9

Today I am thankful for:
Sand-covered five year olds
And their Papas who build sand castles with them
Rest
Sunshine
Cooling breezes

8

Tonight, I am grateful for
Dodging the storms
Witnessing Sara's achievements
Grace, grace - amazing grace
Rob
Possibilities

7

Tonight I am grateful for:

• a new office (with a window!)
• air conditioner repair guys (even when they're late)
• Rob's new schedule
• an enjoyable project at work
• icy cold water

6

Tonight I am grateful for:

• productive conversations
• happy kids
• a new routine
• online grocery shopping
• exercising my body

An attitude of gratitude

You may have noticed a trend on this here blog lately.

I've started an admittedly cheesy but entirely worthwhile habit: Spending a couple of minutes every night recalling a few things from the day for which I am grateful. This is not an even remotely original idea and if you really must know I got it from someone I heard on Oprah.

That's right, Oprah. I mean the woman must be doing something right, don't you think?

So anyway -- it seemed a good idea to me, this notion of purposely reflecting back on the good rather than the bad. I mean dwelling on the negative is a no-brainer, something I can fall into like a soft leather easy chair: comfortable, familiar, inviting. My mind lands there almost in spite of itself but I really have to wonder why, because it certainly doesn't do the rest of my body any favors. Knots in my stomach, a clenched jaw, tight shoulders, and a headache every night are not exactly the way I like to wrap up my day. But that's just what I've managed to do on more nights than I care to remember.

The interesting side effect is that I find myself a lot more mindful all day long of the many small things for which I truly am grateful. A particularly funny response from a three year old, puffy white clouds morphing across the sky, a freshly swept floor, an unexpected note from a friend -- all of these things really are fantastic if you think about them. All those little joys there for the taking, but only if you take the time to appreciate them.

Right now I am filthy, covered literally from head to toe in dust and dirt and pollen, but I couldn't be happier. It's my merit badge for a day well-spent, enjoying the sun and the breeze with my family and working the earth to finally realize years of dreams for this home of ours. I'm hungry after a day of working in a way that my desk job doesn't allow, but I'm thankful. The physical effort is a gift to my body. I'm tired, but I'm content. These weary bones have a cozy bed and soft pillow to crawl into tonight and are sure to get all the rest they need before another day begins tomorrow.

I'm filthy and hungry and tired, and couldn't be more grateful for it. What a blessing.

5

Tonight I am grateful for:

• a new visitor to our feeders
• beautiful new flowers in our landscape
• an unexpected sunny, cool day (perfect for planting!)
• an entire day spent with my family: Rob, Sara, Pants
• living in a neighborhood where I can hear church bells ringing
• good neighbors with great kids (perfect for Sara!)

4

Tonight I am grateful for

• cooperative hair
• successful new recipes
• tiny green leaves in the garden
• glimmers of teamwork
• the gift of another day

3

Tonight, I am grateful for

• a peaceful day at work
• easy laughter
• long-awaited answers
• peanut butter and crackers
• five-year-olds, especially the crazy one I live with

2

Tonight I am grateful

for music and how it moves me

for the end of this very long day

for sunshine, no matter how brief

for the excitement that (still) comes from watching (yet another) front roll in

for the chance to learn a little more about living, every single day

1

Tonight I am grateful for:

time set aside to breathe

laughing under a blanket with Sara

a simple dinner

my warm bed in a chilly room

the sound of the rain on the roof.

Psalm 13

I have had a very blah day. I was not at all productive at work -- don't tell the boss, but other than attending a couple of meetings I'm not sure I can recall anything I did today that was of real consequence.

I hate days like that. Time is far too precious to waste.

Unfortunately during the drive home "blah" turned to full-on grouchy. I spent time thinking about all the things I'm waiting on that just aren't happening. Like what? Like moving on from my current job and all of the day-to-day BS that comes along with it. Like Rob moving to day shift and us living in a normal rhythm, just like the rest of the world. Like getting our yard landscaped (enough with the rain already). Like getting the laundry done and put away, and not having my closet annihilated by a five-year old.

I am not a patient person. My impatience has bit me and my little family in the butt before though, and so I've spent the last three years really trying to get better about it -- and I have, honest and true. But right about now, with at least some of the things mentioned above, I feel like enough is enough. I'm singing David's song:

How long, O LORD? Will you forget me forever? How long will you hide your face from me? How long must I wrestle with my thoughts and every day have sorrow in my heart? How long will my enemy triumph over me? Look on me and answer, O LORD my God. Give light to my eyes,or I will sleep in death; my enemy will say, "I have overcome him," and my foes will rejoice when I fall.

Overwrought much? So OK, maybe that's exaggerating things a bit, but in all honesty I do find myself waking every morning and sitting on the side of the bed rubbing my eyes, asking "how long, Lord?" This is nothing new, just a remix on an old classic. When my parents were ill and life was, admittedly, much harder than it is now I cried myself to sleep every night asking "Please, God: how long, how long, how long?"

It was a very long time.

Maybe that's why I'm feeling discouraged now. Because we've been chasing things for months into years, but day after day it's just more waiting. And as I believe I've mentioned already... I'm not a patient person.

At least there is good news, and trust me I'm looking for that a lot right now. As it turns out, David's song doesn't stop there. It goes on, and he closes it like this:

But I trust in your unfailing love; my heart rejoices in your salvation. I will sing to the LORD, for he has been good to me.

I believe this. I know it is true. I KNOW it. I know that good will come from waiting.

I'm just really, really bad at it.

Kindergarten roundup

Waiting really blows, especially when it's a wait for an answer that you have no control over.

Yesterday the answer finally arrived in a skinny little envelope. We didn't even need to open it, but we did anyway just to confirm the obvious:

Thanks, but no thanks.

Learning that Sara didn't get a spot at the school where we had hoped to send her was disappointing to be sure. Despite a lot of early apprehensions on my part I really fell in love with the place, and I hate that she won't have the experience of growing and learning there.

Let's be honest: Rejection sucks. No matter what the reasons may be, it doesn't make you feel good when someone stacks you up against the crowd and says hey, thanks so much, but we'd really rather go with someone else. The fact that it's my kid? Oy. Even worse. Sort of an "It's not you, it's me" for the kindergarten crowd.

But I've figured out that what's really bothering me has little to do with the rejection and everything to do with the reality that in just a few short months I am sending my kid out into the world. And that scares the crap out of me. She's still so little, and naive, and small. Truth be told, I really don't ever want that to change.

I had hopes that we could start out with baby steps, in a place where it felt safe to leave her. Because she's my girl! My only one! How am I ever going to turn her over to a bunch of strangers, to fend for herself in a sea of kids she doesn't know? Really, someone tell me -- how in the hell am I going to do that?

I am not ready for this, not at all. I wonder: Did my own mother ever feel this way? Did she ever stop feeling this way?

Lordy. I am going to be one hot mess. Consider yourself warned.

Opinions, please

I nearly forgot my Blogger login. That's sad.

I've come down with a strain of Unabletowrititis, which is related to, but behaves differently than, it's better known cousin Writer's Block.

Let me sum up.

I love to write but am uncertain about why I do it. My writing is personal, but not of the "dear diary" variety; I put entirely too much effort into it for that. I wonder who would be interested in reading my thoughts because I myself am not at all convinced that they are original, engaging, well-formed, or eloquent. In fact more often than not it seems to me that what I write is more like talk therapy between my laptop and me and, to be perfectly honest, I'm not sure that kind of thing should be open for public consumption. So I tried for a while to take up a more disciplined approach to it all, working on ideas that didn't focus on something too personal. And that was OK, but it didn't do it for me. It was hard, and I thought my posts were boring, and in the end I don't think it sounded like me, either.

Is any of that important though? Should writing always have to do it for you? Or should it be hard for the sake of being hard (or something like that)?

But still I love to write. And to make matters worse I actually want my writing to connect with other people; it's not enough for me to create something only to turn around and lock it up again because I haven't figured out anything better to do with it. This is not to say that I have delusions about being the next Elizabeth Gilbert or Anne Lamott, but surely there is some in-between place? Some space in the ethernet where writers can connect with readers without having to pimp out Clorox products or maintain a pithy Twitter feed?

So, peeps -- this is my question to you: Does your writing have a point? And if you don't write, do you think that what is written for your consumption must have some sort of objective (entertaining, inspiring, instructive, whatever)?

Or should I just shut it, write what I wanna write, and let the chips fall where they may?

Diving in

So I started reading Bono: in conversation with Michka Assayas tonight. Bono is a character that I've always been a little ambivalent about. You know, he's kind of sexy in that intelligent rocker sort of way but also a little off-putting in his in-your-face approach to saving the world (or at least Africa).

Don't get me wrong, I didn't lay awake at night contemplating my personal relationship with Bono's place in the world. But he has always been intriguing. Plus, hello, I am a child of the 80s and who didn't love The Joshua Tree, right? So after a friend shared this link, which excerpts the book in the context of Bono's thoughts on God, Jesus, faith, and grace, my curiosity was piqued even more.

Which brings us to tonight. And much to my surprise, here is how we've started:

"...To be serious for a second, I thought I had gotten away from my father's death. I thought I had escaped lightly into busyness and family. I've always considered myself good at wailing - "keening" we call it in Ireland. But, as it turns out, I'm better at other people's tragedies. There's no obvious drama in the slow extinguishing of a well-lived life to a common scourge like cancer, but it had a dramatic effect on me and seems to have set off some kind of chain reaction."

Lordy. And I'm not even into Chapter 1.

So I think Bono and I have a lot more to discuss than just thoughts on God and Jesus and faith and grace. I also think he's going to be a lot more eloquent about it than I could ever be.

There's no obvious drama in the slow extinguishing of a well-lived life to a common scourge like cancer, but it had a dramatic effect on me and seems to have set off some kind of chain reaction.

Amen, Bono. Amen.

Something I never want to forget

Sung by Sara, during a Tuesday night bath in February:

Deck the halls with lots of jolly

Fa la la la la la la la la

Tis the season to be careful

Fa la la la la la la la la

That's it. Isn't it?

Insomnia

I couldn't sleep Monday night. I was tired and had to get up & moving early the next morning for my staff meeting, but I just lay there: tired and awake, a hostage to my racing mind.

That really blows.

It was the meeting that was keeping me up, actually. You see I had this fabulous idea to add something to our agenda, a short "sharing," if you will, to help do some team building (we could use it -- 2010 was rough on us) and staff development. Anyway, the point of this new agenda item is for each staff member to talk briefly about one thing that has shaped the way she approaches patient care. These stories are often funny, just as frequently heart-wrenching, and always meaningful. We all have a story, and story-telling is one of the best tools for teaching and strengthening relationships, so I am all for it. But since I'm the boss, and since it was my idea, and since we had never done it before... I had to go first.

If you know me at all -- and I suspect you do if you're actually reading this -- it will take you no more than 2 seconds to determine what, and who, I was going to talk about.

And.... your 2 seconds is up.

The truth is that Mom's illness was, among other incredibly crappy, shitty, sucky things, a huge learning curve for me. Let's just say that all those things I "knew" about talking to sick, scared and overwhelmed patients & family members -- like how they are overloaded with information, and are in shock, and have different priorities than we do, and don't care how smart we think we are -- suddenly and vividly made a whole lot of sense. Because it really is all those things - plus denial, and anger, and desperation, and heartbreaking sadness.

I can have a conversation with a young clinician about how all of that is true, but through the filter of my mom... well, it's nearly impossible. And I knew it would be, which is why I spent three weeks not thinking about what I was going to say only to lay awake the entire night before trying in vain to come up with some sort of clinical script to get myself though.

Would you like to know how it went?

Well of course you would. It was agonizing. I apologized for the inevitable and did the ugly cry before I even started, and wondered the whole time if I was making any sense, sending any kind of take-home message that my staff could try to internalize for that next hard conversation with the parents of a fragile, failing baby. I desperately didn't want to sound preachy or patronizing, and suspect I succeeded because it's difficult to sound anything other than pitiful when you're sobbing. I noticed some of them tearing up, some of them a little uncomfortable, some of them sympathetic. One of them, a friend who went through a very similar experience with her brother shortly after I lost Mom, actually clapped for me. But all of them heard me -- at that, at the end of the day, was the point.

It was just the train wreck I had anticipated. Later that night I told Rob about it, explaining my tossing & turning from the night before and wondering out loud when I'll be able to talk about that time without it feeling so fresh. I sometimes wonder if that time will ever come. I hope it does.

I hate those nights I way awake chasing my thoughts. I never catch them and the race always leaves me exhausted the next day. My only consolation, at least this time, is that my story might help shape the way our therapists think about care. To remember that behind the diagnosis isn't just a patient but a rush of emotions, and that our roles as caregivers start where these families really are -- not where we need them to be. To understand that when it's all said and done, the very best clinical skills are absolutely worthless unless they are coupled with the insight and compassion to honor their fears and and hold each of their hearts in our own.

It's hard work we do, but we are blessed to do it.

Let me tell you about happiness in a cookie

I'm just saying: OH. MY. STARS.

First, start with your favorite sugar cookie recipe. Any one you like. I like this one:

I'd share the recipe with you, but Betty's not talking.

To your recipe add a little twist in the way of orange. Orange zest would be the BEST, but I didn't have any oranges, so I used orange extract.

How much? I don't measure. Surely you knew that about me already -- right? But if you just must have some guidelines, I'd say about 1 tsp zest or 1/2 tsp extract. Maybe more, maybe less. Hey look: I'm no Ina. And you're not paying for this little piece of genius, so just work it out. You'll be fine.

I am not a fancy cut-out sugar cookie kinda gal. Oh, I'd like to be, but let's face facts here for a minute: As I type this I have five baskets of laundry upstairs that I'm not doing and several kitty litter boxes I'm not asking Rob to clean out. I may or may not have had clean underwear to put on this morning (too much information?), and meal preparation for the last couple of weeks has been strictly optional. So -- I'll drop these cookies, thank you very much. But I'll use my grandmother's fancy cookie scoops to do it. I'm not a barbarian.

Once your orange-spiked cookies are done make sure they're fully cooled. I accomplished this by making mine about two weeks ago and parking them in the freezer.

Works every time.

Now comes magic time. Make yourself some frosting, starting with 1 stick of melted butter. Mix in some powdered sugar, cinnamon, and a little half & half (milk or water would also do but come on -- you've already got a stick of butter in there). Stir until you have smooth, velvety, cinnamon frosting.

Amounts again? People, people, people... I. Don't. Measure. Pay attention! But if you insist (and you seem to be insisting), I'd guess ~2.5 cups of powdered sugar and ~1 TBS of half & half. Mix the sugar into the butter til you have something that looks like dry/crumbly cookie dough, then add the liquid, a little bit at a time, til you have bliss. Sweet, blessed, cinnamony bliss.

Do not -- and I really cannot emphasize this enough -- do NOT slather this all over your body. You'll be tempted to (and your husband might really love you for it), but if you do you won't have enough for the cookies.

About 36 of them, to be precise (because I know you're all about the numbers). You'll have enough of this perfection to generously frost three dozen two-inch cookies. You might even have a little left over.

And what you choose to do with the excess is strictly between you & your spatula. I'm just sayin'.

First, do no harm

You always hear about "Mother-love." They never tell you about "Mother-guilt."

As anyone who's done this for, oh, about 5 minutes can tell you, the truth is that motherhood is all about the love and all about the guilt. For me it started even before she was born, the day I was so sick and called the OB to find out what I could take for a little relief. Given the green light for an antihistamine, I took the approved dose only to find, much to my horror, that not only did it make me a little sleepy it knocked poor Sara completely on her teeny-tiny ass. Evidently the "Warning: May Cause Drowsiness" message applied not only to me but to my normally acrobatic fetus as well.

As I'm sure you can imagine I suffered through every subsequent head cold without benefit of pharmaceutical relief because, after the terror subsided (no movement? for over an hour? by SARA?), the guilt set in. "First do no harm" may be the physician's motto but let me tell you, Hippocrates' dear mother had to have come up with it because doing no harm is about the greatest achievement a mother can claim.

I know now, and probably knew then, that I hadn't really "harmed" Sara. But that didn't stop me from feeling like I did, or from feeling the guilt that comes along with doing something that hurts your child, even when it's unintentional. Mother-guilt manifests from all sorts of things: The sharp words spoken in frustration, the book unread because of exhaustion, the birthday party unplanned because you just don't have your act together. None of these things, in the long-run, are game changers; Sara won't remember the night I just didn't have it in me to read Pete the Cat, nor will she likely require therapy because I relented and actually bought a cake for her fifth birthday. From Wal-Mart. (Don't judge -- their chocolate cake is the best I've ever had, and though I am bitter about that fact, there it is.)

Enter the balloon.

Sara came home from her visit to Pennsylvania with a balloon. It was from Nana. Heart-shaped. Pink & purple. With Tinkerbell. Can you imagine anything else as wonderful for my five-year-old Sara-fairy? Me neither. But all though the drive to preschool this morning I had to tell her to keep the balloon down so I could see out the back of the car. Over. And over. And over and over and over. A block away from the school I had finally had enough and, out of frustration, let her know that if she couldn't keep the balloon out of my way it would be gone. For good.

And don't you know, for that last block she managed to keep her beloved Tink balloon under wraps. Crisis averted! I parked the car and gathered her gear. It's a cold and blustery day today, with the first snowfall of the Christmas season, so I braced myself and told her to get ready. I did an enthusiastic count down so we could make a quick exit: Ready Sara? Three! Two! One! Let's GO!!

Did I mention that's it's blustery? No, really -- very, very blustery?

You can see where this is going. I opened up my door and stood by hers while it slid open. She hopped out and just as I clicked the button to close her door the balloon -- her much beloved balloon -- was sucked out of the car. It had blown half a block before I registered what was happening, and was all the way to 46th & Illinois before I realized it was too late. There was no way to rescue Tink.

She tried to chase it, then turned to me in a panic. And then the tears came. Sobs, acutally. Real, honest-to-gosh tears and heaves of loss. You'd think Nana herself had blown away with the cold December wind.

I just let her cry it out. Because what can you do? I can't tell her it's no big deal, or that it's OK, or that she's going to be fine (even though all of these things are true). The fact of the matter is that from Sara's perspective it is a big deal, it isn't OK, and that she's not going to be fine. I'm not about to tell her that she's wrong to feel what she's feeling, so... she sobbed. All the way into school, and taking off her coat, and putting away her lunch, and washing her hands.

As for me? No tears, just plenty of guilt. Guilt because we argued about the balloon all the way to school. Guilt because I threatened to take it away. Guilt because I didn't anticipate it's escape. Guilt because I couldn't stop the wind, or move with the speed of sound, or freeze time long enough to allow us both to run after it, another crisis averted.

Motherhood is just a series of these events, small moments of little to no consequence -- certainly to me, and ultimately to her, too. But today, while December's icy wind turned my daughter's tear-streaked face a cold, raw red, Mother-love once again met up with Mother-guilt. My heart broke for my sad little girl and I all I could do was let her feel the loss, because sometimes letting her feel the pain is doing no harm. Sometimes, what seems to be the worst really is the best you can do.

And that is the truth about motherhood.

Amen and amen

It doesn't take much to make you realize how lucky you've got it when you sit down at a table with a friend, face-to-face, who is struggling just to get dinner on the table. Makes things very real, very fast.

So here it is: I have been blessed in this life with many wonderful things that I take for granted every single day. I have a reliable job. I have a pantry full of food. I can send my kid to preschool and can even consider making sacrifices to send her to private school -- in other words, I have so much that I'm actually able to give things up. I might have to wait until the next paycheck to buy those new shoes I want, but I can buy them. I can go out for a night with my girlfriends and know that this splurge, just for me, won't have a direct - and negative - impact on my family. I have health insurance and, more importantly, I have my health. I own the roof over my head and the car sitting on the street in front of it. I can buy plants and flowers to grow just because they're pretty, then have the audacity to complain about breaking a sweat to care for them. I have more opportunities than I can begin to imagine, then let fear keep me from taking advantage of those that are staring me in the face.

I know God. I know that He is here, with us and in us. I have no idea how He works, why my life is overflowing with comforts while others' are overflowing with hardship, but I do know that He is equally present in both. He is a great and wonderful mystery, and I am blessed to live in a time and place where I can not only say that, but I can write it for all the world to see. The small things that I can do to help someone are not nothing but they sure do seem to be when compared to the unimaginable things that God can do. And so while I sit and wonder how I can begin to help make a dent with the real-life, day-to-day struggles of just one family I am reminded that my offerings have to be matched with my prayers, and a hope that God will become known in their lives and hearts. Not for the sake of salvation but for the sake of hope and peace.

Look: I've had hard times. We all have. And though I'm certainly guilty of doing so in the past, I'm no longer in the business of saying who has it better or worse in this life. What I want to do - no, what I need to do, is learn to live in the knowledge of my blessings rather than the frustration my desires. I need to meditate every day on the needs of others and craft a life that is designed to help meet those needs, no matter how big or small. I need to live a Thanksgiving life rather than celebrate a Thanksgiving holiday.

Heaven help me.

Amen.

True confessions of a frustrated soccer mom

Newsflash about me: I just might, maybe, have some self-esteem issues. Kinda like you, and you over there, and you, too -- that's right, I see you back there. The one with the Sally Hansen Creme Bleach and Palmer's Skin Therapy Oil.

Oh wait a minute. That last one is me.

But anyway...

It was one of those mornings today when clean, wrinkle-free clothes were at a premium and I didn't seem to have the time, inclination, or raw materials available to pull together a particularly polished "look." And I didn't really care so much because I knew that today I wouldn't be seeing any patients, families, doctors, or co-workers except for one, and she & I would be holed up for the day in a work room on an abandoned Methodist psych unit. Awesome!

So I had made peace with my fashion fate as I headed out the door with Sara in tow, bound for another fun day at preschool. When we arrived I gave myself a quiet pat on the back for running late, as usual, because it avoided the crush of other younger, hipper, cuter moms and the awkward small talk required as the kids line up for their obligatory hand-washing routine. I parked in the lot across the street, my dad's old oversized, fleecy shirt repurposed as as a sentimental cool-weather jacket but, sadly, really rounding out my sad-sack appearance. I mean really. It was a What Not to Wear moment, and I knew it.

We got to the gate just in time to meet up with The Mercedes Mom. I've seen her lots of times during morning drop off and she has always annoyed me. Here's why: She drives a brand-new (ridiculous and ostentatious) Mercedes SUV. She weighs about 110 pounds. She always - always - wears spandex. Tight, and, at least this morning, very short spandex. She carries big, expensive designer bags and wears more makeup (to complement the spandex, I suppose) at 8:30 on a Wednesday morning than I did on my wedding day.

Certainly these are all very reasonable reasons for me to pass judgment.

Today she was also talking on her cell phone, carrying on an intense conversation about shaving something that I hope, I really really hope, was a family pet. I opened the gate for her & her daughter and didn't get the acknowledgement that I didn't expect to get (so no disappointments). We trekked up the walkway and got to the door, and as I stood on the stoop I paused for half a second, just to see if she would reach for the handle. She didn't and, still unsurprised, I opened the door & held it for her.

Me, in my dad's old oversized fleecy shirt and pants with the button missing (oh, I didn't mention that before?) waiting on Mercedes to wrap up her conversation so we could get inside & make our way to the hand-washing station. Paints a picture, doesn't it?

Even as I stood there I had this flicker of recognition: She wasn't expecting me to wait on her, she was just talking on the phone.

But a little bit of insight has never stopped me from hanging on to bitchy suppositions so I trudged in, marveling at that scrap of spandex barely covering her ass while simultaneously cursing myself for the sloppy shirt and overdue eyebrow maintenance. We got inside and passed a couple more of the Moms-I'll-Never-Be: proficient at small talk, sipping on their Starbucks and in absolutely no hurry to get anywhere. Sara walked ahead of me in her typically oblivious way, too engrossed in the ish on the walls and the conversations around her that she forgets to stop and hang up her coat and book bag in the hall outside the class room. I called out to her, and Mercedes Mom looked at me.

"This is Sara?

Yes, yes it is.

"Oh, well hi there! I'm Charlie's mom. I called your house and left a message for you a week or so ago. Charlie's having a birthday party and we wondered if Sara would be able to come."

Oh. I'm sorry (nervous laughter)... we're pretty bad about managing the voice mail in our house.

"Who isn't these days! I would have e-mailed everyone but the office didn't have the list together yet. Do you think Sara can join us?"

(relieved) Well, when is it?

"Saturday."

Ah, well unfortunately she won't. We'll be in Pennsylvania this weekend.

"Oh... that's too bad. We'll have to get these two together some other time then. I know Charlie would really like that."

We walked into the class room, and just like that, all my assumptions evaporated. The skinny, rich, uppity bitch ended up being the friendliest parent I've talked to at Sara's school. I didn't feel judged at all for my shaggy hair ( I'm a little overdue for a cut) and dingy tennis shoes. She was completely normal (well, except for maybe the spandex -- no joke, I'm talking SHORT) and her hair, now that I looked it at, was kind of a mess too. And I mean that in the nicest possible way.

Turns out, I was the bitch. I was the one with the ugly attitude which, tragically, perfectly complimented my hot mess of an outfit and minimally maintained, unwanted facial hair. It was me, not her, that I couldn't stand.

UGH. I have such a long, long way to go. So with clean laundry in the closet and Sally Hansen waiting by the sink, tomorrow I'll make another stab at it. Here's hoping a little extra effort on the outside is just a stepping stone to a whole lot more effort on the inside.

(But I still retain the right to feel bewildered by the spandex. Because.... come ON.)