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.

Competitive Eater

I find it is time for a bonafide rant.
We humans can be, and usually are, our own worst critics. Even so, I believe that I have a pretty healthy body image for someone who readily admits that cotton candy is her Kryptonite. That said, I know I am at least 20 pounds overweight. I do not say this to gain sympathy, to fish for reassurance, because I feel bad about myself, or for any reason even remotely connected to my menstrual cycle. I am not saying this because I'm having a bad day. I am not whining about this; I'm not really even complaining. It is a fact.
Just because it is something I can change does not make it less of a fact. Just because you think, "No! You look great!" does not make it less of a fact. Actually, I feel like I look fine, too. I am proud of my body. It still functions wonderfully: I have my motor skills and all five senses in tact. My body grew and nurtured two entire human beings into existence. I recognize these as feats to be celebrated, certainly I do. But I also must acknowledge that the reason I am not more than 20(ish) pounds overweight is because I watch what I eat (at least I try to in earnest; I really, really do. Damn the inventor of Tiramisu!) and I exercise like a fiend when I can. If I ignore the fact of my extra weight, I only set myself up for further weight gain and all the health problems that accompany it.
So, if I order a salad, it's because that is what I want; don't "That's all you're having?" me. If I turn down your offer of more food, please be aware that your reassurance of my looks is not necessary. It is a difficult task for me to say no to food; please do not try to make it harder for me. Until science figures out a way for you to work off the extra calories I took in by eating that double fudge cookie you offered me, please give me the common courtesy of trusting my judgment about my own body.

Special Birthday Post! It is 1:45pm when I wake up. I eat my favorite breakfast, put some egg nog in my coffee, and get a big hug from my son. While I see the present sitting in my spot on the couch, it will have to wait for everyone to get here. I pick up my daughter from school. It is a warm, beautiful day in mid-December. So beautiful that the ice cream truck is out. The kids play outside. I work out, shower, run errands. When I come home, Husband is already helping to cook dinner for our guests. We make out in the kitchen. Everyone arrives, including my brand new nephew who I get to hold for several long stretches. Everyone enjoys my homemade alfredo. I leave for work, stopping to pick up my favorite coffee drink and pastry- which was the last cheese danish left in the case. I have 10 minutes, so I sneak over to Bath and Body Works to pick up gifts-and I find exactly what I wanted for the recipient. As I'm walking back to my car, it occurs to me that I can't think of a birthday I've enjoyed more. Thank you, family of mine, for making it possible (and a quick shout-out to the universe, for saving me that last cheese danish).