Brushes With Adulthood

I have never been an overly “clean” person (room-wise, not hygiene-wise, I shower every day).  I would categorize my style as sometimes messy, always sloppy.  Not for lack of trying, nothing just ever seems to turn out nice.  I am a weird hybrid of perfectionist where I have a million wonderful ideas, but as I am working on them they never quite match what’s in my head, so I give up and move on to something that requires no effort towards perfection—like TV.

Since moving in with R, equal—if not superior—to my sloppy and messy ways, things have gotten out of hand.  Take for example, this study in contrasts:

Exhibit A:  Move-in Feb. 2007

Exhibit B:  Today!

I want my apartment to be clean—desperately, and yet when I get home I sit on the couch and lay.  Because, after a long day of trying to teach 17 & 18 year olds direct and indirect objects, nothing is better than laying.

And so, the dishes pile up, the trash begins to smell, the bathtub has a nice pink ring around the drain, and everything is covered in a fine layer of dust.  That is until R. and I get so irritated at the mess that we yell at each other for being lazy, sloppy pigs.

Then, we “pick up” and do some very mild cleaning.  The apartment looks somewhat presentable and we are back to thinking each other quite groovy for the next few weeks.  And then, repeat!

I so badly want to get out of this dysfunctional and downright disgusting cycle, but yesterday I found myself lying on the couch clicking through a gazillion NaBloPoMo blogs while the chicken wrapper in the kitchen slowly gave off its unpleasant odor that, likely by the time I get home tonight, will have infested the whole apartment.

How do you get yourself motivated to clean?  Is it an ingrained habit?  Do you reward yourself?  What works?

1. Eat peas (EVER)

2. Spend more than $30 on any item of clothing. (I need to get over this one).

3. Wash/Vacuum my car.
4. Make the bed (ever!)

5. Floss

What are five things you don’t do?

I am building an ongoing list on ways to keep myself blogging every day in November.

*take picture of the shoes I wear everyday

*take picture of the lunch I pack/eat everyday

*join www.x365.org

*take this week to write down as many ideas as possible

*post portions of my portfolio (Only, I wouldn’t really do this to you, random reader)

*use material from my other blog, www.dailylunchpoems.blogspot.com

In 2001, I came across the idea of NaNoWriMo.  It was a Godsend.  I loved every minute of this craziness and for the first time in my life finished a novel.  I have participated every year since, though 2001 and 2002 were the only years I managed to finish.

I have concerns about joining this year.  Not only do I have a full time job and a class to worry about, I also have to finish my teaching portfolio by the 12th, and let’s just say I am already WAY behind.  I still haven’t made a decision one way or the other, because NaNoWriMo has been a part of my life for six years now, and it would be hard not to even attempt it.

But, while I’m making a decision on NaNo–I’ve decided to add even more to my plate and join NaBloPoMo, better known as National Blog Posting month in which you have to post every day in November.  I have never tried this before, but I am definitely looking forward to it.

Apparently, I have no intrinsic motivation whatsoever.

(This is from a prompt in the book “No One Cares what You Had For Lunch” sold here)

Age 3: I am standing outside my house in Cedar Falls, Iowa and our dog has just run away. I see a weird patch of something on the gravel of our driveway and am suddenly convinced that my parents ran over the dog and are just telling me he ran away.

Age 5: I finally get a bike. My parents do not believe in training wheels and my happy moment soon comes to a crashing halt—literally.

Age 7: My Mom sits in our living room in Bettendorf, Iowa and tells me and sister #1 that she and my Dad will never get divorced. They have not gotten divorced.

Age 8: We move to Homewood, Illinois. I vow never to call this new place home.

Age 10: Sister #2 is born, and she is unfortunately a girl. Her first name is my middle name, for the rest of my life I will be questioned if her middle name is my first name. It is not.

Age 12: My parents tell me we are moving to St. Louis, Missouri. At school, I do not want to tell my best friend, Sarah. I tell everyone else, and she gets mad at me at recess for keeping a secret. I run away from her until she corners me. I tell her I am moving that summer, and we cry.

Age 13: I vow never to call this new place home. My first day of school is a disaster. Every bad thing that happens between now and age 20 is blamed on my parents making this move.

Age 17: I get my first job as a sales associate at the ½ Price Store (now Gordmans). I soon realize retail is hell.

Age 18: I struggle mightily in college, going from an A student to a C student. I promptly give up on the notion that I will become a kindergarten teacher. I figure I’ll get my B.A in English and figure something out. That “figuring out” takes a lot longer than expected.

Age 19: I stumble upon NaNoWriMo and, after 10 years of attempts, finally complete my own novel.

Age 21: I discover vodka; we become good friends.

Age 22: I get a seasonal job after graduation and meet Rich. I have a huge crush, but have absolutely no confidence. When he asks me out, I don’t realize it and invite the rest of the people we work with. Our mutual friend has to explain to me that he wants to go on a date. I proceed to FREAK THE HELL OUT. We begin dating and have been together ever since.

Later this same year, on sister #1’s birthday, we find out my Grandmother has had a “mini” stroke. She is never the same.

Age 23: I move in with my boyfriend. My parents take this better than expected. I decide to go back to school to become a certified high school English teacher.

Age 24: My Grandmother dies. Even knowing that she was miserable, I still cry every time I think about her not being here.

Age 25: For about a week, I cry every night praying to God for ONE GOOD THING to happen to me. A paying job literally falls into my lap for my student teaching experience the very next week. My faltering faith is reaffirmed, though not enough to go to church.