The point is, I’m habitual. I fall into patterns – good and bad – with amazing ease and break out of them almost never. Because I find comfort in predictability. Every day, I park in the same spot – all the way on the very tip top level, even if the rest of the garage is empty – because it eliminates the need for the Parking Garage Confusion Dance. I follow the same make-up regimen every day because I can rely on the outcome.

I don’t think it’s any stretch to say that I apply the same cause-and-effect behavior to relationships. For years, I latched on to the same type of man, with the same type of personality flaws who would let me down in exactly the same way as his predecessor. Self loathers. Cheaters. Weaklings. Why? I don’t know. Maybe because it’s what I knew. I knew what it was like to feel the humiliation of public infidelity, of being undermined and undervalued. When I say I developed an addiction to disappointment, I mean I fed myself on the stress of living out dramatic, unhappy plot lines year after year. It gave me something to react to. It gave me an identity. I expected men to hurt and disappoint me and they, in turn, sure didn’t disappoint. And once again, I could blame someone else for my unhappiness.

And then I quit cold turkey. I don’t remember the catalyst. But in part, it was having watched both of my parents over the years, having grown up loving people whose unrealistic expectations and constant – and I do mean constant – discontent ate holes in the fabric of our family, that I decided I would not live that way.

Deciding and doing, though, are two very different things. When I met the Dork Lord two years later, I knew that was it. He was it. He knew it, too, and treated me the way you treat someone when you’ve decided you want them around for a long, long time. But I hadn’t exactly broken my attachment to old patterns. Rarely, but there was a time or two early on when he had the gall to be human and make a mistake and my first reaction, shamefully, was to lump him with the others. Asshole. I’d show him! Obviously that feeling didn’t last long (nor did I act on it), or we wouldn’t have lasted this long. But I did a lot of self talking at first. Old habits being the kind to die slowly and with agony, I hadn’t quite gotten rid of my instinct to get mad and get even.

This day has been such a long time in the making, I feel like there should be a parade or at least a commemorative plaque and an anthem, sang in rousing tribute to moderation! And to fiber! These jeans, they are nothing special, really, except I do appreciate them for maintaining their deep indigo color and that sweet little perma-crease over the years. But they do not, in any way, resemble mom jeans and they fit nicely for that, I could do back flips. You know, if I could summon the energy.

Also, my bum looks pretty great.

Aside from the sexy phlegm (which is mostly a waste since I don’t make a career on my voice), the flu has left me with this hacking cough that keeps me awake by night and annoys my poor coworkers by day. Like my friend said, coughing is some serious exercise and seeing as I cough myself dizzy at least three times an hour, I’m getting the workout of my life. And I’m totally exhausted. But I’m wearing jeans I don’t hate!

I’m not going to whine about how really awful the flu is because, duh. If you’ve had it, you know how bad it is. And if you haven’t had it, you know it’s bad enough you don’t want it. But let’s, just for a second, talk about the flu test. That thing really hurts. I don’t know if the doctor who saw me was under-practiced or just lacked finesse, but when she said she was going to swab my nostrils with that long cotton swab, I didn’t understand that her end goal was to grab a sample of my BRAIN. First I said the eff word and then I cried. I couldn’t not cry.

Coughing up fifty bucks for Tamiflu hurt less than the flu test – and you KNOW how I feel about unbudgeted spending.

There are some other things I’m working on, that I plan to continue with enthusiasm in the new year – and the new decade (I wrote a check yesterday dated January 1, and wouldn’t you know, I got the year right on my first try. THAT will be difficult to maintain), and here they are in no particular order:

Variety. I cooked with parsnips the other day. Parsnips! I’d never done that before. I’m going to try to add a new ingredient or recipe to my arsenal a few times a month now because boy, those two crazy little root vegetables sure did make me feel exotic.

Patience. Learning how to be part of a functional, happy couple has meant I’ve had to make a lot of mental adaptations. Giving up the sick addiction to constant disappointment I’d formed over the years has been a lot harder than you would imagine. Even harder than that, though, has been giving up the need for control over every aspect of my own sphere – the direction and time line my life follows. I’m trying to be more patient. 

“You’re buttering me up!”

“Is it working?”

“Well, yes. Of course it is.”

“Good. I’m gonna go kill some terrorists.”

And as the sweet melody of Modern Warfare II rang out in our apartment, I trimmed some roses, grabbed a new book, and headed upstairs to the No Carnage Zone. I’ll say one thing for those violent video games – they sure make me glad when we switch to sports. You know, the lesser of two weevils.

I also saw Master and Commander for the first time this weekend. Clearly.

Although I got up this morning and went to yoga, the minute I got home and saw the animals dozing in the sunny patches on the carpet, I decided that I was doing Christmas Vacation all wrong, what with my productivity and all. And just as I began enjoying my day off the way it’s supposed to be enjoyed – like a true sloth in pajamas, curled up on the couch – the dog decided to get tangled up in the patio blinds, ripping them off the wall and sending them crashing to the ground. I don’t know what else to do but shake my head and pretend it never happened. I’ll deal with it later. Right now, I have other important things to do like watch Snow White and eat truffles.

I hope your holiday was lovely. Get ready, cause tomorrow we’ll talk New Years Resolutions. I figure we need some time to prepare ones that are reasonably attainable and if not, easily forgettable.

Last night, I wrapped gifts (okay, gift. One singular gift. The rest happen to fit neatly into pre-decorated containers that require neither artsy-craftiness nor paper cuts) and declared Christmas ready to roll. Even if I wasn’t done buying gifts, I was done. Though I’m pretty sure my weekend happened, I don’t remember much of it, except a whirlwind of errands and way, way too much time spent in the car – all well earned punishment for waiting until the last minute and not ordering every single thing online. When will I learn, I ask you?

If history is any indication (it took me until I was 25 to learn how to wink with my left eye) the education process will be long and drawn out.

Now that everything’s wrapped up, I’m actually starting to feel a wee tingle of Christmas excitement. Funny, when I was a kid, the excitement was all about presents, but these days, every bit of my growing anticipation has to do with having five whole days off at home to sleep in (WAY in. Like, 9AM!), putter around the apartment, go to yoga and veg out to such fine holiday films as White Christmas and Meet Me in St. Louis (Louis, meet me at the fair!).

I’m going to interrupt with something totally off topic, but I just read something on People.com about Lisa Loeb getting an eyewear line. Which makes total sense! In 1996.

Anyway, I don’t really make Christmas wish lists – that sorta thing makes me very uncomfortable. But when both my mother and the Boy’s father asked that I outline something specific – my mother, clothing or shoes; the Boy’s father, DVDs – that I’d like to find under the tree, I actually took a lot of joy in thinking about what I’d really like to own, that I wouldn’t buy for myself: Reebok’s new Make Your Bum Hotter sneakers and classic Disney films, like Snow White.

Christmas morning will find me a much more complete person, I just know it.

Birth control refill
Christmas gifts for those I love
Gas
Groceries

You can see how well I’m doing with this.

In my former life, I would have looked at my fingers and toes, made a pouty face at their state of general hideousness and then crossed First Avenue for a mani/pedi with Elana. I would not have paused to consider the budget because, what’s a budget? I had credit cards. Oh, those magical little pieces of plastic. To which I am HARNESSED for the REST OF MY EXISTENCE. Sometimes I could just karate chop my younger self in the throat for all the times I slid one of those things across the counter without a second thought.

But, you’d be so proud. You really would. I haven’t bought anything I didn’t have cash for in over a year. I haven’t even used a credit card except once, for the movers this summer, and then speedily paid it off. Like my mom said, shilling out more than half my monthly income to debts already incurred – items purchased and worn out, meals eaten and forgotten -  has made a real believer out of me. Credit cards are bad news. I had excellent credit, so creditors kept extending it and I, well, I kept spending. And now, I never want to be in debt ever, ever again. I don’t want anything that requires monthly payments – except, of course, for a house one day.

The crazy thing is, even when my inner spendthrift is pouting because she wants her nails done, or a new pair of shoes, the rest of me feels really, really good. And satisfied. A review of my 2009 tells me I’ve successfully eliminated eight thousand dollars of debt and any which way you look at it, that’s huge. It’s excellent, really. 

Since then, I’ve had a few memorable trips down migraine lane. Like, the insanely embarrassing time when at 19 years of age, I had to have my dad had to come get me from work, because I couldn’t drive. Or stop blowing snot bubbles. Or when I lay on the bathroom floor of my New York apartment sobbing and retching until the super’s wife came to the door to see if I was gonna make it.  Who says New Yorkers are cold and unfriendly?

After recurring at six month intervals for most of my adult life, though, the headaches just went away. And for long enough (since October 2007, I think), that I mostly forgot what it’s like to want to pluck your own eye out and stomp on it. But Sunday night, as my sodium and magic levels were returning to a post-Disney normal, I started to feel…off. Headachey, dizzy. We had the lights off and dark, foreboding-type movie on, so it wasn’t until I meandered into the kitchen after some Advil and flipped on the lights that I realized what I was in for. Holy mother of bob. Was I going to have to add “Really Bad Tom Hanks Films” to my list of possible triggers? Having never successfully narrowed it down, I already had Sunday School, Barcelona and Alphabetical Filing on there. Though let’s be real; even with the improved hair,  the Tom Hanks one seems to make the most sense. 

As far as meltdowns go, I think the pinnacle of the evening came when I was hiding out in the dark bedroom, unable to open my eyes, and realizing with acute panic that our geriatric dog had just had an accident and was in the process of loudly EATING UP the evidence.

I’d be tempted to say something about how great it was to have slept in my own bed last night, but frankly, the bed at the Disney resort was about six thousand times more luxurious than ours, got made up every day by someone else AND was decorated daily with animal figures made of bath towels. So, there’s that. Still, it’s nice to be home, struggling to get back into the current of real life. You know, like readjusting to single course meals that end without absurdly decadent desserts. I haven’t actually gotten anywhere near a scale, but I’m positive that a week on the Disney Deluxe Dining Plan has summarily undone eight weeks of being on my best behavior. Oh, how I wish I’d never known the love of salted caramel ice cream.

Before you ask to see ‘em, I didn’t take a single photo on our vacation. Not a one. We were just too focused on Fast Passes and dodging Rascals to do any picture taking. But we did have this nifty little card that let us get our pictures taken by Disney photogs and I expect that any day now, proof of our adventures will come rolling in. I may have worn a tiara to our lunch in Cinderella’s castle. And Cinderella may have told me that I make a perfect princess. God, had I been six years old, my face may have exploded with all the built up glee. Fine. At thirty-one, I still came awfully close.

Actually, I did take one photo. This one. Which will explain why you didn’t hear one word from me last week (despite the fact that I did bring a laptop with me). I have a hunch that filing a claim for this is going to be a nightmare. Thanks, American, for the luggage TLC.

Did I mention it’s IN THE CASTLE? Because it is.

Anyway, before I disconnect for a few days, I wanted to share some of this fine, fine hilarity. James Lipton, you give me the giggles. For your edification I present, “Give it a ponder.”

On the Friday that the Dork Lord and I went to Austin, I got up at five, as normal, put on a bunch of assorted and mismatched Nike apparel and headed down to boot camp. I was feeling pretty good – energized and strong – and though I’d grown accustomed to a good butt kicking, the workout that morning was nothing short of brutal. We ran suicide drills in relay teams. And if it wasn’t your turn to run, you were doing intense ab exercises in push up position. Each relay segment was followed by a sprinted lap and… then repeat. I swallowed my own vomit twice. What’s more, I came in last every single time. There was something so fundamentally humiliating and defeating about pushing myself to puke-inducing-maximum only to lag behind (way, way behind) even the other jiggly folks, who like myself, aren’t exactly athletic, that I had a bit of a breakdown. I apologized to my team for being slow and when camp was over, I sat in my car, key dangling in the ignition, and cried. I did not feel strong. I felt embarrassed.

I came home, pulled myself together, told the Boy that I believe yoga was more my speed, and never went back. I just couldn’t stomach the idea of being last again. And again. The interesting thing is that between yoga and walking/jogging, I’ve lost exactly the same number of pounds as I did at Boot Camp the month before, but I don’t feel like an utter failure -  like the last, awkward kid picked for Red Rover. Yes, it was an intense work out and the trainers were, for the most part, excellent. But as it turns out, I’m just not into the torture of it all. 

Who knows, I may opt to subject myself to humiliation again when spring rolls around and people start saying words like, pool party. At that point, torture becomes sort of relative.

I’m baffled. Why, oh sweetbabyjesus why, would you come to yoga today? You clearly have the flu, swine or otherwise (though, after listening to your chesty cough for the last hour, I feel consumption may be an option as well), and all that hacking into your shoulder isn’t doing a bit of good for the rest of us in this room. This room which is heated and humidified, so as to make the conditions for germ sharing OPTIMAL. See this guy to my right? He’s been farting since Awkward Chair and I don’t resent his presence nearly as much as I do yours.

Though, I agree with my friend Laura. Neither of you are really making deep, cleansing breaths all that appealing, but at least he’s not potentially effing up the only vacation I’ve had this year. Actually, the only real vacation I’ve had since March, 2008. You understand my angst; that’s a very long time. And, I don’t know if you’ve heard, but I’m having lunch with Cinderella in two weeks. And if I miss this lunch, I swear on all that is holy, I will find you. And I will cut off your hair in your sleep.

By the way, your Standing Bow is pretty. Bear in mind, it would probably look less so without hair.

Love,

“Dudes,” I said, turning quickly around. “That’s Chace Crawford right there.”

“Who’s Chace Crawford?” Among my friends, this question was universal. Yes, who is Chace Crawford?

“You know, the one who’s not Zac Ephron! Heartthrob of the teeny boppers! Gossip Girl, blah blah.”

Blank looks all around. I watch two television shows TOTAL and I knew who he was. Good grief, I thought, these people need to get a little more People Mag in their lives. I yanked out my phone and googled.

“This. This is Chace Crawford.”

“Yeah, that’s totally the same guy. But I still have no idea who he is.”

“His sister dates Romo.”

And that’s when the lights came on. The boys all nodded and a general murmur of recognition went ’round the group.

“Why didn’t you just say that in the first place? She’s hot.”

Mmm hmmm.

Anyway.

Yesterday, my brother left two lines of a Monkees song (This Just Doesn’t Seem to Be My Day) on my sister’s Facebook wall. Reading the lines, I cocked my head to the side and thought for a few seconds. Yes, it was vaguely familiar. And then, it wasn’t. It was TOTAL RECALL. It has probably been 20 years since I heard that song but wouldn’t you know it, it’s like it was encoded in my DNA. I’ve been singing the damn thing ever since. And yeah, maybe pining a little bit for Davy Jones and his tooth sparkle. Ping!

Earlier in the week, I got bit by a spider. Again, because of course I did. And it wasn’t much more than an annoyance until the whole bee incident. And then, after the bee did his thing and it crossed some sort of venom threshold, the spider bite on my inner arm that was the size of a quarter grew and grew until yesterday, when I took my angry red, tennis ball sized owie to my doctor. She poked, prodded and then drew a black line around the red halo on my arm and said, if it gets bigger, call me. Then she loaded me up with antihistamines and antibiotics and sent me on my way. I’ve been obsessively checking that line ever since. It’s a new hobby.

Insects and arachnids aside, we had such a fantastic weekend with Stephanie, Phil and their pint-sized scalawags. Oh, to hear three-year-olds say scalawags! I was endlessly delighted by the things that came out of their mouths. Then there was grown up time, which was mostly about putting things in our mouths – like, wine and bread pudding and this thing called drunken bread. I didn’t make it to boot camp yesterday. I’m still recovering. For the Dork Lord and me, it was the perfect way to celebrate our first year together*. You know, minus the bees and spiders and such. Or the part where the Boy left his wallet at home in Dallas. Or where I forgot to pack deodorant. But I guess ‘perfect’ is sort of a relative thing.

The Dork Lord hasn’t met any of my New York friends before. Not that they’re so very different from my Dallas friends, but I’m pretty sure that a weekend of air kisses and “lovey!” and “remember that night we double fisted champagne and I fell in a snowbank/had to have the cabbie count my money/got lost in my own apartment” stories will make him wonder just who he sleeps next to at night. The woman he knows has two cocktails and is ready for bed. Yeah, his girl likes to party all the time, party all the time.

And on that note, my most sincere apologies to Butterfly for the apparently vomit-inducing displays of domestic contentment lately. If this weren’t a family friendly site, I’d tell you what you could do, and how it would involve certain sunless areas of the anatomy. But as it is, I’ll just say, I’m sorry you’re so unhappy and I sure do hope your tummy feels better.

Like right now, it’s at home making pot roast, my wee little crock pot built for two. After boot camp, I chopped up some veggies, tossed in some beef, and when I came home at lunch to walk Sir Crapsalot, I opened the door to the most glorious smell this side of Quaker Instant Maple & Brown Sugar oatmeal. Don’t pretend you don’t know. My coworker eats it. I get a little drooly because it smells like Sunday morning when I was 12, uninformed about such things as carbohydrates and diabetes, and maple syrup was my bitch.

One of the greatest gifts the crock pot has brought is the gift of vegetable variety. The Dork Lord, he is strictly a green bean and broccoli guy. No squash, no asparagus. Spinach? The horror! But since the crock pot lends itself so well to soup-making, I’ve started throwing all sorts of vegetables in and letting the crock pot do its thing. You know, as in making things soft and mushy and disguising specific flavors under one heavenly broth. In the last week we have added cabbage, zucchini and Brussels sprouts to the rotation with unprecedented success. There’s a weird kind of personal satisfaction that comes from sponsoring improved colon health.

Holy cow, after the number of times one trainer yelled, “You’re supposed to be in push up position! PUSH UP! POSITION!” while I remained vertical, well, I’d be worried that it made me look a little bit obstinate – if I truly gave a damn. But I’ve been off muscle relaxers for two weeks now and I’d like to keep it that way. Plus, all that yoga-ing has made me feel very zen about my workout. I do what I can and accept my body and what it has to offer today. Which is so totally un-boot camp.

DEAL WITH IT.

Speaking of yoga-ing. I’ve been debating about whether to make this an official gripe, but I think I will, in case you’re thinking of getting into yoga and need an honest assessment of the studio. If you’re not and you don’t, feel free to tune out now.

A couple weeks ago, I signed up for the 10 days for $10 introductory offer at Sunstone Yoga. I’ve been a fan of hot yoga since I first tried it in Boston almost… ten years ago. Yes, I gasped when I typed that. Anyway, after your third introductory class at Sunstone, they make it a point to call you up to the desk to go over your “options.” You know, for non-introductory price yoga. Which I don’t have to tell you is pricey. Now, I’d already read about all of my options online. I knew I didn’t want one of their one year, unlimited, auto-deduct packages. I had every intention of continuing my practice there – the room is properly heated, most of the instructors are good – but with boot camp, I would only be up for one or two times a week. I had it all figured out.

After my fourth class (guess I squeaked by the day before), I got called up to the front desk where the yoga instructor/mad dog sales lady proceeded to give me the hard sell – the hardest hard sell I’ve had to put up with in a long ass time.

I don’t know how many times I said, “No thank you. I already know my options, and I will be buying my classes individually,” but it was apparently not acceptable. I could feel my shoulders getting tense as I tried to explain time after time that I was simply NOT INTERESTED. When I finally escaped, I went home and shot them a quick email letting them know I appreciate that they have a business to run, but I did not appreciate their very un-yoga approach. I got a call later that morning. Trying to sell me a package. And then an email. And then another call – this one letting me know that it’s the responsibility of the instructors to make me aware of my “options.” Again with the options.

I’ve since received two more calls and another email.

Basically, I could not feel any less zen about my experience with them. And this morning at camp, my workout partner mentioned the same thing. They want your cash, and they don’t care about much else (except for yesterday’s instructor – who was very concerned with sending energy to my lady parts. Which I fully appreciated).

Are you sure, Microwave?

The microwave referred me to the DVR box for back up and then to the cell phone, who has a long and storied history of truth-telling. It was indeed 6AM.

“Penny looks like an X-wing pilot.”

“That’s my girl.”

His girl. That my brother has a child is so far out, I can hardly stand it. He will be a great, if absurd, daddy. Frankly, I’m a little surprised she wasn’t named after a Transformer, but I assume that has a great deal to do with his wife’s firm and graceful touch. Still and all, she was (and I report this with glee) middle-named after a character on Firefly, little miss Penelope Jayne.

She is, by the way, out of NICU and sleeping off her birthday adventures (being born is very hard work). I simply cannot wait to gnaw on her cheeks (in stupid MARCH, which is so far away she will probably be doing calculus by then and want nothing to do with her old maid auntie). With her parents’ permission, I will try to post a picture of those glorious cheeks later this afternoon.

Oh, and for the curious, I did not die at hot yoga. In fact, I’ve been back three times. Bow pose will be mine, dammit. Also, I did not die on my bike ride. In fact, our 15 mile ride to the lake and back was 100% incident-free. I’m still waiting for the Boy to take back all that crap about me falling and breaking all my bones. I have a feeling I’ll be waiting a long, long time. And maybe by the time I get some satisfaction on the matter, my freaking tailbone will have stopped the ohmyhell aching. Those seats are made for folks who already have trim fannies. Those of us who want them, well, we have to suck it up or learn to pedal standing.

Tomorrow, I aim to ride a bike, a feat I have not attempted in seventeen years. Ooh, and on Sunday, I start hot yoga (ten days for ten dollars! Suckers). If you do not hear from me on Monday, come looking. I will be the one in a dehydrated heap of a pretzel on the classroom floor. Just add water.

In case you’re wondering why I’m being such a nut so dedicated about this exercise crap (more than one person has insinuated it’s because of my boyfriend), I’m telling you straight: it’s not at all about the Boy (who just plain loves me, inclusive of very stubborn saddle bags). It’s about clothes. Fall time brings cooler weather and an outdoor wedding in the middle of November brings about a need for an outfit to withstand – and fashionably, at that – the aforementioned weather. And seeing as how I can’t afford to buy clothes in Size Fluffy and also make my car payment, I’m trying to whittle down to fit in my pre-existing fall wardrobe. Right now, my full length coat doesn’t close around my bum. And I’d sure like it to.