. I can understand – I did call sugar a demon. And I have already alerted you to some mental health uhm, inconsistencies that I manage. So, to sum up. The way I'm tackling Resolution 10 is that I'm quitting the regular, nay, near constant, eating of goods that have the main ingredient of sugar and are touted as items called: chocolate, candy, cake, cookie, confectionery. Hmmmm... so, perhaps cutting out all “C” items from my diet. But I actually do like cauliflower. I'm going to have to think this through. I would like to report that I was snap brilliant at this resolution. Pretty much right after Princess' birthday I just abstained. I didn't buy any discounted goodness – and there were plenty of opportunities, I'll have you know. Whenever I got tempted to eat a “C”, I would pop in a piece of gum. Because it starts with “G”. It was all good. Until last night. Last night I pulled out the giant $1 tube of crushed peppermint sugar cookie dough and cooked some up for the kidlings. Do you know how good cookies smell when they are cooking? Are you kidding me? I thought I could just eat a half of one.  But I didn't stop with one half. The upshot is that I didn't eat the rest of the tube. I was able to keep it to a respectable 3 cookies. Holy spitcoly they were good. But I felt awful afterwards. Hindsight is just useless. No, really. I can't think of why it even exists. There is no good side to hindsight... Today, I'm trying NOT to dwell in it or decide that the pooch is screwed anyway (seriously – where did THAT term come from?) so I might as well bake up that whole tube AND the one that I got that is gingerbread flavor. Not gonna do it. As far as I know. I probably have over 6 more active hours left in this day and seeing as how Hubs is out of town and I have to do dinner and bedtime on my own again tonight, I'm taking it moment by moment. And you know what they say about when the Hubs is away... Jenny just has to survive. That's sort of what happened last night. Flying solo with a houseful of people all acting like they have their own personhood – well – it took a toll. Like tollhouse cookies... mmmmm.... tollhouse cookies....

Here is some more stuff related to food that I wanted to talk to you about. First, I wanted to mention that I have definitely been giving a lot of thought to being vegetarian. I've taken it as far as actually considering being a vegan. I really really want to encourage everyone that has the capacity to see “Forks Over Knives” (especially you, Paula Deen). I cannot tell you how impelling the information is. Plant based diets definitely have the appeal of health going on. I mostly think that I could do vegan except when it comes to cheese. I don't have a strong fromage need but it's big enough that I think about NOT eating it and I get all nervous and go find a cheese stick to calm myself. Also, one of my rituals when I'm in the grocery store is to peruse the cheese area to see if any Brie is marked down. Okay. So cheese is a bigger draw than probably I'm admitting to myself. Just in general milk products could be my overall downfall. I like butter. I like what butter does when you put it on other food stuffs as it makes them taste buttery. I also like cream. I like it whipped. Or in frozen form. But I'm not supposed to eat it in frozen form anymore. Or whipped form either. Because whipped cream without sugar is really, uhm, pointless. I could curb an awful lot of pining for chocolate if I was a vegan. Seriously – chocolate made without milk is really, uhm, pointless. Carob is no match. And if you think it is, it's quite apparent that you have never had the real deal. So, I think that we have established that I'm in no position to pledge allegiance to a vegan flag. As far as vegetarian goes, I could pretty much see myself being successful. I already know what my weak spots would be. My dad makes brisket. I know that God actually made brisket. Silly. And I know that plenty of other people have cooked brisket. Silly. What I'm saying is that between my dad's rendition of brisket and my dad's rendition of corned beef – well, it would be challenging to eschew meat products all together. However, Dad lives far away and I can't get tempted too frequently. It's real hard to ship that stuff. I thought that bacon might be a tough animal to give up but I think I could do it. Pigs are really gross after all. But their ribs make for good eating. Which is why I'm making this Orange Chipotle Slow-Cooker Rib recipe for Super Bowl Sunday. Maybe I have a bigger meat affinity than I realized. You're giving me a lot to think about here...

I've been exercising somewhat. When I get on the elliptical, I spend an hour on there. But I haven't been on it the past 3 days. It actually bothers me that I haven't been able to make my way there. Not because I enjoy it. But because I really really really don't want to hold onto the softiness that is embedded around my middle region. Apparently turning 40 and well into almost 41 has changed the way that the food I eat sits on me. Also the way that fat sits on me. Also the way that the fat won't come off me. It's just so hard to do something SO contrary to who you are and not see immediate results and still do it and not knowing when, or even if, you will see results. And by you, I mean me. Because you look fabulous darling.

My spending fast was a success last month (Resolution 1, subsection A). However, my spending was not a success last month. So, I'm sort of mostly extending my spending fast into this month. I have already bought something that is NOT used for eating or cleaning. BUT it is going towards being creative – on the day that I actually make it (reference Resolution 6). I got fabric to make my money envelopes ala Dave Ramsey's Financial Peace University. So, I spent money to make money holders so that I can get better at spending money. See how that works? No? Well, you should take a trip up inside of my head because it is ringing all kinds of make sense bells up there. For the record, that damn gorgeous purple Coach purse is still at the consignment store. But it is no longer 75% off. I don't know what sort of hidden meaning is supposed to be inferred from that situation. Am I supposed to go buy it now? It's just sitting there. All available and gorgeous. Is it temptation? Or is it a prize for bypassing it the first time? But how can it be a prize if it isn't 75% off now? I'm confused. You might be wondering HOW I know that the purse is still there. It's because that consignment store has an area where the clothing is $1 and I went in there yesterday to take a look. That's correct. Right after I deposited the paycheck. Here's what I came to realize. I have a love hate relationship with clothing. I see cute outfits and want to adorn myself with them promptly. I love to go shopping for clothes. About every 5.65 weeks I decide that I don't like the way that something fits me and feel frumpy and start replanning and replacing my entire wardrobe. Also, I hate wearing clothes. Mostly in the summer. Or during hot flashes. But it's only in the summer that I get to challenge the whole how much is enough to be A) a God-fearing woman called to modesty despite sweltering conditions and B) not mistaken for a 'ho. My ideal is to get away with two pieces of clothing at any given time. However, the more weight I hang out with (and I mean that literally as well as figuratively...) the less I'm able to accomplish that. And, if I'm going to be honest, probably the older I get the less successful I am at wearing my bare minimum. Unless one item is a mumu. And the other contains the word “uplifting” in it's description. I have been on a nude beach once and went the way of the natives. I was like 20ish when that happened. I ache for that kind of freedom. Think about it. It pretty much accomplishes everything that those uniform rules set out to do – it equalizes the economic divide. Bonus- no bra straps pinching this way and that. No decisions to make. No one cares a lick about the variety of body shapes and sizes. It's a beautiful thing. I'm so pissed at Adam and Eve right now. I walked out of the consignment store empty handed. Hubs and I had to have a tough talk about money because my stupid church had to go all 4 weeks solid of a series on money and brought it all out into the open so that we had to have tough talks about money. Stupid money. Stupid church. And by stupid church, I mean awesome church. Here is some HI-larious video footage from the series for you to enjoy.

Speaking of series, let's ruminate on the brilliance that is Burn Notice. *sigh* I don't know what to tell you. It's not solving any of the world's problems but I really don't care. It's a 45 minutes of action and romance and loyalty and save the day and weaponry and cool dude and bad-ass little Irish chick and Bruce Campbell. It's a full on recipe of awesome. The other night, Hubs and I finished season 5. And ever since, I have felt like a lost soul bumping around bewildered and waiting for what happens next but they don't even start filming until March and those episodes air in the summer and I don't know when I'LL get to see season 6 because we don't have cable. So, if you see me and I look a little forlorn, you will know why.

I've been upping my Pinterest surfing a bit lately. I have all sorts of ideas for my crafting. Also for my next tattoo. Or 15. I have plenty of veggie recipes to try out. And stuff I have poked fun of. I've figured out that someone owes me a time machine so I can go back and explain to everyone who ever made fun of my glasses that I was actually a hipster – a fashion visionary ahead of my time. Because as far as I can tell, hipsters are just people who picked out killer specs. Maybe you have to like Mumford and Sons also to be one. So far, nothing has left its mark on me like this little find on Pinterest. It haunts me so much that I have begun to wish that there was a way to actually tattoo music onto your soul. Probably it is really only a matter of time before we can install an “i” device into our body and it would accomplish much the same. But if I could figure it out – hearing this resonate through my bones – it would make even more sense than hearing it through a mechanism some how. It would seem natural – like it was supposed to be heard this way and often. I love lots of different kinds of music. Except country – not any of it, not even a little. Or gospel- no disrespect to the One they be respectin'. Or jazz- which is a little puzzling because the way they skat in that genre is full up my nonsense talking alley. Also, I don't like rap so much. I'm down with old skool but once they started talking about shootin', bluntin', pimpin', thuggin' and fu... I mean bumpin' uglies – well, it just wasn't fun anymore. And, okay, whatever category Zamfir and Yanni fit in – I don't much like that either. Maybe it would be easier to tell you what I DO like to listen to. Look, that's not the point. The point is that I have heard a fair share of voices and instruments working together and very little has the ability to sink into my soul like this song has. So, I thought I would share it with you.

I'm going to let you in on a little secret. I don't exactly know what my final two resolutions are going to be. I have lots of ideas. Trust me, there's a whole lot of change that could be happening up in this here girlie. My conundrum is that I don't know how to pick the final two from all the ideas floating around. I could have a contest. But as twisty-uppy as my brain ever is, I'm well aware that concepts are not actually tangibly alive per se. So, it's not like I believe that I could have some sort of Survivor style competition and the last lit torches get to have the honor. Maybe that would be a good interactive thing to do! Maybe I should let all y'all decide what my last resolutions should be. Why don't you, my adoring couple of dozen public, weigh in? Huh? Why don't ya? Or maybe just one resolution. I haven't worked out my control freak resolution/issues yet.  

Just desserts...

Do you twitter? If you do, could you follow me: @12x12x12Jenny? I feel so pathetic with my two followers. Why did I join? Uhm. Uh. None of your business, that's why! Fine. It's because I'm a celebrity hound. And twitter is pretty much just celebrities spewing about every 5 minutes and not much else. It's all at once hopeful and frustrating at same time. On the one hand, you see that the celebrities are actually tweeting back to their fans and you love that there is some reciprocity going on. I mean, they take my money and attention in various ways and shapes. I read up on who's zoomin' who. Except for those Kardashians. I don't care one whit about them. Except in the ways in which God wants me to - you know, since they are humans on the planet and all. Or the cast of Jersey Shore – orange people scare me. Like Oompa Loompas. Or anything that has to do with Twilight and its subsequent films – seriously, you do NOT want me to get into that. I don't care about any of that. So it's a little nice to be noticed by a celebrity on a one/one scale like we are old pals. But then you see that they have 1.2 million other pals and not only did they probably not see your twit, but it's probably some paid lackey that's answering and twittery dittery doing back so that everyone feels like the celebrities care and there's some reciprocity. And you notice this because you check back about every five minutes like a panting dog looking for a puppy treat to see if they RT (re-tweeted – which means singled you out all popularity contest style) because they want to answer you and share you with the rest of the world. It's worse than facebook. Plus. I don't do so good with 140 characters to say stuff (who came up with that number? There are movie titles with more letters and spaces). 

Now, in all fairness, I could have 5K followers on Twitter. But I have a hard and fast rule: if your user name/website/motto/line of work/email address contains some sort of substitution for the word rooster, I won't judge but I won't follow you either. I'm all the time getting follow requests from women who want to show off their wares blindly. I have learned to discern from the picture what their end game is. So, when I eliminate the sluts, I mean harlots, I mean random scantily clad women who are soliciting themselves, I am left with 2 followers. Neither of which are celebrities. Although, one is IJM HQ which is really so ridiculously cool. I hope that they are entertained somewhat by my 8 tweets in the midst of their remarkable work. My other follower is a company that produces and distributes films out of Australia. As far as I know, it's not porn. Probably I should look into it a little deeper. Those porn distributors get mighty devious in distributing. 

The other problem that I have with twitter is that I am not a hash slinging masher master. What I mean by that, my fellow twitter newbies, is that if you want to get any bird cred, you have to put a pound sign (aka "hash") next to key words and phrases in your chirp so more people can find you based on interest buzz words. It's like the labels that I put ion my blog so that I surreptitiously end up in Google searches in things as random as chocolate. Or alcoholic. Or Jungle Jim's. You can see how I can sneak up on ya! And those hashes/pound signs? Those count as part of your 140 character boundary! It's serious pressure. Mostly I follow comedians on Twitter. If anyone can be funny in a short space, it's them. Do you know who one of my favorite Tweeters is (you know, among the great many number of 23)? Rainn Wilson who plays Dwight on The Office. That dude is dry and FUNNY! Also, I get to follow my all-time most talented comedians of ever, Brian Regan. Good gravy.  If you can, you MUST go see his show. And you know what? You can even take your kids to see him because he doesn't have to curse or talk about rooster stuff, or cat stuff for that matter, in his show. He's THAT hilarious!

Today, I have that solid 4.5 hour block that I mentioned in Resolution 5.  I intend to do some Resolution 5 things today. I did not finish the laundry yesterday. That is because my dryer is old. I have to dry clothing products two times to get them ready for the folding. For towel and sheet products, it can be as much as 2 times more that I have to turn that knob and hit start. And since my washer only takes once to get clothing products ready for the drying, things get backed up. And I'm not sitting there waiting for one machine to get on the other machine's cycle. Oh no. I have other stuff to do. I have Christmas candy to eat and blogs to write and ideas to pin (oh, to be sure, we will revisit that one) and other completely non-pressing matters to attend to. 


The other Resolution 5 (R5?) thing I must, must do today is clean my kitchen. I used to hate cleaning bathrooms. Okay, I still hate cleaning bathrooms. But I might have come to hate cleaning the kitchen about 10x more. It is never-ending. Like laundry but worse. Because while I have approximately 34 pairs of underwear which equates to not having to do laundry quite as often as the next person, I don't have 34 pots and pans and somehow, what with cooking, I have to use my pots and pans quite frequently. Which means they get dirty. Like every time I use them. And I have to clean them. Over and over and over. I like our planet. I would like to see our civilization last for centuries to come. Not personally. I really have no desire, truly, to live into my 500s. But every now and again I really yearn for disposable pots and pans. Casserole dishes and crock-pots too. Have you cleaned a crock-pot? Do they all have an eternal chalky white ring in them? Or do I suck that bad at cleaning? Probably it's that. Anywho.  

The other goal I have to do in the now 3.5 hour block of time is some yoga. I did a yoga DVD yesterday and felt that it really did some good for my back. So, I went scouting around the internet (you know, spell check keeps trying to capitalize that word.  Humble yourself, internet) looking for some New Year's deal of the day deals that would let me go do some classes pretty much for free. I didn't see any that were free so I lowered the bar a little and there weren't any for next to free. What I came to discover is that yoga is for rich people to do in a group with other rich people. It costs on average $10 a class to do yoga. And that's only if you sign up in advance. If you surprise them by just showing up, they add $3-$5 shock penalty. There are some upsides to the fact that I am unable to afford joining other people for a yoga experience. One is that I have no idea what I'm doing and, as you may recall, I can't willingly make myself look like an idiot. That's not so calming and soothing. Now, one might argue that yoga is about stretching yourself and that doesn't have to be mutually exclusive of your mind. Also, if you free your mind, the rest will follow. If I learned anything from En Vogue, it's that. But I haven't exercised my uptight muscle enough to relax and unclench so we aren't there yet. The other upside to doing yoga in my very own home is that I'm not using it as an excuse to leave my home. Inevitably when I leave my house, I end up going to more places than just where I set out to go which eats into my doing stuff time. Significantly. As in, I keep wandering around until I have to go pick up the kids because my 4.5 hours has dwindled away like sands in the hourglass. These are the days of my life. Also, the more places I go, the more tempted I am to buy things I can't eat or clean with. Also, to buy stuff that I can eat or clean with. Oh! That leads to a third upside! Doing yoga in my house is free. I can check out DVDs from my library or they even have some on Netflix! So, I'll stretch and extend in all the wrong ways looking kind of ridiculous in the comfort of my own home at a risk-free price. Stupid exercise.

The thing I hate about exercise is that there is no instant gratification. It takes soooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo long to see results. Like, longer than that word so long. On Pinterest (Wait! I told you, we will revisit that. Sheesh), there are all these inspirational posters to inspire you to reach your inspired goal of self-imposed (or more unattainable and unhealthy society-dictated) acceptable body image. Mostly they are photos of a chick's washboard abs with some sort of saying like “Chocolate doesn't taste as good as skinny feels”. You know what I say? Skinny doesn't feel as good right now the way chocolate tastes good right now. That's what I say. Also, skinny is gross. I'm not talking about being 5 feet 2 inches tall and weighing like 100 pounds at best like Fiona on my recent obsession, Burn Notice. She has small bones and is a dancer and I don't think she looks like a morning co-host who used to work with a man named Regis. That woman scares me with her scrawniness and I just want to grab her in a head-lock and shove twinkies down her face. But in a loving way and with twinkies that aren't processed and are organic and cruelty-free. Skinny is not healthy. I miss Marilyn Monroe and the 50s. I miss them as much as I can having not shared a generation with them. I miss the 1600s when a man named Peter Paul Rubens saw beauty in curves. Not so much the burning for heresy (suspected or substantiated) that happened in the1600s. Not that I'm a heretic and would have much to worry about. It's just not a nice thing to do to someone. My point is that, at some point, it would be nice if there could be a balance between the obesity that is so rampant today and the obsession with being skin and bones that is also so rampant today. What happened to shades of gray? Why can't I celebrate the changes that my body has gone through because I have been blessed to have grown life inside of it? Because it still looks a little bit like I am blessed to have life presently growing within it, that's why. But I'm done growing babies and it's not so great to just schlump around not trying to feel your best. It's pretty hard not to look your best when you feel your best. Also, it's incredibly not so great for people to ask you when you are due when you are totally not due.  That's what I'm trying to get at here.

You know what else I'm doing with my 3.25 hours of free time? Blogging just for little ol' you. I made a commitment to you and by good golly, I'm going to keep it. Really, I think it trumps all the other stuff that I mentioned I should do. I'm a giver.

Okay. I'm down to about 2.75 hours of free time so we better get this show on the road. Also, I don't know how much longer I'll be able to hold your attention because I've already eaten up about 3 pages of stuff I've said. However, I would like to point out that I AM using more paragraphs today.  Hopefully breaking up 4 ginormous paragraphs into about 57 smaller ones will make this easier and more engaging to read.  You know, more than my holding your attention on sheer wit and interestingness alone.  

Probably, you thought that this resolution might have something to do with exercise or some other healthful thing, but you would be wrong.

7. Grow up. I hesitated in announcing this one just now. Really, my intention was this would be Resolution number 12 because truly, all the other resolutions stem from and ultimately are tied up into this one. But the ideas just started piling up in my head about what to write and I saw no way out other than to get the them out before they ran away.

I am, for all intents and purposes, an petulant child stuck in the body of a weary 40 year old woman. If I look at my childhood, I can see the writing on the wall from various experiences and life-long belief forming moments.

For one thing, I am an only child. I did not have to share one thing with anyone for any reason ever. What's mine was mine. And you know what? Today, what's mine is mine. If I'm done with it, you can have it. But for now, it's mine. Both my parents worked and I was blessed with a great deal of “have”. I got indulged pretty good. So, I have carried on that tradition. It's as good as any. Like cake for your birthday. That's a tradition. That's a good tradition. Like indulging yourself. Maybe that's not so much a tradition. You're giving me a lot to think about here.

Part and parcel with "mine" is that if I want it, I get it.  Not in a kleptomaniac sort of way.  More in a spend money on stuff I don't need to spend money on kind of way.  Or in a "oh, money is not a limitless resource?  kind of way.  Like that.

I eat like a child – whatever I want to, whenever I want to, because I want to. Like birthday cake for birthdays. Or birthday cakes just because they have been marked down. I love fruits and vegetables and I will eat them when the mood strikes. But as a woman starting to reach into my “the change” years (keeping it old skool), my mood often strikes with a rampant overwhelming need for chocolate. And salt. And salty chocolate. So I eat that. Because there is a demon inside of me and if I don't eat that, I'm convinced that the menopausal monster will get out and wreak all myriad of havoc. So, really, eating chocolate all the time is a safety measure to protect those in my home. Or those I share the road with because there are some straight up idiots driving around in cars anymore. Or those that I have to wait for. Pretty much just a general “those” that I'm trying to protect.

I don't do anything that I don't want to. And, I think that you have probably correctly surmised, there are a few things that I don't want to do. And by a few, I mean a great deal.  If there weren't, what would be the point of resolutions? Or a blog about resolutions? So, maybe we could agree that not doing things that I don't want to, is in fact, productive. It means that I will all the time have something to write about. Also, if I have unattainable goals, I'll spend lots of time pursuing them and always keep busy with the trying! Except for the part where I give up and don't do anything because I don't do anything that I don't want to do and I don't want to do that.  

I'm scared of disappointing my parents. I know. Whoa. I said that out loud (well, I typed it out loud) and was all vulnerable and exposed. I think there is a healthiness in a respectful stance when it comes to your parents. I think we all carry around a hope that our parents will be proud of us always and forever. These are the people who sacrificed and raised you. And, even if they didn't or if they did a sucky job of it, I'm so sorry that you got hurt, but even then, God still calls us to honor our parents.  But this fear, it goes beyond that. 

I watch actors and who they portray on film (read the very first paragraph way up there again, silly! Me=celebrity hound). I listen to the words and phrases they use. I see the skin they show (not intentionally! They just spring it on me when I'm caught all unawares! I'm not a perv!). I think about the situations they act out. And I think – that person likely has parents. There are people (mostly women) whose ongoing 15 minutes of fame are not based in talent, but in a widely watched sex tape (not by me. I don't watch sex tapes. I told you, I'm not a perv.  And, I kind of don't recommend that you watch them. There are all kinds of reasons. Just trust me on this one). And I'm a little horrified. I'm not a prude. I'm not even trying to pretend that I play one in a blog. Sure, this could all be my uptightness busting through. But I think about a movie like American Pie and as hilarious as it was – and it was- I wonder what goes through an actor's parent's mind when they watch it - “I'm so proud of all the money my kid made by doing that to a pie for everyone to see!!!” I don't know. Maybe a parent is so dang happy to be driving around an Escalade that they don't really care how they got in one. I've watched Kevin Smith talk to crowds about some really intimate information about drugs and toilets while his mom was sitting right there in the audience and I'm stunned. I couldn't be an actor for just that reason. I couldn't stomach my parents watch me as anything less than civilized and behaved. I can't imagine specifically embarrassing them. I don't know how anyone can be all adult and naked in front of them.  Or simulate all sorts of stuff in front of them.  Or say certain words in front of them.  Also, I couldn't be an actor because I can't act. Also, pretending makes me feel foolish and I can't knowingly make an idiot of myself. I know, I said that before, but it's so true, I'll likely say it often. I understand that at some point I have to allow my kids to do their own thing and maybe it's because they are still so young and innocent but I have a tough time imagining that if one of them ended up producing a “Burlesque” show (which is fancy talk for stripping), that I would applaud their success. Love them, always, but support that – not as easy to promise.

Now, there is a flip side to all this parental reverence I hold dear. The reality is that I have totally done things that my parents are not proud of. They have forgiven me, thank God. And, in the grand scheme of things, they came out pretty lucky on the having a hellion as a kid front. But the way I go about this is a protective bubble that I'm not supposed to put them in. It's not my job to shield them from my realness.  And it really isn't healthy for me, as a forty year old human to be afraid of my father getting angry with me. It's also not healthy for me not to regularly check-in with and build into my recently widowed mother (to avoid confusion – divorced and remarried parents). These are not mature behaviors. They are the behavior of someone that is choosing to stay in a relationship that doesn't exist anymore – with one, I am a child and with the other I am an apathetic teen.  And by choosing to remain in those expired relationships, it traps my parents there as well. It doesn't afford either of us the joy of becoming friends rather than the boss of me/no you're not! Phase of childhood. It keeps me from revealing who I have become and ultimately, I don't give them the chance to accept me as that person.  I'm pretending to be something that I'm not. I'm not being honest. I'm also denying them the ability to be accepted as the people they have grown into being. Parents change too. It's true. I'm a parent. I've changed. And in some good ways, too! They deserve better than that after all I put them through. I deserve better than that after all they put me through.  See - I'm almost tempted to delete that last sentence. I'm all afraid of hurting their feelings.  Or making them upset.  Or angry.  Screw 'em if they can't take a joke!  Too much?  Yeah.  You're right.  Sorry folks!

All this amounts to one fundamental truth. I am not doing all that I can to grow into anything else. If I stay in the past, there is not much to look forward to in the future. If I can't delay gratification, I'm not stoking a passionate fire. I'm pouring gasoline on it causing it to flare into a spectacle of now and then dwindle down to even less than it was because so much got burned out in the showmanship. If I can't cut out my selfishness and my stinginess, it's gonna cause gangrene and stinky rot. The kind of rot that stinks up your heart and your potential. That's what kind of rot that is. I know. I started out so eloquently and then brought it down a couple of notches. So, we shall sum up thusly (that's mature talk, right?). Get out of the past. Enjoy and celebrate the present. Don't worry about the future but build into by enjoying a little less in the present. Open the present, not when you get it but in the future it was intended for. Celebrate with cake. Don't cuss around your parents because it's not ladylike but cuss like a sailor around your kids because they don't care if you are ladylike. 

For the love. I'm down to like .5 hours and it's all your fault!! It's not fair!

Do I HAVE to go do the laundry right now? I don't wanna. Oops.