Pavement

The Road to Hell is paved with good intentions.
                                                                                 –attributed to Samuel Johnson (1709-1784)
I am predictably caught up in the optimism of the clean slate.
And, as usual in the infancy of the year, there are a number of ideas tumbling around my mind. Not res o lu tions, (noun firmness of mind or purpose, a firm decision to do something) exactly. They are good intentions. 

• Be kind. Everyday. My brother introduced me to a quote by Plato, “Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a great battle.” This is my compass for 2009. The shrewd Erin from  Woman in A Window pointed out recently that, "We are all looking out at a different view." Kindness is not only polite and rose colored, it is necessary and should be reflexive. And so kindness is the code for 2009. This includes being kind to myself. I have noticed that I pour myself out until my knuckles bleed and I am a barren wasteland of unnoted martyrdom, (which, trust me, is annoying.) My toes stepped on, my fuse short, I bark and glare predictably (and inexcusably) at 4:00 most afternoons. So, I intend to take care of my body so that I can care and contribute meaningfully to my loved ones. To sleep when I need rest, to care for my skin (which takes a little bit of forethought at altitude) and joints and even that much maligned Smoosh around my belly.
• Despite reserving my most creative curses for hurling at her when she shows herself unexpectedly and/or blatantly refusing to acknowledge her existence, The Smoosh continues to expand. And I am forced to consider other methods of dealing with her. Anne Lamott has monikered her rebellious, unattractive bits, “The Aunties,” due to their dimpled appearance and unfortunate drift to the south.  I thought of labeling my Smoosh, but all of the titles that readily popped into my head seemed excessively venomous and inappropriate for polite conversations, so that if I bumped into a friend at the grocery store and conversation were steered toward my “Dirty Dog Whore” (phrase borrowed from Mrs. G but not at all referring to Mrs. G) it might incite raising of eyebrows in my little community. I will take my Smoosh for a run each day, and hopefully in a matter of weeks, we will have found a comfy spot in my routine and she and I will be plopping all over the neighborhood on most days. I intend to use our little outings for “impromptu” therapy sessions: validating her existence, noting her appearance on the scene after The Babe was born, gently pointing out her overbearing nature and the embarrassing way she flaunts herself in all of my clothes, acknowledging my wrongdoing and the ways I have contributed to our unhealthy relationship, appreciating her contribution to my self view, and finally asking her to move on and give me some space (in my jeans). I realize this can take weeks, even months. I can’t predict how The Smoosh will respond. Hopefully she’ll pull her own weight, so to speak, but I intend to do the work.
• I am inspired by order. I am always drawn to the blank spaces on bookshelves; therein lies their potential. I am comforted by purpose and places and things defined, not to the point of covering my sofas in plastic and erecting matching side tables with matching lamps and 3 coffee table books with virginal spines stacked in ascending order, planted precariously across a plot of pristine cream colored carpet that turns up its nose at anyone who lingers too long. More along the lines of thoughtful cataloging; of grouping like-things together so that they are remembered and found when required or blissfully uncluttering when they are not. The “things” in my house have been collecting behind cabinet doors and in closets, congregating, procreating, and generally running amok. Recently, they've even launched a few strategic attacks on my unsuspecting forehead as I rummaged around for the elusive glue gun. I have decided to revoke their Freedom of Assembly. I will take back the territory these land grabbing marauders have stolen from me…and hopefully find my mind in the process, as I seem to be losing it with some frequency these days. In an effort to set myself up for success, and in an attempt to avoid open war, I have decided to tackle this situation with a series of treaties. No Shock and Awe. No regime change. No deceptive categorizing of Elmer's School Glue as Weapons of Mass Destruction. Diplomacy. Peace. And order. I will return peace and order to one area of my life each week. And when sliding into the mayhem of the holidays in 12 months time, (fingers crossed,) I will know precisely where to look for the gift wrap tape…little or no cursing required.
• Write. Period. Just Do It (Swoosh).
• My “Giant Corporate Lawyer” neighbor (the Giant is in relation to the Corporate Lawyer bit, and not a nod to my neighbor’s stature,) rang my doorbell one evening last month a few days after some of our Christmas decorations were stolen right off of the extension cord in our front yard. What follows is a transcript of our conversation:
  Him: I heard your deer were absconded.
              Me: (Staring blankly for only a moment,) Oh, yes. A few days ago. We didn’t really notice right away until…
              Him: (With concern,) Have you alerted the local constabulary?
              Me: (fumbling with my internal dictionary), Um. No, I was kind of hoping that, you know, in these difficult economic times, some sweet family was taking advantage of the lower gas prices, driving around looking at Christmas light displays, saw my two lovely deer and, knowing they couldn’t buy their own holiday decorations  at Target, decided to take ours home with them where they are lovingly displayed on their lawn in Greeley or Highlands Ranch.
              Him: (Feigning understanding and smiling politely) I came over because, I don’t know if you noticed, but a pair of deer MAGICALLY appeared in someone’s yard down the street. (Wink. Wink.)
              Me: (Knowing, before the words even parted his lips that he’d be referring to the white, wire deer in a yard down the hill who were frozen in their best Cervine porn pose.) I did notice. They’re a little hard to miss. But they aren’t mine. My deer were made from grapevine.
              Him: (His sly smile brightening, disturbingly.) Inflagrante Delicto. That’s what we say in The Law. You know, so old, rich men who didn’t want to pay alimony because they came home and caught their wives in bed with the milkman could talk about delicate issues in court…
              Me: (Nodding nervously, watching my ten year-old’s head cock inquiringly to the side, throwing my internal dictionary at my neighbor,) Nope. Not mine. Thanks for thinking of us, though.
  SCENE.
  How does this apply to good intentions for 2009, I hear you asking. I’m torn about that, frankly. Part of me wants to take this experience and scrub something vigorously with a wire brush. While another part of me, (the part that giggles uncontrollably every time I recall the exchange on my front porch,) wants to find ways to wedge completely ridiculous words like absconded and inflagrante delicto into every day conversations. I’ll keep you posted.
• And finally, because my sister may some day decide to read this blog, I have every intention of running a triathlon in June. I also have every intention of gnashing my teeth and swearing a lot and cursing everyday that I intended to run or swim laps and watched episodes of Planet Earth, instead.

Happy New Year.