May the sun shine brighter upon you every morning.
May the light of day bring you joy and the colors of twilight bring you peace.
May the sweetness of honey and the gladness of wine color your cheeks.
May the winter snow remind you of how beautiful and still the world can be.
May the sharp, hot days make you feel more alive.

May the choices you make bring you closer to the person you want to be.
May the next hair product you buy be the best experiment you’ve ever conducted.
May the family you have and the family you choose knit together in a tapestry too strong to break.
May the cape and tiara you wear in your dreams become realities.
May the wishes you make match the blessings you have.

May the goals you give yourself be attainable.
May the taste of nostalgia only flavor your memories, rather than supplanting them.
May the rose of your glasses stay merry and bright.
May the next lipstick you try finally be the perfect shade of fire-engine red.
May the people you love grow larger in your heart, larger than you imagine they could.

May the memories you make all be moments you’ll never forget.
May the vegetables you eat taste more like cheese than green.
May the dust never settle anywhere but in your wake.
May the promise of tomorrow give you hope but never outweigh the sweetness of today.
And most of all, may this next year beat the tar out of last.

Well before I started blogging, let alone flunked out of the blogging world (oopsie), it became clear that a reality of my life is that I experience the same old shit everyone else does, but slightly amplified.

Some have used the term “emotional basket-case,” while others prefer “crazy.” I’m the one standing on the rooftop shouting, “I JUST FEEL A LOT OF STUFF A LOT, OK?” Obviously.

Still, everyone gets down or up or happy or sad or cries at every Charmin commercial and YouTube clip that involves a wee creature of any species whatsoever. I mean, that’s totes a universal phenomenon.

And we all have headaches or wonky knees or irritated skin or adult acne, which is just fucking bullshit, or migraines that last for three months and a healthy narcotics reliance. This is just par for the course of a 2011 lifestyle.

But what I find really fascinating is my uncanny ability to maximize the damage done by my ordinary clumsiness.

See, if there’s a doorframe in your home, I’m bound to smack a hip into it. You’ve got dishes? I can break one – or many – and get shards of glass or ceramic embedded in the most unlikely of places. Ear lobe injury? I got you.

If my entirely scientific poll of looking at shit on Twitter has provided correct data, I can only extrapolate that you’re all quite clumsy, too.

Yes, I’m looking at you, Peachy. And don’t you go blaming that whole “major health issue brain problem” shit. I know it’s just clumsiness. We’ve got a lot in common.

Just in the last 36 hours, even, I managed to walk past the counter, which promptly jumped out and bit me in the middle of my back; break a dish while setting it on the table, slicing open my foot with its dull-but-vicious ceramic bits; drop a spoon in spectacularly gravitationally-straight fashion onto the top of my foot, breaking the skin and developing a nice-sized welt; knocking my phone off the counter (standard), which fell on my toes (standard) and promptly split open two toenails (motherfucker!); and, last but most definitely not least, slice open my hand on the edge of an ICE CUBE IN THE ICEMAKER.

Ahem.

Also important to this post is the amount of ugly shit my boyfriend owns.

SEEMINGLY RANDOM TOPIC CHANGE!

Since I have been so remiss about reporting in on the good, bad and ridiculous of my life recently (or at all), y’all might not know I moved in with Boyfriend. It’s all quite lovely, this beautiful three-bedroom townhome full of walls on which I get to decorate (once I convince him my decorating plans don’t actually include the yellow Oscar Mayer Weinermobile on my desk or my maraca collection. Surprisingly, that’s not going as well as planned. Hmm.) but we’re coming upon a few snags.

See, Boyfriend is a highly sentimental man – this is a good thing, people, I know; I’m not that much of an idiot – and thus develops serious emotional attachments to approximately everything. This includes creepy and ugly figurines of his grandmother’s – who, I’m sure, was a lovely lady and who deserves to be remembered with honor and love… just without the creepy eyes of her figurines following me around the room. We’ve actually agreed to keep them in a box in the garage, but I swear, I can still feel their eyes.

Said sentimental collection includes a vaguely plush sack of potatoes, with the kind of eyes that blink and preternaturally happy smiles. I say vaguely because half of it is burlap and the other half pantyhose. The story behind that one is so annoyingly cringe-worthy I won’t even try.

Important note: There are no pictures of these heinous artifacts because I am actually mature enough to have asked Boyfriend if I could post these photos on the internet and he is smart enough to have said no. THAT’S CALLED LOVE. (See, baby?)

Suffice it to say, the man owns a lot of ridiculous shit. Now, as someone who loves ridiculous shit, that is not an issue in its own right. The problem here is that his ridiculous shit is creepy and/or ugly, and a lot of it stares at me as I walk past. My ridiculous shit, on the other hand, only includes one thing with eyes, and it’s a demony nutcracker from Jenny that has candy for brains. And a flag made of a post-it.

You see the difference, right?

Ok, so, to give this post some semblance of sense (and a little more alliteration), I’ve decided to hang a shingle out there and rent myself out to help YOU get rid of your unwanted creepy tchotchkes. Since I’m so damn good at breaking shit, hire me to be your new clumsy bestie! And since I invariably injure myself with every attempt, it’ll never look intentional. Your secret is safe with me.

Mom decide to collect the toile Spode with Little Boy Blue on each salad plate? Give me two dinner parties, max, and I’ll have half the collection in pieces. Does your husband still hang onto his own shitty pottery from childhood? That monkey’s toast within 15 minutes of my arrival. Grammy still have that velvet Elvis painting? Ok, so, I’ll take that one off your hands for free. I am still decorating, after all. (This nesting shit is the tits.)

Rates negotiable. Apply within.

Do you despair over the things that make you happy?

I do. This is mostly because I’m an idiot.

There’s a little bit of maternal sense in there. (Thanks, Jane.) I mean, I wouldn’t agonize over something that didn’t matter to me, and I’m (finally) mature enough to make That Which Makes Me Happy a main focus of my life and my energy.

Except, of course, money. Universe, we’re still in a fight about that whole “currency” bullshit. Don’t think I’ve forgotten.

But I kill myself, deep in my cold, little heart, about love and writing and music and food and will I ever be able to do any of them right? And does that matter? And surely it must, because otherwise why would anyone of any sense whatsoever spend so much time so freaked out?

And with that logic leap we understand exactly how it is I came to be an idiot.

And now for a break in the regularly scheduled navel-gazing:

I thought maybe it might could perhaps be fair or kind (or inane?) or useful (or something) to tell you what happened and where I went and what I did.

During the months of May, June, July and August of the year of our lord (whose?) two thousand eleven, I:

• Taught young chilrens between the ages of three and eleven music all day every day at a camp in this fair city of HotFuckingLanta;

• Learned what it is like to be in pain and still function, not (or at least rarely) giving into the indulgence of suffering;

• Filled my days with the worries of babes (and the silencing of my ovaries) and my nights with laughter and tears (yes, always tears);

• Remembered that “holy” is how you treat someone else and “god” is what it looks like when you love;

• Discovered that Marietta’s full of dumb people who play trivia with Jesus and Dunwoody’s downright cutthroat;

• Learned that “leaning” means a lot more than Old Noah Webster ever intended and leads to things like heart-shaped earrings and late-night phone calls;

• Weaned myself off narcotics (mostly) and developed a healthy Benadryl habit;

• Bought a new toothbrush to set beside a new sink, where there’s a “my” side of the bed and a jug of my favorite coffee creamer (such an embarrassing vice!);

• Decided I might actually be good at that whole teaching thing and found people who agree to write me checks and ask me for curricula;

• Looked at my hands and realized just how much I like how they look when they’re entwined in someone else’s;

• Found a someone else; and

• Maybe – just maybe, might could maybe – have fallen in love.

Skipping right over that and hoping with all I’ve got it won’t terrify him that I wrote that here first, let us focus our attentions back to the lint in my proverbial belly button and analyze why I – the most aggressively forthright person I’ve ever known in any capacity – might be too anxious to say “love” out loud, but willing to cavalierly announce it here, in a space I feel I no longer inhabit comfortably, to all and sundry.

We know I’m not afraid of hearing my own voice. Ahem.

And we know I’m strong in my conviction that that which is felt must be shared.

The royal we, of course.

And – VOICE CHANGE! WOOT! – I’m pretty sure I could stand it if he didn’t say it back. After all, I know what I’m talking about and he might not.

Mine is a place of power, and yet.

Let me agonize some more, fair gallery! What if I’m bad at this? At love?

I think it might be what I do best – I love love. Lord, how I love it. The idea, the music, the smells, the tastes, the schtick and the expectations and the ridiculous standards we hold ourselves to!

But what if I’m no good? Who’ll tell me? How will I learn? Is it enough? Am I?

Is the way to your heart through your navel?

Today’s one of those days where getting out of the house was almost beyond me, nevertheless thinking up something pithy, witty or bizarre. In the tradition of some of my favorite writers, here’s a look into the pages of what would be my journal, if I kept one.

* * *

Wonder, are price tags on Harry Winston site?  Can shop online for eight mazillion dollar marital leash? If had a black Amex, could company deny opportunity to shop online, if that’s what wanted? Can turn you down if want to buy whole damn store?

* * *

Turns out: No online shopping for Harry lovers. Makes sense, because wouldn’t do own casual online shopping if could afford Harry.

* * *

Note: Am too boojee to know fancier jewelry than Harry Winston. Am too femme to have watched soap opera plots about getting Harry Winstons. Am too white to correctly use word ‘boojee.’

* * *

Is there a more badass card than a black Amex? Must look into.

* * *

Note: Black Amex is most badass Amex according to Wikipedia. But Wikipedia keeps asking for donations; Jimmy Wales must not have black Amex. Company would probably keep secret along lines of if must ask, can’t afford.

Or something.

* * *

Spent half of migraine today on etsy. Found gems in jewelry, printing, Ms for collection & knitted bodily organs. Believe may be time to cultivate farm of wee felted sheep for gaudy antique frame in office. Could pin to wall with hat pins, write specimen cards. Could name & sing to on birthdays.

Is best idea of 2011.

* * *

Got six voicemails about homeowners’ insurance today. Do not own home. Answered 7th call with Russian accent ala Natasha Fatale.

Accent getting more consistent. Need more practice.

* * *

Have discovered hassock’s name is Boyd. CDG told me. She knows these things. Must trust her. Do not, however, trust ottoman. Am certain is plotting to overthrow my rule in bedroom. But retain preponderance of power and ownership of all sharp objects. Must monitor developments as arise.

* * *

Am verr celebratory person. Enjoy holidays for sake of celebration. Mostly because can celebrate anything with champagne. Do love champagne.

Valentine’s Day is Monday. Do not have real valentine. Have fake internet boyfriend valentine, fake internet shaygetz, pups.

(HIIIII, FAKE INTERNET BOYFRIEND! EVERYBODY? SAY HI TO FAKE INTERNET BOYFRIEND!)

Is very good fake internet boyfriend. Keeps me fake internet occupied and fake internet happy. Would like to suggest he send me fake internet flowers, but would prefer real flowers.

Also, sex.

Need more practice.

Cannot ask for or expect MY FAVORITE FLOWER IS A CALLA LILY; WHITE GERBERA DAISIES ARE GREAT TOO because, as previously mentioned, is fake internet boyfriend, emphasis on fake internet boyfriend.

(HIIIII, FAKE INTERNET SHAYGETZ! EVERYBODY? SAY HI TO FAKE INTERNET SHAYGETZ!)

Is also fabulous fake internet shaygetz. Excels at ego stroking, positive reinforcement, laughing at my jokes. Enjoys when insult him in Yiddish; gets turn on when wax poetical on the subject of cheese.

Do love to wax on & off about cheese.

Need more practice.

* * *

Note: Should bathe today.

* * *

Have been feeling on the down side of things recently. Believe will remedy this with fake eyelashes & new red lipstick.

Plus extra courage mascara. Always makes things better.

* * *

Watched most of 4th season of West Wing this week. Will never be that pithy.

Must settle for internet celebutantery.

Do love my internet celebutantery.

Must find missing disk.

(Sorry, daddy.)

* * *

Forgot to take Jeopardy! online test tonight. Is probable indicator will not pass test tomorrow. Will console self with lemon water.

Am such a lush.