Homeowner

I miss blogging. I truly do. I also miss jewelry making, and reading, and karaoke, and other clever things smart women do. I've been putting in a lot of overtime at work, which leaves precious little time for hobbies like the above, or the even more frivolous, such as housecleaning. See, Husband and me are thinking about considering looking into maybe buying a house. I'm told these cost money. Not just here's-200 bucks-I'll-move-in-on-Friday money, but herds of money. If I want a house, I best set out to wrangle said monies.
We've already started looking at available homes, even though we're probably not actually moving for another 8 months. Hours into adding this criterion, and removing that criterion, Husband's question was a good one: "How did people look at houses before the Internet?" I'm reasonably convinced that they didn't. Houses were never bought nor sold prior to checkboxes that let you search within a specific school district.
Many years ago I actually bought two homes without Internet assistance, and I remember the experience much as I remember using a typewriter on my more important homework assignments: It is an experience now to reserve only if your electricity is out. For weeks. And your phone and laptop batteries have already died. And maybe the Internet got destroyed in a fire. Seriously, looking at homes online is one of my favorite things to do. If my Facebook notifications appeared on the real estate site I was searching I'd never leave my computer at all. I get angry when there are no interior photos of a listed home. Only photos of the front exterior and the view from the back deck? Disqualified! If there are interior shots, but the kitchen isn't one of them? Disqualified! The kitchen is my favorite part, because that's where I keep my coffee. I need to make sure it's worthy. These things are important if you want to sell me your house. Which you do. Want to. Sell me your house. Because I'll make a great homeowner, and because once you do I can stop working all this overtime.

Runner

Flint and I have been running. We're following the Couch to 5k program, which uses interval training to build up from 0k to 5k in about 2 months. So far we're sticking with it. We chat through the warm-up, wheeze "almost done!" encouragements through the rest. Some days are particularly challenging, like when I'm not feeling well or we're running on grass instead of concrete. Grass and hills make me whine "This is hard-uh!" like a four-year-old. Like my four-year-old, if we're getting specific.
I exercise every day, with little exception. I can handle some serious cardio training (Thank you, Jillian Michaels!) all in the comfort of my home, on my plush carpet. No hills, no ruts, no moving forward. Am I so out of shape that it kills me to run 90 seconds on grass? Have I so lost touch with my youth that all I know how to do are specified routines?
Actually, that last paragraph hits me with the much bigger question: How did I get to be a person who runs? Exercise is one thing, because you can consider Dance Dance Revolution exercise. I also love kickboxing. These things are fun. Running is the opposite of fun. When Kickboxing learns Running is coming to dinner, it seats Running next to Uncle Shuffleboard. And now here I am, a runner. I think I can call myself that because, while I may not be able to run even a continuous 10 minutes yet, I'm going at this pavement pounding in earnest. I have to make myself slow down. I have read articles on form. I take tips on shoes and stretching. I fuel and hydrate. And I don't hate it. In fact, I so much don't hate it that if I don't get to run, I feel anxious. I regret it every time. I know that I'm steadily improving, and I don't want any setbacks.
Don't worry, though; I will still be very much in the non-professional category of runner for any foreseeable future. The reason I know I can only get better is because I began at so low a level that typing the word "running" left me winded.

Labeler

At work - my real job that they pay me to do and is my actual profession - we've been tasked with adding creative labels to our email signatures. It's an optional team building exercise, and meant to be fun. For example, your label could be, "Jane Doe, League Bowler," "John Smith, Stamp Collector," or "Sauron, Dark Lord." But when it comes to labeling myself, I am undecided. "Describe yourself in three words" is not a test I can easily pass.
If you want to hire me, the words are "efficient," "dependable," and "resolute" (That's not a solicitation. I'm not for hire). If you were my friend, you might use the words "crazy," "talkative," "supportive." If you were not my friend, you might say "crazy," "talkative," "annoying." If you were my mom before I turned 18, you wouldn't say so much as yell "lazy," "argumentative," "goddammityouneverlistentomedon'tyoutalkbacktomegotoyourroomrightnowyounglady!"
While the email labels at work aren't meant to define you, but to give others a glimpse into the person you are outside of work, a part of me feels that I should give as complete a picture as I can. I want to expose the traits of mine that I like best. The worst and greatest piece of this is that the difficulty in choosing lies in the fact that I have many traits that I like. If that sounds like bragging, please understand that it took me a long time to become a me that I like. If you remain unconvinced, please refer back to the previous paragraph's descriptions of me filtered through the voices of my enemies and my mother.

Resolution Maker

I don't usually make New Year's Resolutions. I know myself enough to know that unless I'm ready for it, any attempted lifestyle change won't happen. But once I am ready, I stick with the change pretty well. This year, though, I was ready to work on some things, and 2011 just happened to be a few days away, so I said, "why not," to resolutions. One of which is to, ahem, write more. heh. Not the least of reasons being to keep up with this poor neglected blog. Another is to keep a food diary - which I am happy to report that, as of this writing, I only lapsed for a few weeks, but am back on the wagon*. Having attempted this feat many times prior, this is huge for me.
There aren't many more; I kept the list small because I know that if I can handle these few changes, I'll be encouraged to make more, and I won't wait until the New Year to do it. It's the same for any habit I wish to develop; tell me it takes 2 weeks to see results, and 15 days pass with no change, I'm done. Tell me it takes 2 weeks, and I see results, I'm sticking with it forever.
This past month, I lost 4 pounds. That's one a week. I'd call that results.
Now for the writing...

*With many, many thanks to http://www.myfitnesspal.com/ and its mobile app.

Time Manager

Poor, poor neglected blog. Where do I begin? Things have changed since the last post. I rearranged my life by 12 hours a day: I stopped working graveyard shift. After 7+ years, it was just part of who I was. Much like the Sasquatch, I was heard of, talked about, but rarely seen. Photos of me existed, were they real? No one could say for certain. Work that was incomplete at 5:00pm was mysteriously done by 8:00am. Now I'm interacting with a hundred people a day, navigating traffic, tucking my kids in at night, and sleeping while it's dark out. It's been an adjustment.
What hasn't changed is, just as for everyone, the ongoing search for the line between the fun and the practical. There are never enough hours in a day for my hobbies, my outings, my kids, my responsibilities. Of course blogging is one of those things that falls in after everything else. Easily distracted as I am, I hardly get anything done that I need to.
But something I know about myself is that writing makes me happy, and we should make time for the things that make us happy. What we are isn't always what other people reward us for; it's what we ourselves find rewarding. No one pays me to mother, to play video games, to make people laugh, to sing karaoke, to design my own jewelry, to write, but I continue to do these things because they make me happy. Even as sporadically as those things might occur.

Appliance Repairperson

I'm at war with my microwave. I've been saving it from Goodwill by repeatedly assuring Husband that no, we don't need a new one, this one works just fine, even if it is 12 years old and the door does stick a bit. And how does Microwave repay me? By exploding things. The first was butter: I nuked it for far too long, and it exploded. Fine, my fault. I cleaned the mess and the butter re-congealed. This time, in fewer than 10 seconds, Microwave blew up the butter again. Tomato sauce was next: in fewer than 30 seconds, this starts gushing. But. it's. still. cold. Frozen raspberries: set Microwave on "Defrost." Mic says "Autosensing." I walk away until I hear the chime, at which time I return to a diorama of the shower scene from Psycho.
I suppose Mic could be telling me it likes being cleaned. Perhaps, being practically a teenager, it is seeking attention. Perhaps Husband convinced it that it would be happier at the thrift store, making friends with other microwaves. All I know for sure is that I want my microwave back. Oh, Mic, don't you remember sharing recipes with me? Blowing the fuse in my 100-year-old house? And your chime is like the laughter of angels - can't we just be friends again?

Hoarder

I've been watching Hoarders. I understand that these people have very real mental troubles that I am not attempting to make light of. The show itself, however, makes a good drinking game. Rules: Hoarding due to tragedy - shot; Animals involved - shot; Hoarder is resistant to the whole process - shot; That one male organizer is being a dick - shot; Male Hoarder - 2 shots; hell, finish the bottle if you spot this rarity.
Hoarders makes me feel better as a housekeeper, but only because I recognize that it's a glimpse of what my life would have been like if I'd never married and had kids, and possibly even what my life will become once the kids have moved out and my husband has left me for Terry Farrell. I love to shop. I am reluctant to get rid of things. I don't have sufficient space for the things I currently have. I would have animals if it weren't for my allergies. Since I've started watching the show, though, I have been able to get rid of things, and I haven't bought as much. I've also thought more about what I am buying, whether I truly love or need it. Some things that I buy I never think of again, and that's the habit I need to break. If I don't, someone may have to call A&E.