Resolving

Last January I decided not to make any New Years resolutions.

(I prefer working toward self-betterment mid-year, or in March, when I'm least expecting it.)

But then I decided, if I were going to make resolutions in January, when the rest of the world is out and about resolving, I would include, but not limit myself to, the following:

1. Wash car at least three times during the year.

2. Find new and creative ways to flatten out the wrinkles in my pants without ever touching an iron.

3. I'm pretty certain a third pseudo resolution existed at one point, but I can't recall what it was.

I know this is why you're supposed to write your resolutions down--so you don't forget them. But considering the third forgotten resolution was not an actual resolution, but rather a would-be, what-if, wouldn't-it-be-fun resolution, it seems it would have been somewhat purportless to write it down. In fact, I think it's standard procedure to forget pseudo resolutions.

Anyway, in the brief bout between January and March, I was feeling pretty good about my fake resolutions that I hadn't actually resolved to carry out.

I had already washed my car once (one down, two to go).

I may have succumbed once or twice to the ironing board, but I can say with almost certainty that the iron wasn't a frequent friend in my life.

And I was probably well on my way toward accomplishing the third non-resolution, whatever it was.

But now, it's the end of another year.

And unless you count wiping the rain water off my car with a micro fiber towel as a wash, I don't think I quite made it to the big three, zero. (And when I say three, zero, I mean three plus zero. Because even in my News Years almost optimism, I didn't think 30 washes was a realistic goal.)

I haven't really discovered new ways to not iron my pants. At one point this year I saw a travel-size de-wrinkeler. I thought about buying it to 1) avoid wrinkly clothes while traveling and 2) accomplish my resolution that I won't admit was a resolution, but then I decided to buy new travel lotion and hand sanitizer instead. In conclusion, I don't think I can count seeing de-wrinkler as an accomplishment.

I guess I can't say for sure whether I have failed or succeeded at the third and final resolution. If my final non-resolution was to have a fun year, enjoy 2011 and turn 23, then I can mark it off as a success.

But, let's face it, I probably non-resolved to stop eating sugar. (This post was powered by Captain Crunch cereal.)

If these were real resolutions, I would comfort myself with optimistic phrases like, "there are still three weeks left in December", and "you can accomplish anything if you set your mind to it".

Lucky for me though, I don't need my phony words of comfort.

All my real goals were set in March.

I still have three months to publish a book, train for a triathlon and fundraise for my irony awareness campaign.

I'll be just fine.

Today I shook hands with Pearl Harbor survivors.

And I stood next to them as a band played the National Anthem.

It felt honest.

I don't know how to explain it other than that.

It made me want to love this country with more hope. And less cynicism.

Maybe that doesn't make sense.

But I was grateful to shake their hands.

Based on my previously posted plan,

I'm supposed to be highlighting December 2010 today.

I'm distracted though, so here is the (even more) condensed version--

Alec goes scuba diving in the ocean, and freezes in the 80 degree water.

Then she plays water polo with a family of strangers, rides a mechanical bull in the teen center and takes/ falls in love with step classes because she has decided to do every single activity the resort has to offer.

Alec falls victim to the on-site photographer of awkward family photos.

I'm not posting the photo here, in order to protect the innocent, and because I'm tired. But, just picture this

with my head pasted on it.

Then you've pretty much got it.

Some Stuff about Step Sisters, Christmas and Jello

Today, I was walking along the street and a guy said to me:

"Did I ever tell you I love you like a step sister?"

I laughed and kept walking.

But then, I stopped to think. Because what does that even mean?

I wanted to turn around, go back, and ask the man a few questions.

" Does that mean you hate me?

Because, based on my most recent version of Cinderella, step sisters are not the most lovable creatures.

And if you love me like a stepsister (AKA hate me), why? How do you know? When did you discover this loathing?

I've never seen you before.

And, not that it ever comes up in the exposition or anything, but I bet Cinderella at least gave her step sisters a chance before she dived into the I'll-serve-you-and-try-to-love-you-but-mostly-you-make-me-want-to-vomit relationship she had going on with Anastasia and Drizella.

Too many Disney references?

Fine.

Point is. I don't know what you're getting at.

Next time you should be more clear when yelling to strangers on the street. "

I didn't say that to him. But it would have been cool if I did. Okay, maybe cool isn't the right word. But it would have been something for sure.

Anyway, as I continued on my walk down the street I realized I have a lot of stories to tell. And they're all bottled up.

Partly because I feel like if I'm going to tell a story I should have a reason for telling it. Kind of like, if you don't have anything nice to say, don't say anything at all. But instead, if you don't have anything life changing to type, don't even open your keyboard.

But that's just a generic excuse for my truer reason for not writing, which is: lately my brain thinks its too busy for story telling.

"No time for stories?" I asked myself. "It's like I don't even know you."

So in the interest of avoiding a second identity crisis, I'm going to write.

(The first identity crisis, in case you caught the reference to the second identity crisis, took place on a small business street near my office when I wanted to stop at Ulta just to buy nail polish. $10 nail polish. I'm supposed to be the type of girl with nails short enough to play the guitar. Not the kind of girl who spends time perusing the nail polish section at Ulta. Don't ask me why or how, but I'm pretty sure this is somehow Selena Gomez's fault.)

So. Ya. I'm going to write. Stuff. And it will probably not even end with a moral. Because not everyone can be Aesop, and maybe it's time for me to accept that.

Just so your in the loop, for the next 13 days this blog is going to feature the highlight reel from the last year (starting December 2010 ending December 2011).

Then December 20 through December 25 I'm going to write all about Christmas. And why I love sugar cookies. And why I think candy canes are overrated. And why I believe in Santa. And who knows what else could be in this Christmas surprise mix.

But before I get all Christmasy, I'm going to tell you about how I decided to make a Jello mold using only a bread pan, one packet of grape Jello and a toothbrush.

And other purposeless stories from 2011.

I just hope, that at the end of this all, you don't love me like a step sister.

Because that just doesn't seem like a good thing at all.

We Need to Have a Serious Talk

Has anyone else noticed how more and more grocery stores are making it acceptable to offer immunizations under the same roof where I buy my bananas?

I am having flashbacks to elementary school.

Eight-year-old Alec walks into the cafeteria.

Stumbles back.

Looks around in what can only be described as fear-filled awe.

And thinks, "Dude. Who turned my lunch room into a blood drive symposium?

"Get those cookies away from that pint. Of BLOOD. I have to eat mashed potatoes and stringy turkey here in a few hours."

People. Please.

Let us not do that to our grocery stores.

At some point, we pay a price for convenience.

Case and point: Walmart.

Alternate case and point: Frozen green beans.

Thank you.

And goodnight.

Sometimes

This morning I woke up, and I said to myself "Alec, it's time for you to take control of your life."

By the time I was done brushing my teeth, I was ready to take on the world and clean my room, in that order.

So I marched confidently toward the kitchen to blend up some frozen strawberries and put them in some Greek yogurt, which I would controledly take to work and eat for lunch.

But then my plan was interrupted.

By a scorpion.

That just happened to be sitting in the very spot I was going to put my foot while I blended the aforementioned strawberries-- under the stove.

So I yelled at the scorpion.

Then I went to go get a shoe to kill the scorpion.

Because I like to blend strawberries barefoot.

And I like to use shoes, or nearby boys, to kill scorpions.

While I was on my way to find a shoe that I would never need to wear again (I hate wearing shoes with scorpion guts on them), I found a pee puddle.

I'm pretty sure one of the dogs saw the scorpion, got scared, and peed his pants, or rather lack thereof.

It doesn't really matter how it happened. One of the dogs peed on the floor.

So I yelled at the dogs.

And they looked at me expectantly. Like it was possible, at any minute, I might turn this attitude around and decide to take them for a walk.

I love dogs. They always expect the best out of you.

Except when you're carrying a towel and a shampoo bottle.

They may be optimistic, but they're not stupid.

So ANYWAY...

I stepped around the pee.

Got a shoe, which I've been meaning to wash because I spilt steaming hot liquid on it five weeks ago.

Found the scorpion.

Squashed it.

Felt bad for hurting it.

Squashed it again.

Cleaned up it's remains with 75 sheets of toilet paper and three paper towels.

Got a regular, old, blue towel.

Put the scorpion shoe in the laundry room, where it now awaits its fate. (Trash can or washing machine? Only time will tell.)

Cleaned up the dog pee.

Decided to put on some shoes and work pants, not in that order.

And walked out the door without any yogurt or blended strawberries.

And that's when I realized.

Sometimes, life takes control of you.

Sometimes, in eighth grade, you make a five-year plan that includes a husband and at least one child.

Then sometimes you turn 18 and think, "Dang. What was my eighth-grade self expecting? Sixteen and pregnant?"

And sometimes you decide to take control of your life.

And you decide step one is blending up frozen strawberries and putting them in yogurt that tastes like sour cream because this is saving money and eating healthy.

And sometimes, instead of taking control of your life, you just end up happy that you didn't get stung by a scorpion that likes to sit under the stove.

And sometimes, when it comes right down to it, you're just glad you didn't have to eat yogurt and blended strawberries for lunch.

A Gold Digger is Just a Prostitute with a Marriage License

Words to live by.

That is all.

Becoming Self-Reliant, the Transcendentalist Way

Sometimes I accidentally reflect on my junior year of high school.

It usually happens in October. I don't know why. It's just one of life's mysteries.

When I accidentally reflect on my junior year of high school, in October, mysteriously...

Things like this sometimes happen (see below).

It's an unfortunate side effect of October.

Kind of like Halloween costumes.

-----------------------------------------------

Things I would need for an extended camping trip in the woods:

1. A DIY tutorial from google on how to build a log cabin.

2. A shovel

3. A six-month supply of Kashi bars.

4. Carrot and broccoli seeds. Also maybe, an apple tree starter plant.

5. Dry milk.

6. 200 gallons of water.

7. A toothbrush.

8. A 12-month supply of hand sanitizer.

9. Besides what I'm wearing, 2 shirts and pajama pants.

10. Bear spray.

11. Bug spray.

12. Two boxes of printer paper and a mechanical pencil with extra led.

I would also consider bringing Thoreau's book Walden, Or Life in the Woods, if I didn't have time to read it before hand.

Am I missing anything?

I'd hate to get all the way to the woods just to realize I forgot something important, like a blanket.

Oh add that to the list.

13. Blanket. (Probably a solar one. Or just a good sleeping bag.)

Now all I need to do is find an appropriately self-reliant-able area of woodland.

I'll be transcending in no time.