A Non-Resolution Resolution

So, last year at this time I declared that I was not going to make any more resolutions. But how can we help it? Each new year offers a brand new start, a clean slate, the idea that this year is going to be better than the last. We all believe it, we want to believe it, that each year of our life will get better. But…this year isn’t going to be any better than last unless we do something to make it better. And so we resolve.

And so, on this cold, crisp, sunny morning, four whole days into the new year, I’m thinking I want to live my life just a little bit better. Not a lot better. Just a little. Be a little healthier, a little more thoughtful, a little smarter with money. Just a little.

But the money thing is big. I’m not exactly old—not yet—but I am old enough to see retirement age peeking over the horizon. I would like to actually retire before I’m too old to enjoy it. To be in a place where there’s enough money to live simply (yet, of course, comfortably) without having to earn a paycheck. It’s time to focus on that dream.

My friend, Eliza Cross, has a wonderful website called Happy Simple Living. And this month she’s encouraging everyone to think about how they spend their money with her “January Money Diet.” The challenge is to get through the month—just one month—without buying anything beyond the bare necessities. And she’s offering tips and ideas every day of the month to help meet this goal. I encourage you to follow along and give it a try.

Last year (or maybe the year before? Who can remember), I read Not Buying It: My Year Without Shopping, writer Judith Levine’s (judithlevine.com) journal about living a whole year without eating out, going to the movies, or buying anything that wasn’t absolutely necessary. Within the year she was able to pay off her credit cards and grow her savings. It’s an inspiring read.

But committing to a whole year is pretty daunting for most of us, so why not try it for a month? If nothing else, it will make you more conscious about how you spend your hard-earned money.  Last Sunday, Chris and I went out to spend our Christmas gift cards. We walked into Macy’s, which has a Starbucks. Overwhelmed by the aroma of coffee, Chris said, “Man, a cappuccino sounds so good.” But we resisted. And saved about $8.

On our way home, I decided I wanted to make popcorn (I got an air popper for Christmas), but we didn’t have any Pepsi. Popcorn and Pepsi is one of my favorite things in the whole world. Normally we would have stopped and picked up a 12-pack. But nope—I had my popcorn with the raspberry lemonade we had in the house. Another $5 saved.

AND—during our shopping spree neither one of us spent over the amounts on our gift cards. I’m sure we’ve never done that before.

And so a few baby steps to start the new year. I’m confident that those steps will turn into a big giant leap.

Something (Kinda) New to Do

So, I’ve been feeling a little bored lately and have decided that I need a new project. A project that doesn’t have anything to do with the endless home improvement stuff that’s been going on as we prepare to put our house on the market. Again.

Inspired by the Julie/Julia Project (I’ve been working my way through Julie Powell’s original blog from 2002-03 as she cooked her way through Julia Child’s Mastering the Art of French Cooking), I thought it might be fun to do something similar—I mean, exactly the same: cook every recipe in a cookbook and blog about it. I have a decent collection of beautiful cookbooks, most of them given to me as gifts/bribes by publishers when I wrote book reviews for Mountain Living magazine. And I like to read cookbooks; actually making a recipe from one of them is another story.

Because I really don’t love to cook. But I do cook—virtually every day. We rarely eat out, and the hubs does not cook (although he does do dishes, which is way awesome), so that question, “What’s for dinner,” is a daily irritant. And like so many people, I have the repertoire of maybe 10-15 dishes that I make all the time. Cooking through a cookbook would be the perfect solution—get out of the comfort zone, try some new recipes, learn some new techniques.

We’ve been trying to eat a little healthier around here, so it only makes sense that I should choose one of the many “healthy cooking” cookbooks I have: The Food You Crave by Ellie Krieger; Nikki & David Goldbeck’s American Wholefoods Cuisine; Almost Vegetarian by Diana Shaw; Cook Yourself Thin (which doesn’t seem to have an official author but appears to have been put together by Candice Dumai, Harry Eastwood and Allison Fishman).

The one I’ve chosen? In the Sweet Kitchen by Regan Daley. Yes, that’s right: all desserts. After all, I do like to bake, I love to eat dessert, and this is supposed to be fun. So there.

Obviously, this will not solve the What’s For Dinner dilemma, but so what. If nothing else, I’ll have a reason to get on that stupid treadmill that taunts me every day.

As usual, I am very late to this so-called “cook-through” club. I have discovered there is a whole cyber-community of people cooking through cookbooks and blogging about it. I can’t believe that I wasn’t the first to come up with this idea of blatantly copying Julie Powell.

The next step is to think of a catchy blog name. I woke up in the middle of the night with a great one: Cooking the Books. (Plural, because of course I truly believe I’m going to pick another book when I’m done with this one). I was so proud of myself; it’s brilliant, right? Well, there are about ten blogs with some variation of that name.

So, Dear Readers, I need your help. Thoughts on a good blog name? I’ll send one of these silly healthy cookbooks to the winner—but not the Ellie Krieger one; I actually paid for that one and it was kind of expensive.

No Snakes Allowed

Ah, summer…sunshine, flowers, parties, snakes…wait. What? Yes, snakes.

Right around six weeks ago (although who can keep track?), Eric the Lawn Guy came to our door to tell us that he saw not one, but THREE black rat snakes in our yard. He was visibly shaken, claiming he had never seen such a thing. I always find it mildly amusing when boys are freaked out by reptiles and such, but his nervousness was nothing compared to mine. Like most healthy, near-normal women, I do not like snakes. They are, to me, like republicans: I know they exist and have heard they serve a purpose, but I don’t really want them near me.

And so, for the last several weeks I’ve been fairly obsessed with snakes.

After a little research (how did we ever learn anything before Google?), I learned that black rat snakes are nonvenomous and the most common snake in Missouri. This did not bring me a great deal of comfort. They had to go.

So I Googled “how to get rid of snakes”. To my disappointment, most of the advice was to just let them be. They are harmless! They eat rodents! They are living things, too! Not exactly the advice I was looking for.

The kids in the neighborhood think they are way cool. The two cute little boys who live next door knocked on my door one day to tell me they saw one slither under the backyard fence and could they go in the yard to take a closer look. Knowing there was no way I was going to walk in the backyard to unlock the gate, I told them they’d have to come through the house and go out the back door. Before I had even finished the sentence, they shot through the house and out the back, still wearing their school backpacks. A few days later, two little girls came to my door and excitedly announced there was one in the front yard tree. They ran right underneath the tree and, jumping around like they were on springs, pointed out the four-foot-long resident. No fear whatsoever.

Many people said sprinkling mothballs around with drive them away. Others said mothballs didn’t work. Same with sulphur powder. And cedar oil. And something called SnakeAway. I headed to my friendly neighborhood Wal-Mart and purchased a product called Ro-pel Snake Repellent. Just holding the container made me feel better.

I had been told that commercial repellents could be pretty stinky, smelling like mothballs or dog poop or worse. This container was sealed up tight, so I couldn’t take a sniff, but it didn’t really matter to me. To my delight, the main ingredient was clove oil—which apparently snakes don’t like—so the whole perimeter of my house smelled like Christmas. It was quite nice until a torrential downpour washed away all $15 of it.

Here’s the thing: I don’t really want to kill them; I’ve had to hire exterminators to remove chipmunks from my attic and know that it’s a lot cheaper to let the snakes eat them. But again, that’s only as long as I don’t have to actually see them. Honestly, there is more than enough open space around our house for these guys to frolic or relax or do whatever the hell snakes do. To be hanging around my house scaring the bejeezus out of me is just mean.

A friend said I was being too kind, that I should just kill them. But it seems to me you’d have to get pretty damn close to a snake in order to kill it, and I can guarantee that no one in this house is interested in going mano-a-mano with these guys.

The good news is that it’s been about two weeks since a reported snake sighting and I can once again walk in my yard in a quasi-relaxed state. But I’m tellin’ ya: If I see another one—if these guys can’t grasp the concept of overstaying one’s welcome—all bets are off. I’m the one paying the mortgage around here and I will do whatever is necessary to get rid of unwanted houseguests.

Black rat snakes: consider yourselves warned.

Different Name, Same Rants

As you may have noticed by now, I’ve changed. Well, I haven’t changed—my blog has changed. That’s because after more than a year of paying $9.99 a month for a web hosting service, I decided to move over to WordPress’ free service. I’ve done this for no other reason than it recently dawned on me that it’s silly to pay for something I can have for free (I’m a little slow). Especially since this blog exists mainly for my own sanity and amusement. And, as you also may have noticed, I don’t post all that often.

While preparing for the transition, I decided to change the name. Why? I’m not really sure—I have a short attention span, I’m easily bored, I hope not to live in the suburbs for eternity and would have to change it anyway. And I think this name aptly describes my blog’s primary purpose.

The name was inspired by a charming little poetry book given to me as a by my friend Loneta. Its title is—wait for it—I Feel Better Now, and was written (and signed) by Margaret Fishback in 1932. It’s full of cheeky, saucy, fun and subversively feminist poems that never fail to make me smile:

Pact
If I promise to sew on your buttons
And tenderly care for your socks,
And dust the piano each morning,
And water the pansies and phlox,

If I promise to love you forever,
Till they tuck me away in the vault,
Will you promise to take all I promise
With a grain of reliable salt?

How can you not be inspired by that?

Anyway, here I am. In case you were wondering.

Stuck in the Suburbs

Today, exactly 210 days after we listed our home for sale, we are taking it off the market. This decision has brought a pleasant, contented peace to our household.

It’s been a helluva ride. Like all homeowners, we think our house is wonderful and fabulous, and we thought we did a good job of getting it ready to sell by making it even MORE wonderful and MORE fabulous: we stripped obnoxious wallpaper, painted in neutral colors, put granite and stainless steel in the kitchen, updated light fixtures and hardware, staged it as instructed so buyers could imagine themselves living here, cleaned it within an inch of its life. We kept the house in “show-ready” condition so we could pack up and get out at a moment’s notice. We even buried a St. Joseph statue in the front yard.

But selling right now isn’t in the cards for us. We had a respectable number of showings, but a depressing amount of negative feedback. Realtors and buyers alike complained about everything from the condition of the windows (OK—some of them DO need to be replaced, but isn’t that what allowances are for?) to the color of tile grout. And then of course, there’s the price. Apparently, CURRENT MARKET CONDITIONS dictate that proper value of our home is less than what we paid for it five years ago. Um, sorry. I’m simply not willing to sell at a loss just because I’m tired of cleaning all these bathrooms.

Honestly, this situation isn’t really new to us; we’ve never been terribly lucky with real estate. We tend to buy when we should sell and sell when we should buy. We actually did lose money on a sale many years ago. It made for a decent tax write off, but that wasn’t really the initial intention.

I am certainly grateful that we aren’t, like so many homeowners, desperate to sell because of unemployment or the adjustment of some insane financing scheme. I was just ready to live out the fantasy of having a cool little condo in the city. A cool little condo with just two bathrooms.

But it looks like this particular fantasy will have to wait just a little bit longer, and that’s OK: I Want What I Have is my new mantra. After all, the air is warm, the grass is green and we will open the pool soon. And I will thoroughly enjoy another summer in my wonderful, fabulous, unsellable, suburban home.

Martinis, Snow and Basketball

My goodness…it’s been a month since I’ve blogged, which in the blogosphere is akin to leaving your puppy in a hot car. Horrifying! It seems that life has been interfering with my blogging time. I hate when that happens.

I know you’ve been on the edge of your laptops wondering, where is Ms. Ranter? Is she OK? Has she lost the will to rant? I miss her.

Yes, I know. I’ve missed you, too. And now that I’ve found a moment in my terribly busy and exciting life, I won’t keep you in suspense any longer…here’s what I’ve been up to:

Martini Drinking: Normally this is just a casual hobby for me, but recently it’s become serious business. We are having a little “Martini Madness” party for a few friends (we were supposed to have it last weekend, but was postponed—more about that later) and I thought it would be fun to sort of invent a “signature” martini. So we’ve been been doing some intense cocktail tasting—nearly every night. Make no mistake: this is difficult, tedious work. But it’s important work.

Waiting for Spring: As mentioned above, our party was postponed because last Saturday night we got nearly a foot of snow. It’s always very upsetting to cancel a party, but we thought it best not to feed guests something almost entirely made of vodka and then send them out to drive on dark, snowy, icy roads. We’re just good hosts like that. And on that note, can we be done with the winter? I’m tired of shoveling the driveway. I’m kidding! Me shovel snow? That’s just silly.

March Madness: Filling out the NCAA basketball tournament bracket is also difficult, tedious work, especially for someone who doesn’t pay any attention to college basketball. I’m not sure why, but I always feel compelled to fill out that bracket. Maybe because I live with boys and this is a fun way to be a part of one of their many crazy sport obsessions. And one of these years I am going to be the girl that beats them all. Not looking good for this year, though.

House Selling: Even though I haven’t mentioned it lately, my house is still on the market. It’s been a long, harsh winter of house hunters talking smack about my home. In fact, this past Tuesday marked its 200th day on the market. That’s a long time, and I should probably be concerned, but frankly I’ve lost interest in the whole thing.

That’s about it. I know…I’m not really the busiest person in the world. But that’s by design.

My goodness…it’s been a month since I’ve

ranted. It seems that life has been interfering with my

blogging time. I hate when that happens.

I know you’ve been on the edge of your laptops wondering,

where is Ms. Ranter? Is she OK? Has she lost the will to

rant? I miss her.

Yes, I know. I’ve missed you, too. And now that found a moment in my terribly busy and exciting life, I won’t keep you in suspense any longer…here’s

what I’ve been up to:

Martini Drinking: Normally this is just a casual hobby for

me, but recently it’s become serious business. We are having

a little “Martini Madness” party for a few friends (we were

supposed to have it last weekend, but was postponed–more about

that later) and I thought it would be fun to sort of invent

a “signature” martini. So we’ve been been doing some intense

cocktail tasting–nearly every night. Make no mistake, this

is difficult, tedious work. But it’s important work.

Waiting for Spring: as mentioned above, our party was

postponed because last Saturday night we got nearly a foot

of snow. We thought it best not to feed guests

something almost entirely made of vodka then send them out

to drive on dark, snowy, icy roads. We’re just good hosts

like that. Can we be done with the winter? I’m tired of shoveling the driveway. I’m kidding! Me shovel snow? That’s just silly.

March Madness: Filling out the NCAA basketball tournament bracket is

also difficult, tedious work. Especially for someone who

doesn’t pay any attention to college basketball until this

time of year. I’m not sure why, but I always feel

compelled to fill out that bracket. Maybe because I live

with boys and this is a fun way to be a part of one of their many crazy sport obssessions. And one

of these years I going to be the girl that beats them all. Probably not this year, though.

House Selling: Even though I haven’t mentioned it lately, my

house is still on the market. It’s been a long, harsh

winter of househunters talking smack about my home. In fact,

this past Tuesday marked its 200th day on the market. That’s

a long time, and I should probably be concerned, but

frankly I’ve lost interest in the whole thing.

That’s about it. I know…I’m not really the busiest person

in the world. But that’s by design.

Workin' for a Livin'

We’re right in the middle of my least favorite time of year: this cold, quiet stretch of winter—the gap between Christmas and Easter, when there’s really nothing to look forward to, no holidays to plan for, just routine.

And for most of us, routine means work. I think of Marge Piercy’s poem, “To Be of Use”.  It celebrates the act of working, the “common rhythm / when the food must come in or the fire must be put out”.

Peircy was obviously writing about physical labor…and the understanding that what some may consider mundane work is really about being useful. Not that I’m about to romanticize manual labor; it’s 8 degrees this morning and I wouldn’t want to be out working in it. But…one of my very first jobs was loading baggage onto airplanes, and I have to admit there was something deeply satisfying about that physically exhausting work. To be outside, moving. I no longer experience that feeling now that I sit in front of a computer for eight hours a day.

Have you ever asked yourself what you would do if money didn’t exist? What you would do if you never had to worry about food, clothing or a place to live and there was no reason to do anything except what you truly enjoyed?

Me? I probably wouldn’t do much of anything. I’m lazy like that. I’d read a lot more. Do some traveling…maybe move to Europe for a few years. But I have a remarkable gift of being able to do a whole lot of nothing for a really long time.

Here’s another one:  talent and gender aside, what if you could be anything you wanted? A few jobs I think would be awesome:

First-base coach for the Colorado Rockies. Standing at first base slapping players’ asses as they run by seems like a pleasant way to spend a summer afternoon.

Something creative. Like a painter. Or a ballerina. Or a cellist. What? I love the cello.

Rock star. But really, who doesn’t want to be a rock star?

Anyway, this is what I woke up thinking about this morning. And of course I had to share it with you.

You’re welcome.

Oh, Baby!

So, we recently returned from a lovely week visiting family in Denver.

We do this often, and always have a great time, but now these visits are especially fun because we have a new generation of babies. Three have come into our lives within the last three years and I am loving that none of them belong to me.

OK, wait. That doesn’t sound very nice.  But when the kids don’t belong to you, you get to enjoy all the good stuff without having to deal with any of the tough stuff that goes with being the parent. Now that my own children are grown, I can focus all my energy on building a solid legacy as Cool Aunt Mimi. Crabby? Hungry? Poopy? Go take it up with your mom. Come back when you’re happy, full and dry and we will PLAY.

My new playmates are three-year-old Great Niece, 10-month-old Great Nephew (yes, I’m a great aunt…remember your great aunts? They all seemed so old and not nearly as fun as your grandma. I am determined to change all that); and Baby Niece, who just turned two.

We stay at Baby Niece’s mom’s house, so most of my Cool Aunt points are scored with her. We play and dance and sing, read and watch Dora the Explorer, and learn new words like “Cool Aunt Mimi”.

The singing is my favorite part. I taught Baby Niece “The Itsy Bitsy Spider” and it is now our song. When I finish, she claps and says in her delightful baby girl voice, “again?” Of course again! And again and again. As many times as you want, my sweet. I love to sing, but I’m no [insert name of good singer here]. So I can only sing to people who don’t know how to say, “please stop singing.”

Buying stuff for these children is great fun, too. As the mom of two boys, buying girly clothes and shoes and barrettes is bliss. And since I’ll be leaving soon, I can also give them toys that make obnoxious noises or include 172 pieces.

Which brings me to Christmas. After years of just handing cash over to bored, unimaginative teenagers, we get to relive the magic of the holiday with little ones who love Santa and are electric with the anticipation of his visit. And again, we get to buy them toys their parents wouldn’t give to their worst enemies.

And while Project Cool Aunt Mimi is big fun, I can’t help but think about what a blast grandchildren will be. Not that I want to be a grandma anytime soon. Really. Cool Aunt Mimi is just fine for now.

The Purse

So, I got a purse for Christmas and I’ve fallen madly in love with it. Madly. In love. With a purse. It’s very unsettling.

Perhaps I should explain. Several years ago, Chris and I decided that instead of buying each other Christmas gifts we would take a day shortly after the holidays and go shopping. We’d take advantage of the sales and get exactly what we wanted.  This doesn’t sound like a big deal, but it is for me.  Seriously, I rarely shop for myself.

So we headed to the brand new Macy’s that just opened near us. While Chris was in the men’s department fondling cashmere sweaters I wandered over to the accessories department. I’d been carrying my $20 black pleather purse for more than five years, which was perfectly fine with me; but some recent comments (like, “gawd, you’ve had that purse for a long time, eh?”) made me think that perhaps it was time for a change.

Now, I’m more of a shoe person; I’ve have never had a problem spending some serious bank on a gorgeous pair of stilettos. But $30 was probably the maximum I had ever spent on a purse. What I lug my wallet and coupons around in has never been very important to me. I mean, really—when you think about it, a plastic grocery bag could provide the exact same function.

So, I’m strolling through the purses, chuckling to myself over the ridiculous prices, thinking I should just go find one at Target. And then I saw it. A brown suede Dooney & Bourke tote that cost the equivalent of all the other purses I had ever bought in my entire life. I picked it up. And put it down. And picked it up. And smelled it. And petted it. And put it down. Then I just stood there and gazed at it, little hearts popping over my head.

Chris showed up about this time, cashmere sweater in hand, and said, “Did ya find something?” I couldn’t speak; I just pointed. “You like that? So get it!” (Yes, I know. He’s a keeper.)

“But…look,” I whispered, pointing at the price tag.

“That’s OK,” my wonderful husband said, “how often do you buy a purse? You’ll probably carry it for ten years.” Rationalization is an AWESOME thing.

So, after standing there staring at it for what seemed like an eternity, I picked it up and carried it to the cashier. I mean, the sales associate. I literally broke out in a sweat as she rang it up while rattling on about how that purse was just MADE for me. Cool it, Lady, I thought. You’ve already made the sale.

But she was right; this purse was made for me. I used to abuse my purses, throwing them around and dropping them wherever, but no more. I treat this one like a newborn baby. I make sure that any surface I set it on is clean and I’m very careful about not letting it brush up against ANYTHING.

Saturday night we went to a friend’s house for dinner. When we arrived there was a light mist falling. I don’t know if I was more worried about my purse getting ruined or my hair frizzing, but needless to say it was a very distressing thirty seconds from the car to the front door.

My sister, who buys purses like this on a regular basis, says I have gone to the dark side and that the next expensive purse purchase will be much, much easier. I fear beyond words that this may in fact be the case.

Just Say No to Resolutions

Ah, the new year. That special time when we come up with some grand scheme that is sure to make our lives THIS YEAR better than ever!

I am an epic resolution maker. Actually, I make resolutions every Sunday evening. But the big NEW YEAR’S resolutions usually fall into one of two categories: Be a Healthier Person or Be a More Thoughtful Person.

Be a Healthier Person: I just read somewhere that more than half of resolutions made have something to do with health. I’m right in there, resolving to exercise more, eat better, take a vitamin once in a while. But…I find exercise terribly unpleasant. And I really like Oreos. And bacon. And stuff with gravy on it. I know, but that’s just the way it is.

Last year was probably the longest I’ve ever stuck to this type of resolution. Sucked in early one morning by an infomercial, I bought “The Firm” workout and followed it religiously for six whole weeks. Sticking with it had a wonderful domino effect: I ate better, looked better, felt better. But then we took a vacation and I sat on my ass and ate bad things for a week, and that was the end of that. I’ve been trying to get back on that program ever since.

Be a More Thoughtful Person: My family and friends are scattered around the country, and I’m always lamenting the fact that I suck keeping in touch with them. So one year I resolved to send everyone in my address book a card for their birthday and/or anniversary. I made it as far as my parents’ anniversary, which was on January 13.

I’ve made millions of resolutions, some big (write the first draft of a novel; start graduate school; learn a foreign language) and some small (try new recipes; listen to music written after 1989; clean off my desk; clean out my purse). One year I resolved to make a life-changing amount of money. Ha! Yeah, that was a good one.

But this year I resolve not to make any resolutions and just skip the self-loathing that comes with the inevitable failure. In the brilliant novel, A Prayer for Owen Meany, John Irving writes, “I will tell you what is my overriding perception of the last twenty years: that we are a civilization careening toward a succession of anticlimaxes—toward an infinity of unsatisfying and disagreeable endings.” OK, I admit that’s a bit dark. But true, yes?

Yes. Life is already chock-full of disappointment. It just seems stupid to subject yourself to the self-inflicted kind.

Happy New Year!