Because you know I’ve had a hard time naming posts.

Do you ever think you are going to write on a topic and you start it and write it and work it and edit it and after days or even weeks hate it?

Not me.

Here are a collection of thoughts on topics unworthy of an entire post on their own. At this blog.  Unless I change my mind.

1) I just about hate One Direction at this point.  I predicted the thing would come unraveled as they hit critical mass in their space launch to worldwide fame and ridiculous fortune.  It’s already beginning.  To redeem themselves in my book, they could:

a) Make a video showing One Dee and the girl they are about to use, cleaning house and enrolling in college.  Give the fans a housecleaning fantasy and we’re even.

b) Cover ‘Come on Eileen’.  If they do this, and they can come live here when they run out of money and join the U.S.-Triple-A-Baseball-and-Second-Rate-Casino Circuit.  If they do windows.  Don’t tell me there’s anything they won’t do.

2) Why don’t people just do things right?  I’ll tell you why.  Because we have gone over to a morality that says, “You can’t prove I knew it was wrong.”  I blame Caillou.

3)  I am not in a bad mood.  Just because it is the end of the day and you are tired, doesn’t mean I’m upset.  Don’t talk to me like a problem customer.  Your obligation to give quality customer service does’nt  end when something needs to be done and you don’t want to do it.  I don’t become a nuisance when I have an actual need that falls within the description of the services your organization provides.

4)  Every kid who picks up a piece of sports equipment is not a prodigy.  Whatever happened to hoping your kids would be healthy, well-rounded adults and helping them try a lot of stuff and choose what they like best–for work and for fun.    Sports are for fun, fitness, learning to get along with others in competition and otherwise.  Sports are not an important career to keep our country going.  Why do we act like every single child has a serious chance to distinguish themselves by athletic scholarship or pro contract?  If this kid is meant to be a chairman of the Federal Reserve, why make him a semi-pro athlete?  Mickey blames soccer.

5) Every mark made with a crayon is not art.  Every wave of a scarf is not dance.  You know this is true, because every bite of food you eat is not gourmet.  Every pair of pants you wear is not couture.  Until someone has studied and “paid their dues”, they are presumptuous and destroying what they claim to love by declaring,”It is so, because I will it.” Expose your kids to great culture, and see what they enjoy.  Don’t lie to them.  It seems to make them think the world owes them a positive review on every move they make….  It’s possible to be positive and encouraging without being dishonest.

6)  Groceries cost too freaking much.

7)  I have not been in a Target this year.  We had more money in the bank at the end of the month. I know a rocket scientist.  Maybe I’ll ask him to come over and help us figure out what’s going on.

8) The girls were in a fantastic production on MLK weekend, celebrating the civil rights movement and our region. They also met some godly young women who are outstanding role models.

9)  You may have noticed my new header. (It is coral, not pink.  I’m talking to you. Emma)  Please meet Tiffany of Tiffany Kuehl Designs.  She is nice, hardworking and talented.  If you are in the market for a design, you may want to follow her on Facebook.  Thanks so much, Shannon from the fantastic blog, Sweet Stella‘s for recommending her.

10)  Last week, Accidentally by Design was selected for Parent Society’s Mom Blog Hot List.  It was probably one of the most personally significant things I’d written in months.  For it to be recognized is the most lavish blessing.

11) For the hat trick, I was at The Kitchen Witch, yesterday.  *this is where you, the crowd, go wild*  This means several of my blog resolutions are already fulfilled.

12)  I rearranged furniture in the house.  I had forgotten my secret identity as a “Power Rearranger”.  It’s good to be back.  My suit has shrunk.

13) I hate the Super Bowl.  I like the Star-Spangled Banner, football, snacks and funny commercials.  It’s the pressure to care and the bare breasts and erection guitars I object to.  (See #2).

14) I did choose the Ravens as my team, earlier in the season.  I realized they are close to home and the only professional sports team I know that is named for a literary character.  That’s just hot.

15) Downton Abbey is the best show ever.

What are you thinking this weekend?

A couple of weeks ago, The Kitchen Witch asked me what kind of cookies I was eating.  I distracted her with a one-liner and somehow never had to come right out and admit these cookies can be found between the bleach and the salami at Wal-Mart.

She’s a gracious and talented blogger and I was surprised when she invited me to guest post.  I’m over there today.  Please stop by.  Before someone figures out I’m trying to run with the big dogs and sends me back to the porch.

Is a devastatingly attractive thing.

Especially if you are living anywhere in the neighborhood of normal.

But what if you reside so far from normal that your kids have never even seen it in pictures,

And the road map you own is of no possible use anymore because it has changed so much since you were there last.

What if it’s only something you’ve heard about from others.

What if you are hearing it on TV from people who can’t manage their own.  Lives.

Is it white counters and spills only large enough to be covered by your hand.

Is it reeeeally 19% body fat and aftermarket glutes?

You know, we’ve been seeing that middle class family who can’t make ends meet in today’s economy for so long, that like childhood obesity and the war–they just aren’t news. (The war should be news.  No ones talking about it.)

Show me once, a happy family.  They get up.  Do their jobs.  Keep a budget. And accept responsibility when they don’t.  (Meaning that they don’t behave as if they’re entitled to luxuries and when they splurge on those things, they make the sacrifice in some other area.  Case closed.)

Show me once, a single gal who graduated college and is working a job and paying mom and dad rent (because that’s practical), driving her little sister to ballet; who’d like to be married, but not so much that she’d date just anyone.  And sometimes,  she’s simply lonely.  But she lives it because she’s doesn’t believe in kissing every toad til she finds a prince.

Show me a kid who doesn’t like school who doesn’t quit, but instead goes to work with the tools he has.  HANDS-ON.  And before he gets out of school is making a living.  That would be news indeed.

Show me another kid.  One who struggles.  That people have to go out of their way to love.  Because he’s a nuisance.  Oh yeah, they could get a hundred labels, but his parents choose to wrangle the wildcat to see if he’ll grow through it.  So far so good.  It would be easier if we had desperately hard work like the pioneers did just to survive, but they can see the light at the end.  Things are going okay.

Show me a single mom who raises her son alone.  Who raises her son to believe what she believes and stays steadfast and demonstrates higher moral character than most church’s leadership.

Show me a family who stays together.  It’s not pretty.  They don’t have a continuous upward mobility through all the years, but they are holding it together.  Figuring out their way.  It’s not going to look like the Cleavers, or the Bradfords, or the Huxtables, or the Ewings or the Kardashians.  It’s going to look like whoever they are.  Working regular jobs that keep the world turning.  Not worshipping or even aiming for fame and fortune.

That’s the news I want to see.  I think the stories are still out there. I dare “The News” to cover what’s newsworthy now.

People doing what their supposed to do and reaping what they sow.

A devastatingly attractive thing.

Dear Pinterest,

There comes a time in every young life when we have to face the cold hard fact that we cannot live off our family forever.  Yes, we must earn our keep.  Mom and Dad for example, may be happy to have us occupy our same room that they brought us home to from the hospital, but when we reach a certain age, it becomes, how do I say?  Entitled, Presumptuous, Neurotic, or just Lazy.

Similarly, a good employer may realize that employees must take a certain amount of time off.  They need caring for.  Personal leave, coffee breaks, and periodic parties are ways they show us they care.  Because they do.  But in return, they expect a certain amount of actual work.  Productivity.  Applied skills.

Which brings me to my point, Pinterest.  You’ve consumed resources long enough without giving back.  You are enjoyable to hang out with.  Good looking, Funny and smart.  But.

The time has come for you to “sing for your supper”.  As such, you will need to begin to show up.  With the beauty tips.

And the Fitness information.

And the blogging, homekeeping and organizational noise.

Yes, I believe you have all the information you need.  And clearly, you are good at what you do.

However, it has come to the attention of the administration that you are an under-utilized resource.  While reluctant to label you “all promise and no product”, it has become necessary to put you on notice that effective immediately, you will begin to serve management according to your job description as understood and implemented by management.  In colloquial terms, you have just become my…*ahem*… Administrative Assistant.

See you at 8.  Don’t be late.  I like my coffee black.

Miss Brown.  We all assumed this was her real name, but her first name was equally common, and now that I’m grown I wonder.  Never in her wildest dreams did she ever imagine she’d have such a hellion in her class.  At least that’s what she’d have you believe.

Some people should teach junior high and some shouldn’t.  Eighth grade?  An entirely distinct stage.  Like the Butterfly’s pupal stage — it looks like it’s something, and it is, but bears no resemblance to the adult of the species.  It takes someone gifted to manage the 8th grader responsibly and not be consumed.

Here’s the deal.  I had Miss Brown for two classes.  Fourth hour English and 6th hour Journalism.

Bottom line: she hated me.

Why?

No one ever figured it out.

As I mentioned.  Eighth grade is mostly a mess.  In my life it was a train wreck of epic proportions.  As I’ve whined in the past, beyond food and shelter, I was expected to provide for my own needs with a $2.50/week allowance.  This was not taking place in 1959.  It was 1981.  So I’m in 8th and more or less completely reliant on the kindness of strangers for my covering. Early in the year some kids cruelly started an ugly gossip thing about me.  Everyone knew it was untrue, but they jumped on for other reasons. I was a pariah.

And Miss Brown had a crush on an 8th grade boy.  Whose friend was in our class.  Miss Brown had massive hickeys that everyone said came from a vacuum cleaner.  They called her Miss Hoover.

If I came in with two other kids after the bell rang.  I would get detention.  They wouldn’t.

If I spoke without being recognized.  I would get detention.  Another student wouldn’t.

In fairness to Miss Brown, I did talk a lot.  And I didn’t become a smart-ass after I turned 35.

But she handed them out so frequently and for so little, even she lost track.  Other students would turn in their seats and mouth “What is her problem?”  I was nearly the only one she gave them to.  Angie got a few.  Angie was a girl more awkward even than I.

The coup de grace was the day that I walked into Journalism and as I crossed the room to my seat, she said, “Ellis, detention for talking in English.”

Yeah.  Like that.  I had all the support of my peers.  I eventually stopped serving them.

I don’t know whatever happened to Miss Brown.

I’m pretty sure she didn’t score with the 8th grade boy, but then who the hell really knows.

Mama Kat, Oh, yes I got a detention.  And it haunts me today.  This post is written in response to prompts 3 and 4.

As I take on the task of getting the emotion out of the way, there are a couple of things I need to get off my chest.  I am a rule follower, and it has been getting me kicked in the mouth.  And then the other person shrugs and says, “What?  I didn’t do anything.”

Okay, if that’s how you’re going to play it, then I’m busting you out here, now.

Have a seat.

ACCIDENTALLY GOING BLOG-POSTAL BEFORE GETTING ON WITH THE HAPPY NEW YEAR WHAT-HAVE-YOU:

1) You did/do not either, you lying entry-level associate, you. It has become common for people, who are in customer service, at almost any level, to make statements that describe themselves as a paragon of perfection, in some way.  Just stop it.

In the last month, it has been used on the S family twice.  Once, when a box didn’t contain what was presented on the outside.  The customer service rep over the phone said they never took a product out of a store without opening the packaging.  Ever. Any Product.

Right.  If I walk into your very employer’s place, I can open every container and they would be okay with that because I was just verifying the contents. Target would look like the thrift store.  I’m sure they wouldn’t mind.

Then, when my check was wrong in a low-end chain eatery, the server told me that when she ate out, she never looked at her check.  Ever.  She just paid.

So tell me, Waffle House waitress, you can afford to let someone over-charge you if they want, because you know how it is?

No wonder Katy Perry feels like a plastic bag.  She has been on the phone to customer service.

2) Look.  What I am doing over here is not what you are doing over there.  Not even close.  I can’t point to a long pedigree and a dozen human beings with my husband’s beautiful eyes.  I would appreciate it if you would kindly acknowledge that we are wrestling with more here than pubescent hormones and peer pressure.  Mostly we are, but it’s not your call to say when we aren’t.

Roll us over.  Lay us flat.  Pin our shoulders to the mat.

It is a privilege.  We are different.  God trusted us with something outside the norm.

He didn’t say, “Since you were chosen, it means you can do it alone.”

Telling me, “Kids hurt my kids feelings, too,” doesn’t mean that the way in which my kid is harmed right now, isn’t racist.

I know that each of your kids is unique from the others.  Your understanding of that doesn’t seem to be reflected in the way you treat my daughters– as if it is okay to not make any effort to tell them apart.  Look at them.  They may not actually be identical.  You’ve known them for 6 and a half years.  Figure it out.

Last night someone asked them if they are ever tempted to trick people into thinking one of them is the other.

The shocking “omigoshshessofreakingbrilliant” response?

“Not really, because they already can’t tell us apart.  We don’t want to make it harder.”

One of them wears glasses, for cripe’s sake.

It has become noticeable that people prefer my son to my daughters.  The gals bitched complained about the potential for this to happen before he came; we told them they were off base.  We were wrong.  From here on out, I will be verbally correcting you.  I don’t care if you are a stranger on the street or an “intimate” friend.  He does have a near magical charm, but he is a human boy.  He can tell.  Just stop.

Do me one favor.  Google “Core Issues in Adoption.”  Pick something and read.

3) This doesn’t have to be this irritating.  It’s not the senior prom.  Now, I find out that my stat thingy is counting my page views. So if I don’t keep the dashboard open all the time, how am I going to get there without clicking across the home page.  All this time, I thought people were reading the blog.  Nope.  There are stretches of weeks at a time I am probably the only one who saw this blog.

Well, me and my cyberstalker.  Hey, Girl!

4) While we are on the subject of my task in life…  In order to do my job every day, I have to climb over the issues of life that may or may not have caused God to say, “Enough.”  And create a new family.  This may be as far as we get in our generation.

Mine is a faith forged in a childhood when, ironically, the church became my parent.  And galvanized in adulthood when doing all the right things and following the rules resulted in rejection by humans and was tossed back to me by God for another chance to go harder. Deeper.  Further.

I’m not doing this with a safety net.

So,  I’m sorry if you take my frown personally.

I have the reins in my teeth and both barrels blazing.

Urgh.  I feel like such a @#$%h!  But.  Gah.

The essence of Organization, it seems to me, as an outside observer, is decisions made beforehand.  An organized person seems to have already decided things about their lives that I, as a non-organized person, decide on in the moment. Every time.

I’ve often observed that I am a stellar housekeeper in other people’s homes.  Last week, I was at a party and since we are closers, I started helping the hostess clean up.

“Please stop,” she said.

Her husband said, “Don’t tell her to stop.  Why are you telling her to stop?”

Yet, in my own home, I see every task as a decision to be made.  What should I do first?  Am I going to need this again right away.  I was going to re-arrange that area; I don’t have time right now.

Blah.

Blah.

Blah.

It is the same whether we are talking about cleaning or budgeting or feeding the ravening hordes.  Do I want to make spaghetti or soup?  Do I want to pay extra on this one this month or bank it?  Homeschooling?  Same smell.

I have even found a book at the library that confirmed the theory I’ve held for years.   If you remove the emotion, you stay focused on the task.  More gets done.  They are experts in all the attention deficit issues.  Most people are cured when they can find their way out of the emotion.  Can you imagine how mad that would make the pharmaceutical manufacturers?

The reason there is less depression in people who use schedules?  The decision is already made.  They aren’t overwhelmed by every decision depending on them.

Eat at 7.  At the table at 8.  Read for 40 minutes, then switch to math.

Monday is Spaghetti Night.

Our pizzas come from Papa Murphy’s.

Tuesday is Laundry day.

I get up at 5:30.  Whether I’ve slept that night or not.

I go to bed at 10:30.  Whether I see the end of the movie or not.

Chaos is the absence of order.  The fewer things are done systematically, the nearer chaos we live.  If every day is a negotiable, the way we do every task is based on our option to be exceptional and everyone around us is waiting to find out if we are going to show up and do our job, or make excuses why we didn’t.  Leaving others to pick up the ball.

I need to be organized.  I need to let go the emotions of the past.  I need to commit action to the plan for the future.  But that emotion has to not interfere, too.  For there will be days I am not in the mood to think about the future and just want to sleep.  Like today.

It is a matter of survival.  I have been flinching when I hear the word organize.  I haven’t wanted to say it even one more time.  But it’s got to happen.

Right now, today; and for the rest of the year.

The word is organize.

And I am starting at the brain level.

Mama Kat’s Writer’s Workshop happens every week.  Just like clockwork.

People like to talk about Resolutions.  Especially people who don’t make them.

It seems to me, we’ve wandered away from the meaning of the word, resolution, and confuse it with another, more common, virtuous concept– goals.

The word, resolution, is derived from the word, resolve.

re·solve *

As in:

In view of the unacceptable outcomes I have been getting; I resolve to change the way I am doing business.

Too broad?

Try this:

Considering the number of things that I missed out on last year, because of my just not having enough energy to take an interest; I resolve to practice healthy living in the form of exercise, proper rest, and controlling what goes in my mouth, before consulting a medical professional (I don’t need to consult a doctor before starting an exercise program because mine has already said, “Pleeeeeeeeease, start exercising.”).

Since science has proved that the work environment directly effects productivity; and God is a not a god of confusion, but a God of peace; I resolve to organize my “office”.  The client doesn’t determine the decor, the amenities or the leadership structure at the Architecture office.  To receive services, they must necessarily walk into the office and decide if the lighting, cleanliness and order are safe, pleasant, and reflect a commitment to themselves.  They are not free to leave a mess.  Or to demand the place be redecorated before they conduct their business.  If they want the best, they must receive it from the best.

In consideration of politics, poverty, and pecuniary precipice, I resolve to get an aggressive strangle hold on my immediate economy, even if it means that I have to be unpopular with my family, the way the bank is unpopular with me.  Don’t make that sad face.

Regarding my own potential, preference and passion; I resolve to take a more organized and professional approach to the blog.  I honestly don’t know why this has been so stupidly difficult for me.  It’s embarrassing.

Take one good last look at the old blog.

The resolution is the fuel to the fire of change.

The goal is the match.

*definition from google search