I need habits, not resolutions

Every year, the arbitrary "Buy a new calendar day" strews the internet with Resolutions, and Tips for a Better Year, and other unhelpful hope-raising-subsequently-guilt-deepening ephemera.  I've tried making resolutions.  It doesn't work for me.

The last four years, I've carefully sat down and planned out how I can exercise more, and eat six small meals instead of two large, and will shop for local produce, and write every day, along with possibly starting a small side business, becoming a better heavy combat fighter, as well as fixing up the house.  It all seems reasonable on paper.  And then, like Hyperbole & A Half so eloquently/visually puts it, the wheels come off about a week later, because I am exhausted.

So I've decided to avoid the congratulations part of this cycle.  I'm just going to take each day at a time.  There will be no yesterday.  There is no tomorrow.  I will decide each day what I'm going to try to do.  Maybe I'll succeed at all.  Maybe I'll succeed at some.  Maybe I'll fail at all.

But if I fail, the really hard part to implement will be no castigation for failure.  No guilt.  No spending the evening feeling horrible about all the things I didn't do.  No patting myself on the back either for abnormal bursts of productivity. 

What I'm going to be proud of, is trends, and building habits.  If I manage to go to the gym 3 times a week, for an entire month, then I can pat myself on the back.  If I manage to write my words every day, I can be proud of myself. 

I need to build habits.  Habits are hard to build, but they're a lot harder to break.   By the end of 2012, I hope to have at least two new habits.

Fiscal responsibility

So, as we approach the financial straitjacket of my unemployment running out, and we put on our game faces to buckle down, I tell my husband (with some righteous martyrdom in my tone), that instead of buying a new book, (or four), I will instead pay off my library card fine, and go to the library from now on.

He gives me a skeptical look.  "You mean paying off your library card fines so you can rack up a new set of late fees instead of just buying the books you want?"

Normally I would have a stinging rebuttal that would still be sizzling the hair off his ears two hours later, but unfortunately, he does have a point. 

I'm a weak person when it comes to fidelity in my library relationships.  It's not that I don't love the library.  I do.   But it's the same pattern, every time.  The relationship will be all shiny and new, and it's all great.  They'll give me all the books I can handle, and I'll faithfully return them on time.  The first few times.  Then maybe I'll lose one of the books, or it migrates under the bed.  And then I start with the excuses.  "Oh no, I know where it is, I just forgot to grab it on the way out."  But the fine keeps ticking over, until the library won't accept my lame mutterings, and won't let me have any more books.  And when that line's been drawn by the righteously indignant library, I skulk off, muttering something about how it'll miss me when I'm gone, because I'm a REAL reader, and I LOVE books, and libraries NEED people like me.

Months go by.  Sometimes years.  And I come crawling back, with quiet dignity. I pay off the max fine.  And we start the cycle over again.  In some ways, it's not cheaper than buying the books I like enough to read more than once.

But it IS cheaper than buying books I'd like to read just to see if I like an author or not.  So I'm crawling back to the library tomorrow, because I'm wanting to get current with the current mystery crop, and it's a professional expense dammit.

I may never pay for pizza again.

In keeping with my currently unemployed status, ordering pizza is not in the budget.  However there are some cravings which WILL NOT BE DENIED.

So I figured what the hell, I'll give it a shot.  I used the pizza dough recipe from Betty Crocker with a couple modifications.

If you want to make your own, I can recommend it. :)



2-1/2 to 3 cups all purpose flour,
1 Tablespoon sugar
1 teaspoon salt
1 package quick active dry yeast
3 Tablespoons virgin olive oil
1 Cup very warm water (120 - 130 degrees)

Mix 1 cup of the flour, the sugar, salt, and yeast into a large bowl.  Add the 3 T olive oil and warm water, and beat with electric mixer on medium speed for 3 minutes, scraping frequently. (I used my kitchen-aid beater attachment for 3 minutes on 4.)  Stir in enough remaining flour until dough is soft and leaves the side of the bowl. (I swapped to the paddle attachment, and added flour in a 1/2 cup at a time.  So far, I've always ended up using the full 3 cups of flour, when I use this recipe, so I wouldn't worry too much about measuring exactly.

Now here, the recipe book says to move the dough to a lightly floured surface and knead 5-8 minutes.  What I do instead is flour my hands, lift the dough out of the bowl, dust the bowl inside, and knead the dough inside the bowl. (Just lift it up, punch into the dough, then fold the far side back over the hole, turn 90 degrees, repeat, flouring whenever the dough gets sticky again.) Saves having to clean flour off the counter.  You can also use the dough hook attachment, which works just as well, but I felt like punching something. :)

Cover loosely with plastic wrap and let rest 30 minutes.  The one shown above is a thin crust, (which isn't a true cracker-thin thin crust but is very close to Papa John's hand-tossed crust.).  I greased a cookie sheet with olive oil, and then took half the dough. I pulled the dough out into a wide roughly circular shape, until the whole thing was 1/8" to 1/4" thick.  Use your fingers to push the dough around, and it works marvelously.

Instead of baking the pizza at 425, I baked it for 8 minutes at 450, (it started turning light brown in the center.)  Higher heat makes it crispier.  Then I smeared a thin coat of Bertolli spaghetti sauce, sprinkled dried garlic and parsley, Italian herb blend, and dried basil on top.  Next went the cheese (pre-shredded 5-cheese Italian), black olives (from a can), mushrooms (fresh sliced), and the pepperoni. 

I put it back in the oven at 425 for 10 minutes or so. (Look at it.  The crust should be light brown all over, the cheese maybe brown on the edges)

And I have satisfied my pizza craving.  If you want thick crust pizza, use the same recipe, but grease and cornmeal-flour your pans.  Pat the dough into the pans, and let rise for 30 -45 minutes.  Bake at 375 for 20 minutes or until the crust starts turning brown.

599 words tonight.  It's amazing how sticky spots can get me bogged down for a week while I think about how to get around them without excessive deux ex machina.  My dad once told me that he worked a project over in his head until he could sit down and build whatever it was once.  He'd sit there at his desk at work, smoking and thinking, and he'd sit in his chair at home in front of the t.v., thinking. (Not smoking, because my mother made him swear to not smoke at home or in front of the kids.  She was concerned that we would pick the habit up.  Strangely, the boys knew he smoked and they have both struggled off and on with nicotine addiction.  I didn't know he smoked until I went to college, and I never picked up a cigarette.  Go figure.)

I realize now what that's like, because I do that with my writing.  I'll get to a point where I get stuck, and I'll stop writing, and instead I'll think. I'll run through all the different scenarios I can think of, playing them out to see if they run me into a wall I can't get around.  I'll be washing dishes and thinking about times and alibis.  I'll go a week without writing anything at all, because I can't progress until I know where I'm going.  If it's a really bad break, one that seems irreconcilable, sometimes it'll be a month.  And then, something will click, and I'll know where I'm going again, and I can pick up and go. 

This one was a bad one.  I'm so glad to be past it.

The Friday Letter for my daughter

Dear Baby girl,

Well, little bean, you are three and a half months old today.  No, I haven't written you other letters before now.  Mostly because I'm just now rediscovering the meaning of the words "regular sleep cycle" and "quiet."  Since I'm mentioning it my darling, would you mind not waking up an hour after I go to bed, every single night?  I don't know how you do it, as I go to bed anywhere between one and four a.m., but it never, EVER fails that you will wake up ten minutes after I've fallen asleep. Frankly, you've done it far too many times for it to be mere coincidence.  Mommy loves you a lot more when she gets sleep. 

Also, you're a little more interesting now than you were when you were born.  You smile and you giggle now. You're working on learning how to use your vocal chords for something besides screaming your head off, though if I'm honest, I can't wait until you progress past squawking.


You've got a strawberry mark at the base of your skull where it meets the spinal chord.  I like kissing you there.  It's my secret spot, so don't tell Daddy.

You were a bit horrible today.  Everything was fine right up until we left the Teeter.  You see, I figured you would be getting hungry and we should go home before I hit Sam's Club for a brief break.  This is normally a wise plan. You ate, got changed, and seemed happy to sit in your little chair. Then for some reason, one of your brain switches got flipped, and you went ballistic.  Full-on Baby Rage with the red face, ear-piercing decibels, and heart-breakingly adorable baby tears.  Rocking, walking, sitting, soothie, breast-feeding, diaper, - all failed.  You refused to be soothed.  After thirty minutes, I gave up and put you in the car seat to head to Sam's, hoping the car ride would put you to sleep.

You went to sleep one minute before I pulled into the parking space.  You did not appreciate my having to wake you up and put you in the Maya wrap.  Though, I will admit your talent for comedic timing is already well-developed.  You'd paused to rest a few seconds as I went in the door.  I'd hoped you were done expressing your rage at whatever was making you so furious. The greeter leaned over to peek at you, and got a full face of screaming angry baby as you picked right up again.  I managed not to laugh, though I wanted to, even as I apologized.  On the other hand, I've never gotten passed through line so fast in my life.

You fell asleep in the car again, and I turned the radio off so I could see if the ringing in my ears had stopped.  It hadn't, but I still considered it an improvement.  When we got home, I begged your father to take you for an hour, so I could go make oatmeal raisin cookies, and not dwell on the evils my uterus had brought upon the world for a few minutes.  In retrospect, I should have realized that you would not be so easily thwarted, as you blew up in Baby Rage at Daddy.  For thirty minutes.  Eventually, you tired yourself out and went to sleep in the pillow nest on the couch.  We all rejoiced.  The cats came out of hiding.  Your father and I had cookies, and carefully avoided looking over at you in case the weight of our gaze woke you up.

When you did wake up, it was all Jekyll.  Super sweet baby with smiles for everyone, willing to cuddle quietly, laughing during your bath, and smiling at your reflection while you were wrapped up in your pink dolphin towel.  You really are an adorable baby, but don't expect me to enter you in any beautiful baby competitions.  Those things creep me right out.  Tonight we read Dr. Seuss's "You don't know how lucky you are!", and you even went right to sleep after I put you in the crib with your music and mobile going.

Just so you know, I'm not falling for it. 

Love,
Mom 

(Also, I'm still getting used to the idea that *I* am the one responsible for raising a baby human.  Hopefully you'll turn into a moral person with a sense of joy, and the ability to pursue your happiness.  Everything else is negotiable.)

Keep on Truckin'

Perking right along.

Gym time today, with less muscle-ache afterwards.  An excellent nap.  And I've gotten 7,451 words added to the story.  Granted I'd written most of them already, but I'm now at the point where tomorrow night, I can start adding in the new material.

And the baby is still healthy and acting like a baby, though she's discovered that she has vocal chords to make noises aside from primal screaming for food or diapers.  She's turned into a duck. 

"SQUAWK!"

"Yes sweetie, Mommy still loves you."

"SQUAWK!"

"You've been squawking for the last forty-five minutes.  Aren't you getting tired?"

"SQUAWK!"

"No, you say.  Do you know how hard it is for mommy to concentrate while you're making irregular squawking noises at unpredictable intervals?"

"SQUAWK!"

"I just can't wait until you're a teenager."

*Big spit-bubble smile, with giggles and a flung pacifier.*

"Yes, you're adorable."

"SQUAWK!"

It's working so far!

The new routine of writing at night is working out fairly well.  I've been able to regularly get some writing done at night, after Husband of Doom and Babygirl have gone to bed.  I am cautiously optimistic.

I went to the gym on Monday to lift weights for the first time in three months.  I may have been a little over-optimistic as regards my capacity, because I have been limping around the house the last two days whimpering every time something requiring me to use either my quadriceps, shoulders, arms, or calves.

Babygirl seemed to know Mommy was hurting because she all of a sudden decided she needed cuddling.  And walking. ALL DAY. 

This does not bode well for her teenage years if she can already zero in on my weaknesses.  She's lucky she's cute and that baby tears with a pouty lower lip of utter sadness is heartbreaking.