Well, it's New Year's Eve again.

I'm still not a 150 pound model with a villa in the south of France.

I believe that in 2014, my goal was to be more like Fat Amy. I'm not sure that I actually accomplished what I set out to accomplish. I'm still not too sassy or anything like that, but I've still got my chub on, so I guess that counts as halfway, right?

At any rate, I do believe in making resolutions. Even if I fail every time. So that is this year's resolution: I'm going to keep trying to be better. Not just happier or thinner or anything like that.

Better.

I will keep trying to be a better person.

I will keep trying even if I feel like I hate everyone on the planet and I want to make myself a little Hobbit house under the ground and be alone for the rest of time. I won't stop trying to be kinder and fairer and just...better.

Even if I suck at it, which I do, quite a lot of the time.

I'm also going to do better at my allergy shots because I've gotten really bad at remembering those.

So, yeah, better person and allergy shots.

2015 is going to be a full year.

Chrimas

Well, Chrimas is over (spelled it that way on purpose...don't ask...it's not funny to other people). I'm always sad because, unlike a lot of people, I don't feel any more depressed at Christmas than at any other time, plus, well, Christmas.

I love snow and cold and presents and games and a free day where I can eat what I want. I also love how nice people are at this time of year and how they take the time to do stuff for others. Awesome.

This year was stellar, as far as presents. I feel like my family struck the right balance between fun and useful, and I only have a very small bag of re-gifty stuff (which came almost entirely from people who don't know me well). I have a sweet, sweet Neil Diamond concert to look forward to and new knives to use, in addition to a Spock mug and t-shirt that are amazing and a sparkly vintage ring that is absolutely perfect. And a Superman onesie. Enough said.

Yes, yes, yes, yes. So much fun stuff.

At any rate, I hope everyone else had as much fun as I did. I feel like we even navigated the family stuff well, and made it through okay. Which is totally acceptable, as I don't think perfect is really possible.

So the season's about done and everyone's getting ready to resume normal, non-Christmasy-magical life. No more overeating, over-drinking or general overdoing, which I guess is okay, and also no more scrambling to figure out gifts at the last minute for those people that got accidentally left off the list. Phew. Had some close calls this year.

But the tree is staying up for another week. It just is. I'm not ready yet.

I can't believe Christmas Eve is tomorrow. I always feel as though I must have left some thing undone, and then I don't discover what those things are until ages afterwards.

Oh, well. No matter. We got snow last night so all is right with the world.

I am already thinking of my resolution for 2015, and I have some pretty good ideas, but I am starting a new project right now. I am becoming a semi-vegetarian.

Anyone who knows my family is thinking, "Huh..." right now, and with good reason. I don't think anyone in the history of our whole family has ever been a vegetarian. Our family was built on a firm foundation of ground beef and bacon. And steaks.

But I feel like I want to try.

It's not like I'm addicted to meat. I actually go for weeks sometimes with the only meat I eat being served at my Mom's house. I've just been feeling sadder about it than usual when I eat it, and I don't think food is supposed to be that way. All sad, all of the time, I mean. I think if it bothers me, then I probably shouldn't do it.

I just hope I don't gain weight.

At any rate, I will still probably eat some meat occasionally. I don't know. I'm doing this sort of haphazardly, and it's mainly because I can't stop thinking about the poor little animals when I'm eating.

Which is a horrible thing to think about.

I also don't think it's wrong to eat meat. I feel like it's okay, if it doesn't bother a person to do it. My husband isn't stopping eating meat anytime soon, and it doesn't bother me at all.

This is weird. Just weird.

At any rate, I'm going to try it. Just to see how it goes. I know for sure that I'm going to eat meat sometimes, but not very often and only for special. For instance, we're going out for breakfast tomorrow, and if I feel like having bacon, I'm going to have some. 

So, yep. Haphazard. That's why it's not a resolution, per se. Those need rules and structure. This is just...I don't know. I'll figure it out eventually.

Today is Thursday. Not Friday. Not at all.

But for five glorious minutes when I first woke up, I thought it was Friday.

I came to the realization as I was washing my hands after running to the bathroom because wetting my pants at 5:30 a.m. is not on my to-do list. It was a DEFCON-1 situation (I say this because I have looked at the Wikipedia article, and I know for sure that DEFCON goes from most danger to least danger in ascending order, so 1 is totally the worst), but I was smiling, which is unusual for me because it makes my face hurt and I feel like it's a sign of insanity if I smile too much.

Got to keep that on the down-low.

Anyway, I made it and I was washing my hands while singing, "Twinkle, Twinkle" at a rate of 60 bpm (which everyone knows adds up to the right amount of time in which to remove the most bathroomy poop germs from one's hands--they're in the bathroom, whether you're in there pooping or not) , and I looked at the wreck that is my hair this morning and all of a sudden I just knew.

I wanted to throw my head back and howl, but I thought that might be a little over-dramatic, so I went to the kitchen and poured myself an extra half cup of Chocolate Cheerios (they're good, but not, "Let's buy the giant-size double-pack at Costco!" good).

Same thing, man. 

At any rate, I am now in a state of post-Friday sadness, because even though it was never really Friday, for five brief, shining minutes, it felt like Friday in my heart. My heart lied.

My heart did not deserve the extra Cheerios, but I can't exactly separate it from the rest of my body, which totally did deserve those extra Cheerios.

It's going to be a stellar day. I can just feel it in my guts.

So I went clothes shopping with a friend yesterday, and I came to realize a couple of things:

First, fat people shouldn't look at the other person's clothing when shopping with skinny people. All of the clothes my friend pulled off of the rack looked like doll clothes compared to the tent-like garments at which I was looking.

Second, skinny people look good in everything, even the things they think are bad. For instance, I saw people in the dressing room grimacing at their reflection in the mirror, even though what they were wearing made them look, well, skinny. If something makes me look thinner, I buy it. No questions asked. There is no, "Does that color work on me?" or, "Does this collar style suit my face?" for me at all. Nope. It's, "Does this make my bulginess seem slightly less bulgy?" If the answer is yes, it's a go.

Finally, no one makes worse clothing choices than fat people who were skinny all of their lives until adulthood. Put the tank tops and outfit with a crop top and stretchy pants down and back away, ladies. I've been doing this my whole life. You do not want to enhance that area by draping it in spandex, trust me. Throw a baggy shirt over those slim-fit jeans that is long enough to go over all of your...areas. And don't let the world see those upper arms. Encase them in fabric. Believe me, no one know more than I do about how difficult it is to find things that fit properly, but we've got to stop letting those flabby upper arms fly in the wind. It's not good.

I know that, theoretically, people should wear whatever makes them feel good about themselves, but sometimes I feel like it's my duty to inform my fellow large ladies about how much of them we can see. I know most people have mirrors and such, but sometimes I wonder.

And there were some short shorts in the clearance section for the really big sizes and I am concerned that they were purchased to be worn. Worn in public. And that could just be a real, real bad situation. This is a time in which we could be aided by realistic plus-sized mannequins.

Also, did you know that many mannequins now have nipples? Because they do. Nipples. Seriously. I guess I've seen it before, but there were just nipples everywhere yesterday and, well, it was just kind of rough in there.

Also cold. For the mannequins, I mean. You could tell.

Yesterday was bad.

The kind of bad that I don't even want to talk about, except that it was really, really bad.

So I won't talk about it.

I only hope today is better because I am still tired from yesterday, and if today sucks like yesterday did, there may be some crying at work.

At my desk.

In front of people.

Just saying.

But I'm not talking about it.

I am, however, bringing an assortment of cookies from Sunday's recital and I may or may not share them with the office.

I may also choose to eat them all, by myself, for lunch.

I can do that if I want. I'm an adult. I can make that choice.

Ah, well. Here's to having a good day.

And sugar, nature's cure-all.

Yesterday, I screamed my head off at the neighborhood cat. Again. I swear that he knows I hate him being in my yard, so he makes sure to be just out of my reach, but where I can see him all of the time. He kills all of the baby birds and even the bunnies sometimes. It's like happy Bambi time back there until he shows up, and then it's like one of those nature shows where I spend half the show with my eyes closed, but I see something anyway so I spend the rest of the show crying.

I mean, seriously, I don't know whose he is, but why have a cat if he's always going to be in my yard?

At any rate, after yesterday, this has got to stop. He was on my guest room window, trying to get in to my bird who was screaming bloody murder and who I thought was going to have a heart attack.

I Googled it. Birds can have heart attacks.

So I go in to see what the ruckus is all about, and the cat is trying so hard to get in that he doesn't see me, so I slide the top of the window down and scream at the the little turd to get off of my window.

I may have used stronger language than that. My neighbors may hate me now, because I was pretty mad. There were some f-words in there.

Well, I don't really care. My little bird, who is 14 and likes to be held less and less as he gets older, was shaking like crazy and was at the front of the cage waiting for me to pick him up and I held him under my chin against me for like five minutes.

If you knew my bird, you would realize how bizarre that is. He has never, in his whole life, been a cuddler. He only wants to be picked up to play an exciting game of, "Let's bite your fingernails!"

Seriously. He is fascinated by fingernails. He will spend ages grooming mine. It's kind of adorable.

Anyway, no cuddling for Bruce. Never. So, yeah, he was terrified. And he was making his little baby lucky noises at me, which is what he does when he is feeling kissy with his buddy. 

He's in love with his buddy, which is this yellow stuffed piece of fuzzy cloth that he sleeps with and clucks to while he's rubbing his head on it. It is also pretty cute.

So, yeah, all kinds of weird behavior, but no heart attack. Which is good for the cat, because I would've hunted him down and taken his butt to the pound if he would've hurt my bird. (That's the worst I could do--I couldn't actually hurt him because I just love me some animals).

On the plus side, this morning, Bruce the cockatiel is cooing and clucking at his buddy and coming over to make the occasional kissy noise at me. So he must have already forgotten.

Of course, his brain is pretty much the size of a pea, so I can see how that could happen.

So, here's my tip for the day: Calm down.

Yep, just calm down.

Do not, I repeat, DO NOT go on someone else's Facebook page and take comments on someone else's post by someone else's friend way too seriously and go bananas on them with self-righteous comments that just sound a wee bit insane.

Don't do that.

Instead, maybe smell a flower. Or give a homeless guy some cocoa. Or pet someone's dog. Do something nice and happy. Try really hard not to be offended by everything. 

Maybe laugh a little, I don't know, because maybe, just maybe, people are joking and not being serious.

Or maybe not.

But, either way, getting super bored up in a public forum kind of makes a person look a bit douchebaggy.

Just a bit.

So calm down.

Alright, back home and to normality.

Except, not really, because I don't think normal exists, certainly not up in my house.

At any rate, I'm glad Thanksgiving is over and we can move on to the main event: Christmas Recital time.

Yep, that's the main event.

It's weird, because when I was a kid, so many people took some kind of lessons and had some kind of recital that it wasn't all that unusual. Now, it's not (apparently) done as often, so no one has any idea about what to expect.

And that's the part I enjoy the most, ha ha ha!

(I was rubbing my hands together and cackling while I said that last sentence, in case you couldn't tell.)

But, no, seriously, I think it's kind of awesome how excited the kids get and how nervous the parents are, even the ones with the older kids, and how none of them seem to realize that it's the adult students who are the most scared. Well, except for me, I get that. I totally do. I also love Christmas time anyway, so it's super fun getting to sing Christmas songs and whatnot FOR MY JOB.

Yes, people pay me to sing Christmas songs with them and/or their children. It's pretty sweet.

The only part that is not sweet is the part where I have to play for some of my students. That is not sweet. It makes me want to barf.

Singing in front of fifty people? No problem. Playing the piano in front of the same crowd?

I MAY DIE.

I don't know why that is, I only know that when this weekend is over I will be a happy camper. And I will have a beer with my dinner. And then maybe cake; I don't know.

At any rate, I love Christmas Recital time, even when I have to play the piano for some of my students. It's my favorite time of year to be a music teacher.

Also, there are cookies at the recital. Did I mention that? Yes, cookies. And other assorted snack goodness. I kind of like food.

Thanksgiving is upon us. Well, really, it'll be upon us in the morning.

I have decided that this year I am thankful for so many things, I can't just express it by eating a ton of turkey, do I should probably write a blog post about it.

So I am.

I am thankful for parents that have always accepted, nay, encouraged my weird. I have never fit into that little tiny box o' normal, and they never made me try. They just worked their butts off to make sure I was clothed, fed and equipped with the main tool necessary for a successful life: Sarcasm.

I am thankful that my sister let me survive long enough to get to voting age, even though I was a turd. Also, I'm super thankful that we now not only get along, but are able to combine to create a level of awesome heretofore unknown in this galaxy.

I am thankful for a fantastic extended family that is tightly-knit enough that I know they will always be there for me (as I will for them), but doesn't strangle me with too many feelings or surprise week-long visits. Because, well, come on. Me and surprise week-long visits are not a good combo.

I am thankful for true friends. I am fortunate to have some, and they are fricking amazing. 

I am thankful that I have retained my sensitivity, even when it makes life ticklish, and I have to deal with smelly smells that are smelly.

I am thankful for pets and fart jokes and Life Cereal and stretchy pants and Murder, She Wrote and math and music and ceramics and writing. They make life so much more fun and bearable than I would've ever thought.

Finally, and most of all, I am extra thankful that I'm lucky enough to have my very own person, and I got to find him in time for him to get used to my...cowboyness. Because the person that is my person is just so awesome, I can't even deal, and he totally did not get a delicate flower. And I'm pretty sure he's cool with that, which makes me even more thankful.

See? I told you it was a lot. I didn't even get into my feelings about Sirloin Burger soup. That needs a poet, and I just don't have the words.

Have a lovely, thankity Thanksgiving! 

It's time for me to shed the light on a real problem. Again.

EYEBROWS.

If you look surprised, all of the time, you need to loosen your grip on those tweezers, stop drawing on brows that are twice as thin and twice as long as they need to be, and accept the fact that the way they've grown in naturally is an okay way for them to be.

I'm not pooping on those who have naturally thin brows, or those who have to draw on their brows because their natural ones aren't there or are shaped funny. I'm referring to this:

Or this:

Or, finally, this:

AS I've said before, if I feel like saying, "Surprise!" and I bring you a Sharpie every time I see you, it may be time to find a new eyebrow style.

But you just have to stop. You just have to.

In ceramics class last night, I made something that I wasn't too happy with. Everybody else said it was fine, but in my heart, I knew it was crap.

I hate that.

I would rather people just said, "Aww...and that looked like it was going to be so nice, too." Instead, they feel compelled to ooh and aah a little more over things that suck.

I know this because I do it myself.

I realize that if I don't like it, I shouldn't do it to other people, but I'm not convinced that it isn't the only way to really handle those situations. I don't want to be one of those "solution" people who tells you everything you did wrong after the fact and never, ever has anything to say beforehand.

That is lame.

Also, it is extremely unhelpful in ceramics, because if you don't like what you made, you're pretty much screwed. You kind of just have to deal.

I guess this is another one of those pesky situations with no answer. I hate that. I wish there was a perfect thing to say that was non-judgmental while also being supportive and helpful, but in a non-I-told-you-so manner.

That doesn't exist. I just made it up in my head.

There are just going to be crappy ceramics days. There just are. At least I get to come home and have a peach popsicle, even if it is winter and I have to have it while wrapped in a blanket because it makes me so cold I can't stand it.

That is not crappy at all.

Some of my most brilliant ideas have come to me while I've been driving home from my weekly TV show watching with my sister. Maybe it's because it's usually dark and quiet, and I don't like anything they've been playing on the radio lately so I'm tending to just let it be radio-free, or maybe it's because the show we watch is so...well...lately, it's been less good, but it used to be quite a bit more interesting. Right now, there's too many good guys and not enough villains.

Yep, that's how I like my TV. Chock full o' villains.

Anyway, last night, I had a genius idea. So good, in fact, that I am going to run right out and get a patent before somebody else snaps one up and I lose the rights.

The idea? Creepy Karaoke.

So right before I turned off the radio, they played this weird song from the early 60s called, "Daddy's Home." (Shep and the Limeliters, I believe). That's the inspiration.

You can imagine the creepiness of this particular song, especially if you, like me, find it really weird that anyone would ever refer to his or her partner as "Daddy." Or "Mommy," for that matter. Or really any parental term. Because,  just, no. Gross.

So I thought, "Wow! I should sing this song next time I do karaoke...that would really creep everyone out!"

And my million-dollar idea was born.

There are so many songs that can be creepy in the right context. For instance, have an old lady doing karaoke? Find the creepiest match possible...I would suggest any Barry White song where he moans for the first couple of minutes, or perhaps "Son of a Preacher Man." Old guy? Perhaps with excessive ear hair? Try "Teenager in Love," or "Daddy's Little Girl." Or, as I mentioned above, "Daddy's Home."

There are just so many choices.

I am, for reals, going to try it out next time I do karaoke. I am just going to flip through that book of available songs and find the weirdest one and just go for it. The most beautiful part of this whole plan is that even those who feel awkward about doing karaoke, such as myself, can feel a little less awkward because people will just assume it's a bad song choice and won't be judging the actual singing.

So there you go.

Creepy Karaoke. Coming sometime in the future to a really gross bar near you. As a bonus, I'll include, "I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus." It's always creepy. Every time.

Triscuits.

There, I said it.

Every once in a while, I just really want to eat some, but I know it's not a good idea. Then, I start thinking about their dry, crispy, salty goodness, and I die a little until I break down and buy a box.

Then, I eat them and feel sick and don't eat the rest of the box.

I think it may be because I was allergic to wheat when I was little and I watched my Mom eat them and they looked so good, but I couldn't have any.

Now, I'm not allergic to wheat, but there's something about Triscuits that still calls to me.

It's probably the promise of a stomachache. This could be the reason I occasionally drink four glasses of wine or eat a whole order of fries by myself. Apparently, I really enjoy feeling like crap ever so often.

At any rate, I woke up this morning feeling that old Triscuity feeling again.

I have been elected to buy cheese and crackers for something, so I think I'll buy some for that and then other people can join in on the magic. I think it may be the magic of them that appeals to me because, as Rumpelstiltskin says on "Once Upon a Time" (yeah, I watch it...don't hate), "Magic always comes with a price."

And the price of that salty wheat is a terrible stomachache.

I think I can take it. It can't be that bad, right?

Naw. Can't be. Or I wouldn't want to eat them again. It's been at least a year. Maybe I imagined the whole stomach thing. Maybe they don't bother me at all, and this time I'll be able to eat the whole box.

Not in one sitting, though. I'm not that cuckoo.

from amks22.weebly.com

There are all of these hashtags everywhere. Most of the time I get them, but every once in a while, I am completely clueless and it drives me crazy until I figure it out.

I also didn't know what the hashtags did until like a week ago, because I finally overcame my fear of looking like an idiot and asked my sister. So there's that.

Anyway, even though I don't actually use my Twitter account, I am going to start using hashtags, especially in my day to day conversations. I am going to make some of them easy to understand, for instance this post is #completelyawesome.

Others, like #instantbananahorseshoe might take some figuring out.

Also, I don't think that hashtags in regular speech will do anybody any good, but it will be really fun for me. I might be talking to my boss later today and I'll say something like #canigetyouapen?

And my boss will say, "Say whaaaat?" in a high-pitched voice and then the studio audience in my head will laugh really hard.

Or maybe that's just a scenario I made up.

At any rate, it sounds much more hilarious with hashtags. It also sounds like what the cool kids do. Or did. I don't know, I can't keep up with what's cool anymore because I seem to have lost the ability to differentiate between cool and douchey these days.

Yep, it pretty much all looks douchey.

#imouttahereihavetogoshowerforworkandthennotforgetsocksbecausethatwouldbeadisaster.

All I can say is that I'm so glad election day is over. I'm also really glad about some of the outcomes and I'm kind of sad about some of the outcomes, but it's more on a local level and I realize there are approximately three other people who care about local politics.

Except for when our property taxes go up to pay for more stupid decorative crap and we still have to drive around on streets that look like cellulite.

And our sidewalk situation is still atrocious.

Yeah, people. Then you'll care.

At any rate, I'm super excited not to be getting any more phone calls about candidates or a mailbox full of mailers.

At least, until next time.

Maybe I'll run for something in a few years. Maybe my slogan will be, "Free cheese for everybody!"

That's a great slogan.

I'm surprised nobody's used it.

I'm surprised that I just made myself want a piece of cheese. Wait. No, I'm not.

Well, it's almost Friday, at any rate.

It's the morning I dread every year: The morning I have to go take my fasting blood test at the hospital, one week before my physical.

I don't really dread the physical. They've been the same since I was nine or so. I go in, fill out some papers, and wait. I get called back, weighed, my vitals taken, and wait. The doctor comes in, asks me if I am aware that I have a weight problem, looks into my ears and nose, ups my thyroid medication, and then I go home. Or to work. You know, wherever it is that I go lead my thrilling life afterwards.

The blood test, though, sucks. Big time.

I have to get up and NOT EAT and NOT DRINK COFFEE. I just have to do all of the other morning things without the help of my bowl o' sugar and caffeine. Then, I have to go to the hospital and get the orders from my doctors' office, then walk over to the lab and wait for the blood to be drawn.

All of this, without my Lucky Charms. Or Honey Nut Chex. Or Apple Jacks. None. No cereal. And did I mention NO COFFEE?

I'm barely human without my breakfast routine.

That is why fasting blood test day is the worst. Also because I never know if they're going to ask me to pee, but it doesn't really matter because there's just no way. Once I'm within fifty feet of a doctor's office, I can't pee. My kidneys just suck up all of the fluid in my body, tell my bladder to back off and then they go into hibernation mode. This state of being lasts just long enough for me to get into my car and get back on the road. Then, ten minutes away from wherever I'm going, my bladder is immediately full. Like DEFCON 1 full (I learned that DEFCON 1 is the worst, not DEFCON 5 or whatever---I can't remember where I learned it from, but I'm going with that). And I have to hold it for ten minutes and I feel like my bladder is going to explode. 

I usually want to turn around and go back, but I've done that before and not been able to make it work. Seriously. I am that horrible at peeing in a cup.

So, yep. Hate fasting blood test day.

It's getting to be time for something I always know I'm going to have to do, but it often seems like I have to do it every stinking year, and although I dread it I know that the alternative is far worse than the mission: Buying new underpants.

I can always tell when the underpants I have are going south (hahaha) because the elastic starts to go. Mind you, I buy really cheap underpants because I know that in a year or so, I'm going to get irritated with them and throw them all out and start over again.

Is that weird? I don't really have an underwear buying table to tell me when they've passed the peak of comfort and meandered into the realm of unsalvageable.

The first sign is that I start getting wedgies all of the time. That stage has already come and gone (well, not gone, but I've gotten used to it). I am pretty much prying my underpants out of my butt every fifteen minutes. It's annoying, but not as annoying as the second stage.

The second stage is the delightful time when the material is so stretched out (I buy my underpants a little on the large side, as I enjoy the extra, extra coverage) that there are left-over underpants parts that aren't covering anything; rather, they're bunching up in wads under my pants, making it look like I have horrendous meandering cellulite patches.

Not a good part.

I'll know, though, that it's time to say goodbye when I reach the end stage. This is the stage we are rapidly approaching. The final countdown, if you will. The time when my underpants start unraveling around the outside and the thin elastic waistband separates from the body of the underpants, much like a rocket losing parts as it shoots into the sky.

Less magical than that, but there you go.

I am allergic to elastic, so I have to choose underpants with a minimum of areas where the elastic is uncovered. I can usually avoid it everywhere but the waist, where I have learned to tolerate the itchy rashyness that the elastic brings.

Also, I am cheap and non-elastic underwear is way too pricey for something in which I am going to contain my undercarriage. Seriously.

So I'm guessing we might make it to Thanksgiving, but I doubt if they'll hold much longer. I noticed some pretty severe lumpy action yesterday, and the elastic has already started to separate on a couple of pairs.

Maybe this is normal. Or maybe it's a conspiracy by underwear manufacturers to force me to go underwear shopping every year. I don't know, but it's a big pain in my butt.

Darn you, Fruit of the Loom.

Well, I know my new, new mattress (the one to replace the one the kids broke finally came on Saturday, so I got to see how it looks with the bedskirt and everything all done...it's awesome) is the best mattress in the world, because for the most part, I've been sleeping really deeply. Sort of like when I was a kid.

There is a drawback, though. I would rather not have dreams, or, really, I'd rather not remember them, and I'm sleeping all the way until the alarm goes off, so I'm having them and remembering them.

Which kind of sucks.

It's not like they're horror-movie style dreams, with someone wielding an axe and chasing me through the woods. It's more sinister than that.

I have dreams about work.

Nothing out of the ordinary or unusual. I just dream a whole day at work. In all of its boring, mind-numbing glory. This morning, I woke up just as dream me was preparing to go downstairs and pull charts.

Seriously. I am dreaming work in real time.

It's lame. It's the only drawback to this whole "sea of bed" thing.

(Ooh, and it is a sea of bed, too. It's gargantuan. I can lay on that bad boy sideways, if I want to.)

But anyway, I'm hoping that I start having some kind of dream that doesn't involve the banality of my office. Because it's boring enough having to be there during the day that I really don't want to have to dream the day all over again.

I would rather dream a commute. Or a trip to the grocery store. Or house cleaning. Anything other than charts and files and computers.

Oh, well. At least I'm not dreaming about raking up dog poop in the backyard. That would probably be worse, because of the smell.

I read this interesting article the other day about Renee Zellweger and her face. Now, usually, I think these articles are kind of full of crap, but this one was pretty good, and it made me realize that I am pretty judgmental about elective plastic surgery for women. The whole point of the article was that it's Zellweger's face, and none of us has any right to pass judgment on her for choosing to change it. 

I realized that I do that a lot.

Like, really a lot.

And I probably shouldn't.

I am descended from a long line of pale, pasty people who wrinkle like nobody's business. Apparently, I skipped the vast amounts of grey hair in my 20s gene, but boy, did I get the wrinkles. And right now, I'm in my mid 30s and coping with a lot of water and a tub o' wrinkle cream, but in about ten years, I'm going to have to figure something out. While I don't think I'll go for a face lift, I like to think that I would be able to make that choice without a bunch of people mocking me and making me feel even worse about myself.

Like Renee Zellweger.

So I'm going to try really hard not to be so crappy about the way other people look. It's all my own insecurities being reflected in somebody els's face, anyway. Maybe I should just be nicer.

I can do this. I can do nice.

I can.

I swear.

At any rate, maybe if I'm not such a turd about other women's surgical choices, they won't give me too much crap when I go in for a complete overhaul. Including an everything reduction and a fancy new nose. And eyebrows that will somehow be two inches higher on my face. 

I don't think I'll ever do it, but it's nice to have the option.

I think some people are a little too free with their opinions. I'm all for a person speaking his or her mind, but when it's insulting to another person, it's probably a better idea for a person to keep it quiet.

For example, I get comments about my hair a lot. From a lot of people, but certain people are worse than others. Here's the deal, though: IT'S MY HAIR.

Yep. Growed it muhself.

At any rate, why would a person feel so free to make so many comments about something that, quite frankly, isn't any of his or her business?

I mean, it's one thing if I would've asked. But I didn't. Because I've decided that no matter how much everybody else likes something about me, if I don't like it, it's going to bug me. So I need to like it. I occasionally ask my husband, because his opinion matters, but that's about it.

When did it no longer become necessary to keep not-nice comments to ourselves? If you can't say anything nice, don't say anything at all, and all of that? Did someone decide that that's no longer necessary and just not let me know?

Also, do people not realize how neurotic and self-scrutinizing some of us are? Especially about hair and clothes. It's hard enough to feel presentable enough to walk out the door without hitting the weekly, "Are you ever going to grow out your hair again? It looked so much better that way."

(Seriously. I get that every week at least once, and from the same person. UGH.)

And I try to laugh about it. I try to respond with a joke, but the problem is, it's just so rude that I don't feel like I should even respond. However, I've been conditioned not to be rude (thanks, Mom), so I feel like I have to just brush it aside.

But, every week? Every stinking week? I wish I could understand the motivation. Does that person really think I'm going to grow my hair out because that person prefers long hair? Really? Seriously? Because, quite honestly, I think it's my head and my hair and my time, and no one should try to make another person feel bad about the way she looks. It's mean. It's like middle school.

Also, did the people who feel so free to make disparaging comments to me (you wouldn't believe how many people feel like it's appropriate to critique my hair, lack of makeup, and clothing choices) ever stop and think that maybe I don't particularly enjoy their fashion choices? Because I don't. But I am an adult, so I find something nice to say and move on.

Reading this, you might say to yourself, "Grown people can't actually be saying things to another grown person about her hair and stuff on a daily basis." I wouldn't believe it myself, if it didn't keep happening.

Maybe it's just because people kind of suck. It's not like I have a mohawk (although that would be awesome) or anything really over-the-top in the way of clothing, or anything indecent or showing bits of skin that oughtn't to be seen in public. I just have certain kinds of clothes that I like, and I don't wear makeup every day because I think that men invented makeup so I would have to get up half an hour earlier every day, and I'm not buying into that. And I like interesting shoes. 

Oh, well. I guess that's just how it is. Some of us are the observers and some are the commentators. However, if you are a commentator, you ought to take into account the size of the person to whom you're giving your ever-so-valuable opinion.

One of these days, she might go all Incredible Hulk on you.

This semester of ceramics is all about raku firing. I have been pretty happy with the stuff I've made thus far, but yesterday I made something that came out so well, I almost couldn't believe I made it myself.

See, raku is the least appealing class to me, because it involves a ton of variables and it also involves putting your pottery into a burning garbage can and then putting it in a another garbage can full of newspaper and straw and stuff, and then hosing it off. Seriously. That whole process is just really chaotic.

But sometimes cool stuff comes out.

I still don't like the idea of working really hard on a pot or some other piece and then subjecting it to a glaze that may or may not come out. Because I've had so much trouble with my glazes, that scares the crap out of me.

Apparently, this stuff comes out differently every time, and that just makes me crazy.

However, last night, my things were in the burning garbage can with someone else's things, and their things CHANGED THE COLOR OF MINE. That's like magic. Actually, that's like chemistry, but still.

Holy unicorns, Batman. You should see what I did.

Wait. This isn't the 1930s. You can totally see what I made.

Yep. I made that. Pretty exciting.

There is no way I'm going to be able to concentrate on anything for the rest of the week. Just putting that out there.

At any rate, I think I'm learning to like raku. It's still kind of difficult for me to try things that have uncertain outcomes, but I guess even the things I think are going to be certain aren't, really. 

How very philosophical of me. 

I've been thinking a lot about friends lately. Not necessarily mine, just people's friends, in general, and a few who seem to just be really crappy at being friends. Now, I freely admit to being a flaky friend. I have way too much work going on in my life and not enough free time, and that is definitely something I need to work on.

However, there is a specific kind of friend that makes me wonder: Is this person really a friend, or is it better to just drift away and find someone else on whom to expend one's time and energy?

It seems a little ridiculous to me to expect a person to do everything he's asked, but to never reciprocate. It also seems ridiculous to never call just to say hi, but only when the friend needs something. Finally, it seems the most ridiculous of all to completely ignore the person when a newer, funner person comes along.

Actually, that's not ridiculous. That's just plain crap.

So, maybe you have a friend like that. Or worse, maybe you ARE a friend like that. Take a moment to think about it, won't you? Maybe your friends would actually like it if you didn't demand anything of them for five minutes. Maybe she would appreciate mattering as much to you as you do to her. Maybe he's tired of always being the one on whom you depend, and would like, for once, to be someone who's cared about and not just used for what he can do for you.

Or maybe you're just a big old turd, and not worth the time.

Also, maybe I'm a little annoyed by a situation that has absolutely nothing to do with me, so I'm taking it out on a bunch of people who aren't actually in the situation to which I'm referring (which has nothing to do with any of my fabulous friends who read this, either, by the way). 

But, still. I am trying to learn from this that I need to make sure my friends know that I love them, even when I don't need anything from them but their friendship. It's probably a good idea, because I do love them, and they are fabulous, and I don't even deserve the sparkliness of their presence.

(Also, I have a new, big bed. Have I mentioned that? It is big. Like, I can roll over about fifty times and even then I'm just barely approaching my husband's side. It's ginormous.

I'm a little distracted by the newness. It's definitely the coolest thing ever.)

Well, the new bed came.

Aaaaaaaaaand it's broken.

See, the kids who delivered it came and while they were taking it our of the truck, they dropped the mattress really hard, squarely on one corner. So one corner of the mattress is all bendy and damaged.

Yep. Knew something had to happen to temper that, "I'm so excited I'm going to pee my pants!" feeling.

Then, after the delivery debacle (I had to try to teach a lesson during the delivery because I had a kid already there and they were way early, which pretty much never happens), we left to go uptown to dinner and a movie (which we never do but there was a movie we really wanted to see and it was its last night in the theater) but the road was blocked off from an accident. It took so long to get up there that we were going to miss the movie if we went to dinner, so we got in line at the drive-thru at McD's.

Yep. Sat there, and sat there, and sat there. No movement and we were blocked in. When it became apparent that we were going to miss the movie anyway, we decided to just go and have Chinese food and then go home and watch a movie.

Guess who was at the restaurant? 

Mmhmm. The furniture department manager (who had been out of the office when we called to let them know that the kids left us with a new, busted mattress). Yeah, we talked to him and he was really nice, but it was a wee bit embarrassing.

I don't know why. I just get embarrassed.

So, yeah. New mattress. Slept on it, like it, still want a new one without a broken corner. Not excited anymore, but I am really happy with my new comforter and pillows and things.

Life, you're always killing the excitey stuff. Why?

I have decided to stealthily take over the world. With what, one might rightfully ask?

With sass.

Now, keep in mind that I do not, in and of myself, possess a great quantity of sass. I do believe that I can make up for my lack of sass by siphoning small quantities of sass from others.

Trust me, they won't even miss it.

I just need to design and fabricate a sass-conduction device. Then, I can use that device, along with the small amount of sass with which I have been endowed, and I will have enough sass to put my plan into work.

I believe I know enough people with enough spare sass that this plan could work.

The only hang-up might be making a device that is sensitive enough to figure out the difference between, sass and, say, plasma. I don't want any bodily fluids. Because, gross. Sass has no fluid content. As a matter of fact, it has no gaseous content either. It is not really a solid, liquid, or gas. Hmmm. This might be a problem.

As one can plainly see, I haven't really thought this plan through. However, I am not a scientist. Maybe I need one of those, too.

Crap.

I'm already done with this plan. It's too hard. Maybe I should just forge ahead with the whole, "work until you're 70, then retire and watch The Price is Right all day" plan. Yeah. Probably just going with that one.

Oh, well. It seemed like it was going to be awesome, but most of my plans do, before they fail miserably. It was going to be like this:

from modernweb.com

Yep. Just like that. I was going to be bigger than Oprah.

There seems to be a proliferation of advice-giving lately. Especially from twenty-year-old people who are just experiencing things for the first time and feel they have some valuable information to impart to the rest of us. To those delightful youngsters, I would like to repay your kind words with this nugget of wisdom: DON'T.

I realize that it seems like you've gone through stuff and lived through worse than most, but you haven't. Plus, we've all been doing this long enough that we've thought the thoughts you're thinking many times over. Trust me, your brilliant plan is probably not going to work. Also, consider that we lived through a time when most of us didn't have cable, there was no Netflix, and smartphones didn't exist. Most people didn't even have cell phones, and cordless phones were considered luxurious.

So, seriously. DON'T.

For most of my pre-college education, all research was done in the library. The actual building. No internet research. Can you imagine how many hours that took?

When I was in school, we were actually required to learn how to do things like math and spelling. No joke. That's how we all ended up being less stupid than you. Really. I had a job when I was 12: A paper route. My parents didn't just hand out money for nothing. Most people's parents didn't. Shockingly enough, they were hoping we'd be self-sufficient.

Newlyweds, take note: I have been with my husband for 21 years, married for twelve. My parents have been married for 44 years. Lots of people have been married that long or even longer. We have actually figured out some stuff during all of that time. Please do not feel like you need to post Facebook statuses with advice for all of us every fifteen minutes. Seriously. It just makes us want to punch you in your smug little faces; however, we quickly realize we don't need to because life is going to take care of that for us.

I realize this may sound bitter.

I'm actually not. My life is pretty stinking awesome. It's just highly irritating to check my Facebook every morning and read the vast assortment of "wisdom of the ages" posts or people bragging about what an awesome marriage they have when they've only been in it for an hour or so, or what a great parent they are when they haven't even made it past diapers.

Talk to me after ten years and then maybe you get to say something. Marriage is hard. Parenting is hard. School is hard.

See a trend there? LIFE is hard. It just is. There's not a lot of coasting. But there's always someone out there who has it worse than you, so you should probably just be grateful and stop trying to tell everyone else how awesome you are and just how you did it.

Most of us don't care, anyway. We're just trying to hold it all together until we have a day off to sit around the house in our underwear, drinking beer and binge-watching Bridezillas.

Or maybe that's just me.

I think I may need a nap.

We've been without internet access since Monday morning. In addition to being ridiculous, because how can they say that 200+ people's internet services are down, and not fix it IMMEDIATELY?

I got shows to watch on Netflix, man.

Fortunately, we have DVDs of some of our favorite shows, so last night we got to watch some good TV, but have you ever tried walking on a treadmill with no TV? That's just ridiculous. And I can't walk outside because my sinuses are still all pluggy and infected and whatnot. Stupid.

Also, I couldn't stream Pandora while I was cooking, so I was stuck listening to...get this...CDs. Yep, I actually listened to a real, live CD. It was crazy old-fashioned. I almost couldn't handle it.

Also, I read a book yesterday morning instead of looking at Facebook and playing my computer games for half an hour while I drink my coffee. It was actually pretty nice.

(Off topic, but I just discovered that my computer spell-checks the word "for" and changes it to the word "fro." That is awesome.)

I feel like I got much less work done this week, but it was kind of nice. Not necessarily a state of being that I would relish permanently, but a change of pace.

That being said, I better get on my Criminal Case game. I haven't fed my virtual boxer puppy since Monday, and I have energy points just sitting there, waiting for me to use them. It's an emergency.

This was me this morning, when I awoke and saw the beautiful glow of my modem.....

from galleryhip.com

We did it! We bought a big bed!

I'm pretty excited. I know it won't arrive for another week and a half, but I don't even care, because we actually took the plunge and made the big purchase.

I'm so proud of us.

Also, I'm really excited about having 500 square miles of bed all to my very own self. This is the approximate size of my side of our new KING-SIZE bed. I bet you didn't know about that. It's true, though.

Or maybe it just feels like it. I'm not really good with spatial reasoning.

At any rate, it's kind of sad because we had to get new sheets and blankets and stuff, and I just made a new bedspread for our bed for which I will now have to find another use. And it was really pretty. Also, it took me six months to make and that was kind of a waste of time now. 

Ermahgersh so sad.

But, still. BIG BED!!!!!!!!

I feel like we should have a big bed party where we celebrate having a big bed, but I think that might be kind of lame. Everyone else already has a big bed; we've just been avoiding it because beds are expensive and also our room is quite small. 

Doesn't matter. Big. Bed.

That is all. I'm just really, really, really, really, really excited. 

from imgarcade.com

We are biting the bullet and buying a new bed. Now, if you know us, you'll know that we decide on big purchases and then we spend ages and ages and ages living with the idea, and then we finally make the leap.

I feel like we're at the point to make the leap, and I'm so flipping excited, I can't stand it.

As two larger-sized people, we've been sharing a queen-sized bed for our whole marriage. It's okay, but we are not cuddlers, so there is no touching and there has to be a strict line down the middle of the bed so no one encroaches on the other person's side. The queen size is not optimum for our standards. I am having trouble staying on my side, and it wakes me up in the middle of the night, because I'm nervous about smacking him or kicking his bad leg.

In a king-sized bed, we won't have that issue. We won't have any issues. Life will be perfect.

I can only imagine the vast amount of space I will have. I will also have a longer pillow, which will enable me to...well...have a longer pillow. I don't know. All I can say is that I am so excited to have a big old bed, I can't even deal.

I just can't.

Also, it will be awesome to have a bed where I don't have to worry if I'm going to roll over and move too much and wake him up. I will be able to jump on the bed with a glass of wine and he won't feel a thing.

I've seen the commercials. It's totally true.

At any rate, we're getting really close and I don't know if I can stand the excitement. It's pretty awesome.

I do realize that this is weeks down the road. Maybe months. Still excited.

AAAHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!

Yep. That kind of excited. I'm going to be delightful at work today.