There Is Something Wrong With Me

Well, I mean, strictly speaking, there are a number of things "wrong" with me.  I like to keep my blog entries fairly short, so we can't get into ALL of my faults, failures, and maladies here today.  We also don't want me to slit my wrists.  So, let's pick a "something" and talk about that & only that, shall we?  ha.

I am TIRED.  ALL THE TIME.  Sometimes I feel like Kevin Spacey at the beginning of American Beauty (ah, one of my all-time faves) - SEDATED. 

It started a couple of years ago.  I actually started coming home from work sometimes at lunch & taking a power nap.  For real.  O-M-G, that's S-A-D.  It's only gotten worse.  Yes, I have some things goin' on with my health that cause fatigue.  Yes, I need to lose some weight.  Yes, I need to hit the gym more often (I'm workin' on it!!!).  But really?  Contrary to opinions expressed in some of my previous posts, I am fairly young.  What the hell?  What are my 40's going to feel like?  A coma?? 

I've done quite a bit of internet research about possible other causes of fatigue besides the chronic anemia (which I recently found out is most likely hereditary), blood sugar issues (also hereditary), allergies, etc., that I KNOW I have.  This research is BAD.  It's bad because I start to get intern's disease - I imagine I have everything I read about.  The vague syndromes are the worst.  "Chronic Fatigue," for instance.  Well, yeah, that's what I have.  Could you be more specific??  Then I start reading WebMD (bad), looking into clinics, some of which are probably shams (bad), and getting depressed (also bad).

Anyway, as a result of all of this damned fatigue that was making it impossible for me to get through a 40-hour work week, my doctor ordered me some time off.  There was a time when I worked 60 - 70 hrs/ week.  No joke.  It wasn't all THAT long ago!  I don't know what happened.  I blame my job, of course (see a previous post), for wearing me down, making me weak, sapping my will, etc.  There was a time when I scoffed at 40 hours!!!  I would spit on your 40, chew it up, spit it out again, then laugh!!!  Ok, that's a little carried away & kinda gross...  You get the point.

I also have a medical chart as thick as some 75-year-olds.  Again, I blame my employer for aging me beyond my years.  I'm starting to wonder if I should add my parents to the blame list.  They gave me these crappy genes.  Damn them, too!!  I have to have SOMEONE to yell at!  More than one person is even better.  The more, the merrier.

So, here I am.  Here I am waiting not to feel so tired.  Waiting to see if the increased doses of drugs & supplements will help.  It's not as easy as it sounds.  I get frustrated, mad, sad, anxious, crabby, cynical, etc.  I also intermittently feel grateful, peaceful, and introspective.  It's quite a ride.  All the while, I'm trying make some gradual adjustments to my life to make it healthier.  Sometimes what worked before doesn't work anymore, and you have to listen to your body & mind and change things up.  That's what I'm trying to do.  But, let's face it, sometimes when you're really tired, you just want mac & cheese.  And ice cream.  You don't have a whole lot of energy to devote to your meal planning or exercise regimen.  But I don't give up.  And I'm learning not to be too hard on myself.  It's hard to balance between self-discipline & self-loathing.  haha... And my Paul helps me.  And this blog is one of the many things that helps to keep me semi-sane while I wait.  8-D

Sad Animal Stories

I have an irrationally strong emotional reaction to any and all stories about pets or other animals that are not entirely happy.  I actually get physically anxious.  I haven't been to PetSmart in years because of the cats that the Humane Society has there for adoption.  I've left there crying more than once.  I had to ban myself for my own good.

I swear at the TV when I see an ad for an animal charitable organization.  You know the ones.  The ones akin to the starving African children ads.  The ones that show beaten & crippled dogs & cats.  The ones with Sarah McLaughlin wailing in the background.  It is making me anxious just typing about it.  Damn you, Sarah.  Paul makes me change the channel.  He also throws away any solicitations for donations that come in the mail from the Humane Society, Animal Friends, the ASPCA, etc.  He knows what will happen when I open one & see the pic of the dying dog.  He will either have a wife with an emotional breakdown or 18 assorted cats.  Or both for that matter.

My mom likes to tell me sad animal stories.  She has known me for 36 years, but she does not learn her lesson.  Each time is the same.  As soon as I smell that she's about to go into a tale (no pun intended) of pet woe, I tell her repeatedly to stop.  I practically stick my fingers in my ears & say, "lalalalalala.... can't hear you!"  Doesn't matter.  She is going to tell her story.  The end is always the same too.  "But the cat lived & was adopted by a nice family."  Oh ok.  That erases the fact that I'm now bawling because before it was adopted, it was trapped under ice for 3 days, lost 2 legs, and wandered through the woods with no food for 6 weeks. 

Don't even let me watch Animal Planet.  For real. 

I've also been known to cry at the vet's office.  If I see an old or sick animal, forget it.  The vet thinks I'm nuts, I'm sure.  I've had to take my beloved cat Fresno & leave him for surgery a couple of times.  I'm sure my behavior was a bit neurotic.  I am also sure I am on some crazy cat lady list they undoubtedly have.  I imagine the staff warning each other before I come in.  "The 10 o'clock is on the list.  Consider this your warning."

Oh, and here's a request.  Please don't let me see any signs posted on poles for missing pets.  That's the worst.  Imagining how it would feel to lose a pet makes me go into a panic attack.  My instinct is to immediately round up a posse to scour the neighborhood.  If you're with me & I happen to catch sight of a missing pet sign, please distract me.  I beg you.  Anything will do, but food works best.  "Hey, let's go get some pizza!!"  That would be perfect.

Ice Cream & Schmayer Bashing

*The name of my employer has been changed to "Schmayer" in order protect the innocent (me).

Depression has been described by some as anger turned inward.  There is no room for expressing anger outwardly in Corporate America, so it's no wonder half of us working Americans are depressed.  We all have to pretend like we're happy & fulfilled & satisfied all the time.  It's a delicate charade.  Sure, you can "vent."  But do it too much or too often & you're labelled a resistor, a grump, a disgruntled employee, like the notorious homicidal postal worker.

Schmayer has, like a good Fortune 500 company, pretended to give a crap.  Here are some of their half-assed attempts at shutting us up:
Stress Management Lunch n Learns
Wellness Works
Polar Bear Walking Club on the campus trail
Massage Therapist
Various weight loss incentive campaigns
Sharply discounted gym memberships
Various other programs sponsored by the Medical Dept
Employee Assistance Program

In all fairness, most of these are really good programs.  They just don't solve my problem of hating the political game of pretending to be the corporate equivalent of a Stepford Wife.  I play the game juuuuuust enough not to get myself fired.  But try telling me not to express what I'm really thinking or feeling about something, and I don't care who you are, I'm gonna get pissed and rebel like the teenager I think I still I am.  Even if you happen to be a VP.  Uh, not that I'm saying this from experience or anything.  This is STRICTLY hypothetical.  ;-)  Hence the reason I will never be in upper management.  I used to keep my mouth shut more cause I was young & scared.  I'm older & less scared now.  Can't wait to see what happens 20 years from now!  I'll probably either be making cones at Dairy Queen or will be an inpatient at Western Psych. It would be awesome if I could do both! We all have the right to dream.

Schmayer is proud to be among the top employers for working mothers nationwide.  I know I am not a working mom, so maybe I don't have the right to judge, but that is not going to stop me!  This is a bunch of propaganda & horse hockey.  Pittsburgh is the US headquarters.  There is no daycare, and the "lactation rooms" are kind of a joke.  There are only 6 on a campus of 1500 people.  Most of them are a section of a ladies' room that is partitioned off by a curtain.  I would not want to prepare my child's lunch in there.  Whatev.  It's really none of my business, and I digress again.

Just like any other situation in life, you have to pick your battles at work.  And I do.  But there are so MANY battles.  Every day.  It's hard to choose.  Maybe I could have a lottery system, i.e. "And today's winner iiiiiiiiiss....  begging for more resources to process customer samples!!  Yay!"

So now you're asking yourself why I don't quit if I'm clearly so burned out.  I ask myself that question a lot.  The answer is something I hoped I would never say:  I need money.  More money than I ever thought I would need.  There is something to be said for financial freedom.  I once had dreams of working for the passion of something & having the money be a secondary reason.  HA.  That was so cute of me.  I also used to be able to survive fairly easily on less than 1/2 of my current income.  Now I'm spoiled.  There.  I said it.  And as much as I SAY I'd rather serve ice cream, I think trying to perfect that little curl on the top of the cone would get old for me.  There must be a masochistic part of me that actually LIKES the challenge of all of this nonsense.  I make myself so mad sometimes! 

So, until I find my dream job (where we work in our PJs & the water coolers dispense fruity rum drinks), I guess I'll continue to sell my soul to the man.

Paul Knows Everything

I know you people.  I know you 'cause you're like me.  You read that title with a sarcastic tone.  Well, don't.  Paul knows everything.  Seriously.

Ok, that's apart from the math & chemistry domain, over which I preside in our household.  We're probably about equal in the area of language, though he tends to be more creative than I in that area.  His blog would be wicked.  Scary, but wicked.  Paul knows everything else (oh, for those of you who know about SAP, I AM still the reigning guru there, but that's corporate-centric, and not pure knowledge, so it doesn't really count).  I hate history (let's not even go there; that's another blog).  He knows everything about history.  Not to mention geography.  He makes me feel like I'm in elementary school with that one.  Then there's anatomy, mechanics, law, nutrition, technology (of course), etc.  I have a damn good education, too.  Damn good.  He's just a sponge apparently.

Ever see the show Pawn Stars?  It's a reality show about a pawn shop in Vegas, and we watch it & find it amusing.  It's like a combination of American Chopper & Antiques Roadshow.  Anyway, sometimes they'll have quizzes before they go to commercial about the value of various items.  Paul almost always guesses correctly.  Also, when they're evaluating the items during the show, his guesses are usually uncannily close to what they offer.  And I've watched him.  He's not looking them up online.

I actually broke down & had him teach me about the history of WW I & II.  I knew the main players & such, but I really didn't feel I had a grasp on a lot of the details (probably like a lot of Americans).  I blame the basketball coaches posing as teachers I had in high school.  I digress.  He actually wrote up documents for me to read & discuss with him.  I don't remember a lot of it now.  That was probably last summer, and I have a horrible memory in my old age, but I was impressed that it did make sense to me when he was explaining it all.  It never had before.

He can tell me how an engine runs.  I have no idea about such things.  I took several semesters of Physics & Physical Chemistry in college.  That's the closest I came to understanding the mechanics of things, and I hated every minute.  Passed with decent grades, but hated it just the same.  He can tell me about pistons & cylinders & picture it all in his head as he's telling me (I can see the wheels & smoke).  All I can say when he's done is, "who?  what now?  am I drooling on myself?  where are my pills??  what time is it?"  I am reduced to a senile, mentally-challenged fool. 

One of the reasons I got out of the chemistry lab so early in my career is now clear to me.  I did not like setting up experiments.  I was not suited to be a practical bench chemist.  It made me nervous.  I was always concerned about blowing things up or breaking important equipment or some other disastrous error.  In other words, I am just not mechanically inclined.  Some things in the lab were more like cooking or smaller detailed work.  That I was good at.  It was the big stuff - setting up large reactors & such - that was daunting.  This is quite a tangent.  I apologize.  This is supposed to be about Paul's brilliance, not my failures!  End of digression.

Then there is Paul's version of what we'll lovingly call "mathematics."  He can carry on an intelligent conversation about our country's prison system (he has a Criminal Justice degree), but when you ask him what 2+2 is, he will probably use some convoluted mental math that takes 5 min to come up with 4.  Oh, he'll usually get the right answer.  But he might divide, multiply, subtract, and then divide again to get there.  Like most things about Paul, it's a bit odd, but quite amusing & fascinating.  And it's that much more amusing for me, a former math tutor, to watch him attempt to calculate the tip at dinner. 

A word of caution though:  If you ask Paul a question, be prepared & consider this your warning.  He will lie about 30% of the time.  He's quick with a fib.  Here's a tip.  Don't ask him a question to which the answer is a name.  He will invariably tell you it's "Pete."  He's pretty bad with names, so he usually doesn't even try.  I'm pretty good at smelling his lies these days, but he still gets me occasionally.

Oh!  Antother thing:  He IS jealous of my German pronunciation skills.  So the bottom line is that I know math, chemistry, and German (not really), and my husband knows everything else.  Doesn't seem fair.  He's cute though, so that makes up for it.  :-)

Triumph-ant!

So my darling husband traded in his Yamaha V-Star cruiser for a brand new classic Triumph Bonneville.  For those of you non-motorcycle types (which I used to be), he traded in his old bike for a new one.  We went all the way to Canton, OH, were treated like crap at the dealership for 4 hours, and then I had to follow in the car a very excited Paul driving a new bike home in the dark for 2 hours.  It was a labor of love.  I'm happy for him, but I have to share with you how amusing his obsession is.

For the last couple of weeks, I've been listening to a litany of "new bike" related statements & exclamations at random times.  Examples:

"I have a hot bike."

"I don't know if you realize I have a Triumph."

"Oh look! Someone parked a hot bike in our driveway. Oh wait, THAT'S MINE!!! HA!!"

"Oh my God, I own a Triumph!!!"

Then there are the hypothetical conversations he cooks up in his giant, extremely active & fascinating imagination:

Random person:  "Wow!  That's a nice bike.  Is that a Bonnie (code for Triumph Bonneville)?"
Paul (trying to act non-chalant, but beaming instead):  "Yeah.  Just traded in my Yamaha for it.  I've always wanted one."
Random person:  "What year is that?  It's really beautiful."
Paul (still trying to maintain his cool facade but not succeeding):  "It's a '10."

A couple of neighbors & relatives have actually brought similar conversations to life for Paul.  I've never seen him so proud.  Like a new father.  But don't mistake me for the mother of the Triumph.  I don't know if I'm worthy.  Although, he told me another proud moment was when I recently bought myself a riding jacket & boots so I can ride with him.  He almost teared up, I swear.

I also swear I've seen him gazing lovingly out of the upstairs bedroom window at night at the COVERED bike.  This observed behavior really speaks for itself.  Not much else I can say about it.

And so begins the "dressing" of the bike & its riders.  Our living room is now full of boxes of gadgets, special metric tools (Triumphs are British afterall), visors, glasses, helmets, storage bags, seats, jackets, boots, gloves, wind gear, cold gear, rain gear, monsoon gear, blizzard gear, hurricane gear.  Weather forecasts have turned into riding forecasts.  The bike needs its own house.  This does not help my issue expressed in my post "Marriage is messy."

Everything is now centered around the riding, maintenance, and otherwise discussing & researching about the Triumph.  We recently received an invitation to Amber's housewarming party.  When I told Paul, he said, "Maybe we can take the bike."  So Amber, please make sure there is a safe & visible place for us to park the Triumph that day in front of your house.  Preferrably a place where all party-goers can easily see the bike & thus proceed to lavish attention & praise up on it. 

God save the Triumph!

Will There Be Ducks on Mars in 150 Years?

I sometimes like to watch Discovery Channel-style documentaries about a wide variety of topics.  There are so many channels now that have this kind of programming.  I do think that they might be running out of ideas for shows though.  Some have really started to speculate.  About anything & everything.  The past, the present, and most especially the future.  I thought documentaries were supposed to present the facts.  Huh.  Here are some real examples:

Prehistoric America (prehistoric generally means before recorded history, so this is really a bunch of hooey)

Future Weapons

Unsolved History (lots of room for speculation for what might have happened)


I am thinking maybe I should help them by pitching them some possible new shows:

What if Hitler Had Won the War?

Did Jesus Like Fish?

Is This Piece of Polyester in China Really the Shroud of Turin?

If The Laughing Buddha Was So Obese, Did He Have High Cholesterol?

Will the Sun Suddenly Crash Into the Earth in 3,000 Years?

Uranus Unveiled in 2079 (my personal fave)

The Pizza Man Who Wished He Were Blind

Once upon a time, there was a princess. Her name was Princess Consuela Michele. She lived with her beloved Prince Paul Daniel in a "castle" by the lake (which some people in the kingdom called a "creek" and still others called a "crick," for it was a strange & mysterious kingdom). Their kingdom's wealth was abundant, yet the villagers took the royal couple for granted.

The princess loved pizza. Loved it, loved it, loved it. There were 2 nearby food vendors who made the most delicious pizza. They hired a "pizza delivery man" who would bring these delicious creations to the royal couple when they called to them & placed a request.

Now the pricess was an eccentric (lazy) young woman. When this brave-hearted pizza man came to the threshold of the castle, it was usually she who answered the door. She greeted this poor soul wearing whatever items of clothing happened to have been available, clean, and comfortable when she returned home from her day's toils. The ensembles varied widely, but the common theme in them was comfort. The most curious & notable of these items still currently in rotation are as follows (descriptions written in the common tongue):

Red flannel pajama pants with monkeys on them

Black cotton pajama pants with red & pink hearts on them

Striped flannel pajama pants (is this a theme?) with a giant hole in the crotch that are at least a decade old

Various other yoga/ workout/ sweat/ PJ pants

A black cotton t-shirt with the word "bride" spelled out in rhinestones on the front

A t-shirt with the phrase "chicken f&%*$#" on the front

A tank top with the phrase "shut up mein bitch" on the front (usually masked by a hoodie)

25 various cotton t-shirts with the word "Bayer" on them. Strange phenomenon.

Sometimes the princess did not even bother wearing a brassiere under these upper body garments. It was sad. A travesty really that these young men who were so kind to bring the princess her beloved pizza had to feast their eyes on such a sight. One evening, when the fair princess was simply donning what the villagers called a "Steelers Super Bowl t-shirt" and navy sweat-trousers, a subdued version of her evening outfit if there ever was one, she thought she heard the pizza man exclaim as he slammed the door of his carriage, "My eyes!! Damn my eyes!!!!"

What's My Age Again?!

I have chosen to age very ungracefully.  More like kicking & screaming.  I'm 36 & mad about it.  I've been mad since about 26 at the idea of getting old.  Mad, mad, mad.  I find myself calling young adults "honey."  I carry a giant mom purse, and I'm not a mom.  Ok, my purses are still fashionable, but they're BIG.  And HEAVY.  The kind I would have mocked when I was 20. 

My criteria for buying shoes have very gradually reversed themselves from 1. very cute, 2. somewhat comfortable; to 1. very comfortable, 2. somewhat cute.  I fought this.  Fought it hard.  Still try sometimes.  Cause it makes me mad.  If you've worked with me for a few years, you know it's true.  I've almost killed myself several times in heels that are too high, straps that dig into my flesh, boots that are too confining, and other miscellaneous hazards.  This February (the winter from Hades), I actually wore my snow boots to work several times & did not bother changing them.  I got tired of it.  I gave up.  I am old.  I gave in to my old age.  But I was still mad about it.

I have been looking at women's motorcycle boots.  Yes, motorcycle boots.  Paul is making me.  He just got a new bike.  I digress.  Motorcycle boots are not cute.  There are about 3 pair out of the 50 that are out there that are a bit sexy in a leather fettish kinda way.  Those are the ones I'm considering.  Until I get them, wear them once, and decide they are too uncomfortable & give in, sacrificing youthfulness for comfort.  See, I told you.  Kicking & screaming.

I have a lot of shoe stories.  They are a metaphor for my aging I feel.  For example, a couple of years ago, I might have bought a pair of sandals that I thought were reasonably comfortable & very cute only to find that they were NOT comfortable after wearing them for 8+ hours at a time.  I would throw them in the back of my closet instead of giving them away, thinking I would magically be able to wear them without pain some day in the future.  Then I would ignore them for the rest of the season.  The next summer would come around, and I would find the painful shoes and think, "Wow, these are cute!  Wonder why I don't remember wearing them."  Then I would put them on, head to work, and remember 30 minutes into the day why I didn't remember them.  Because I only wore them once last season.  Because they were made by sadistic angry people with a vengeance for us elders.  Because they hurt!  I've wisened up.  Now I spend a good hour in DSW choosing my shoes wisely like a good old lady.

So, I guess I'm beginning to accept my age.  Slowly.  Age is just a number, right?!  That's what they tell me.  I like small numbers.

Gaudiello v Lombardi

I lived with the surname "Gaudiello" for 35 years.  When Paul & I decided to get married, among the many exciting thoughts was the idea of finally acquiring a recognized name.  A name that everyone - especially given that we live in Pittsburgh, the biggest football town in the US - would certainly be able to pronounce & spell.  I mean, Vince Lombardi.  The LOMBARDI trophy, for God's sake.  The thing that most Pittsburghers prize above their own children.  I was mistaken.  We've only been married for 6 months, and I've gotten a few different misspellings, most commonly "Lumbardi."  Have you ever seen or heard of this spelling?  "U"?  Really?! 

After the first few times, I thought maybe I was pronouncing it wrong.  I listened to my husband say it.  When he's saying it to a stranger, he emphasizes the "o" sound.  "LOM-bar-di."  So I started doing that too.  Doesn't matter.  I still get people spelling it wrong.  I started saying, "like the trophy."  I even have a joke about me being a trophy wife.  Doesn't matter.  I don't really understand.  I'm not a huge football fan, but by God, I knew how to spell Lombardi before I met my husband.  Then there are the people that don't even attempt to pronounce it when they see it.  My theory is that they see a name ending in a vowel (which usually means it's Italian), and they freeze.  Ok, I can totally understand freezing at "Gaudiello."  Totally.  But there really is only one way to pronounce Lombardi.  And the only acceptable misspelling in my mind is "Lombardy" because I believe that is the original spelling from the region in Italy.  So Paul has taught me anyway.  But sometimes he lies. 

I do get people who actually ask if Paul is related to Vince.  My answer varies.  Sometimes I say "no."  Sometimes I say, "we can dream."  Somtimes it's "we can only hope."  I'm going to start making things up.  How about:  "Yes, he's his family's Consigliere (a mafioso counselor for those of you sad folks who have not seen The Godfather)." 

Anyway, if you're going to have a name that people can't spell or pronounce, I think it's more interesting to have a unique name.  So, ironically, now I sometimes miss being Michele Gaudiello.  Paul wanted me to hyphenate my name.  He thought it would be funny to try to fit Michele Lynn Gaudiello-Lombardi on forms or to hear me trying to tell the pharmacy, for example, how to spell it.  He's a sadist.

I'm changing my name to Princess Michele.

Easter Glam!

I am drawn to shiny things.  Like a toddler.  I saw a glitter Easter egg kit & had to have it.  Needless to say, it was quite messy, but kinda fun.  We had them for Easter breakfast, and we both ended up with glitter everywhere.  Paul was worried he might be poisoned.  I assured him (like a good chemist) that everything was non-toxic.  The only thing that would have made the glitter eggs better would have been if the Jesus Christ Superstar soundtrack had been playing while I made & ate them.  No worries, I put it on in the car as we drove to my uncle's house later in the day.  It's an Easter tradition!

Marriage is messy

I got married last year at the age of 35.  I have been on my own since I was 22.  I bought my house when I was 28.  I've been loading it with stuff ever since.  When I met Paul 4 years ago, he had a lovely apartment with lots of new furniture, a stocked kitchen, and an entire multi-media mega-center in his spare room.  When we got engaged, the madness of combining households began.  It sounds simple.  Ha.  First of all, we decided what to move into my townhouse, what to put into storage for a hypothetical future larger home, and what to just get rid of.  Then there was that limbo category.  Things that we didn't really know what category to assign that ended up in my house.  These miscellaneous items got put into various rooms, have been moved around, reorganized, moved from storage bin to storage bin, spare bedroom to office to basement to God knows where.  We've bought shelving units & Rubbermaid containers, cleaned out closets & donated to Goodwill.  Why is there STILL no room for our stuff???  We're not hoarders.  I watch the shows on TLC and A&E.  I know the symptoms.  We're not shopaholics.  I just don't understand where it comes from & what to do about it.  I think it multiplies. 

Then came all of the very beautiful & generous shower & wedding presents.  Another conundrum, but we love them all just the same.

Part of the problem is that Paul & I together make a horrible de-cluttering & organizing team.  We will look at a room full of stuff that needs to be organized & just freeze because we get overwhelmed.  We try to break down the larger task into smaller ones like we know we should, but we usually only get 1/4 of the way through before we just give out.  We lose focus.  We get anxious.  I take Xanax.  We lose patience.  One's crankiness will wear down the resolve of the other. 

One time last year, we actually took like 12 computers & 7 printers (ok, that's a small exaggeration) to the township recycling day.  Mind you, we still have like 8 computers in the house (another very slight exaggeration).  Electronics definitely multiply in this house, I swear to you.  Plus Paul is an IT professional, so people literally throw their ancient Apple II E's at him, expecting him to perform some sort of laying-on of hands to resurrect the 30-year-old dead motherboard.  Instead, these relics sit in our office for a year & collect dust before he tells them the bad news.  In his complete defense, he does not solicit these "side jobs."  In fact, he tries his best to avoid them at all costs. 

Anyway, lately I have been taking on very small chunks of this clutter & sorting, storing, tossing, and organizing.  It makes me feel like I'm slowly accomplishing something.  I'm sure that I'll still have a mess on my hands by the time we do move to a new house.  An uncluttered, organized, pristine house.  For a week.  Maybe 10 days.  :-)

Following the Trend

Sometimes I hate the idea of being a follower.  Yet sometimes being a leader is uncomfortable.  I've decided to try following the blog trend.  I don't know how good I'll be or if I'll stick with it, but I'm going to give it a try.  I like writing & reading, and I've enjoyed reading Tara's blog.  I also just watched Julie & Julia, which was good, but then my husband informed me of all of the inaccuracies in the film, and I was a bit disenchanted.  I still like the concept.  So I'm a blogger now.  Huh.  Let's see what happens.