Dejunking: My Life and Home, 2015

One of the most frustrating things I’ve encountered recently is my growing desire for a Big Change.

I’ve mentioned it before here, here, and here, my itchy feet syndrome. My inability to be content with the same place for more than a few years. It has hit again. Hard. Especially towards the end of 2014 when I kept looking at 2015 with hope and excitement. 2015 represents a clean slate, a new start, a tangible end to a crappy year and the beginning of a year that isn’t crappy - in fact, 2015 has the potential to be awesome. It is, of course, what we make it, and I am determined! Determined to make 2015 a Great Year!

Back to my itchy feet. About every three years or so, I get the urge for change. Change of jobs, change of location, change of something. Unfortunately, Scott and I have already made the executive decision that a relocation right now is not feasible. We want to get Cyra through middle and high school without another move. We want to save up money so that in a few years Scott can start his plan to go to brew school. To do that we need to do a few things:

1. Stay on target - with our budget and our long term plans.

2. Keep put - no moving or major life changes.

3. Live modestly - we are planning on living on his salary while socking mine away into savings.

These three things…well, actually, just the second item on the list, put a real kink into my BIG CHANGE and ITCHY FEET plans.

What’s a girl to do?

Well, it all goes back to one of the things I’ve been obsessively googling lately: the Small House Movement. Tiny little portable homes, with tiny little footprints, being all handmade, cute, and minimalist.

I. Love. It.

Scott and I talk all the time about buying land in the middle of nowhere and building a tiny little house, a chicken coop, and a garden. Maybe even a couple of tiny little houses, one for us and then an extra one or two for guests. Ah, the dream of living off the grid and off the land.

But, in all reality, I probably couldn’t go that way, at least with the house size. I like my dvds, crafts, and games way too much. Those three things alone could take up an entire 150 square foot room!! But, I find more and more, as I look around my cluttered home, there is a lot of stuff that I really could do without. I might not be able to reduce enough to live in 150 square feet but I can certainly pare down what I have to live in my 1300 square foot home without feeling claustrophobic.

Now, by no means am I a hoarder. I’ve seen that. I’ve got a family member who is one. But I do have a tendency to collect a lot of crafting supplies. You can see my craftway here. It takes up my entire entry hall (that we don’t use anyway). But with so many crafts (I really do know how to do pretty much every. Single. Craft.) I get overwhelmed with all the supplies. It is time to pare down. I have roughly 60 pounds of scrapbook paper. Who needs 60 pounds of paper? Not this girl!! Not anymore!

So, to alleviate my itchy feet and appease my need for Big Change, I’m down sizing my life. I’ve made a list of rooms, closets, and cabinets I want to tackle and each week I’ll put a dent into my life. That being said, I’m not touching the girls or Scott’s stuff. For one, Scott doesn’t actually have that much stuff and what he does have: books and clothes, are already at a minimum. As a child of military parents, he already has a minimalist mind set. As for the girls, I’m hoping that as they see me donate, toss, and yard sale stuff, they’ll get into the dejunking.

I’ve actually already started. Remember I mentioned my recent weight loss? Well, I’ve donated roughly a third of my clothes and thrown away another quarter. My closet is much more accessible now. And I felt great about getting rid of stuff I never wear!

I think I’ve found the cure for my itchy feet and restless urge for change. Next up: The Kitchen!

Line in the Sand

I’ve never been much for celebrating the New Year. I’ve been to exactly one New Year’s Eve party way back in the early 90s. Staying up and watching the ball drop in New York City is about all the enthusiasm I can muster for what is an arbitrary human line in the sand. Depending on which ancient civilization you favor, the new year fell on the winter solstice, the vernal equinox or some other logical celestial event. The winter solstice makes the most sense to me, but who am I to argue with history winners?

In recent years, staying up to watch the ball drop has become a chore. The older I get the less interested in I am in staying up late and if my neighbors would stop with the fireworks every year, I’d blissfully sleep through the whole thing.

This year though? This year that arbitrary line in the sand is vitally important to me. It’s a tangible moment that will allow me to put 2014 into the “history” category. And Friends, I really, really need to do that. 2014 was a challenge. 2014 sucked spiky, radioactive, guano balls. 2014 just needs to end already.

While I won’t be staying up this year to tell 2014 to “suck it” I’m certainly looking forward to waking up on January 1st with a metaphorically clean slate. I don’t expect things to be magically better though. They won’t be. The same issues that we have been dealing with all year will still be lurking. We’ll still be fighting to reduce some of the shit that has been dumped on us this year, but thankfully, the pile is definitely getting smaller.

2015 isn’t going to be be about new beginnings and changes so much as it will be a return to things I stopped doing in 2014 because it was too much, too overwhelming, too hard to juggle. I’m not one for sticking with resolutions, but I’ve got them this year and I am determined to keep them. Nothing in the realm of impossibility, nothing far-fetched. I’m not planning to take up mountain climbing, become fluent in Latin, and certainly not overcome my fear of sharks by swimming with them. 

Goodbye 2014. Make sure you leave your keys and close the door on the way out.

Hello 2015! Come on in, sit and stay awhile! I've been looking forward to your visit!

The Countdown Is On

There’s a two-part episode of Star Trek Voyager titled “Year of Hell” in which Captain Janeway and her crew suffer a series of calamities over the course of a year. Eventually, through the magic of temporal phenomenon, everything ends up honky-dory, and the Year of Hell never happens. Voyager’s crew continues on their journey unaware of the disasters that befell them or they avoided...I’ve never understood temporal mechanics.

There have been more times than I can count that I’ve wished for a temporal phenomenon to undo this year or fast forward it. My very own, very real, very intense Year of Hell. As science fiction isn’t all science fact yet, that leaves me just waiting for the end of 2014.

Many times, almost daily, I ask myself what right have I to complain. I know people who’ve been through far too much for me to ever complain about anything. How dare I mope when people are starving, when wars rampage across the world, when cities burn, and mothers lose their children! Who am I to lie in bed at night crying? My husband holds me but is helpless to comfort me because I am inconsolable. In those moments, I allow myself to fall because I tell myself that grief is not a contest and there is no measurable way to compare pain, that even though others have suffered far more than I could ever imagine, my anger, sadness, and hurt are just as real.

I count, I breathe, I pull myself together because I have no other choice.

Am I depressed? Yeah. Clearly. There’s no denying that. My one and only solace? I know that my depression is situational. That things are generally shit right now, but it won’t be like this forever. I know that as long as I keep putting my feet on the ground every morning, that someday it won’t feel like such a chore. There are days when my smile is genuine and my laughter is not forced. And those days are slowly starting to outnumber the others.

I’ve said it before that I should have done an anonymous blog, then maybe, I’d post more about my life. Maybe if I had a top secret super blog I’d vent, I’d rant, I’d utilize an outlet that I honestly should have been using: my words. My chaos has been my own this year. I’ve not wanted to share it or talk about it here or anywhere, so even an anonymous blog would have sat unattended this year. I’ve got 31 more days to go in what I expected to be a great year. I have used this year as an excuse for not writing, not crafting, not doing and that’s got to change. Whether I post to a public blog or just jot notes in a journal, writing has always helped me work through my issues and I need to get back to that.

In 31 more days I’ll have survived 2014.

In 31 more days I’ll file 2014 away as a lesson learned.

In 31 more days I’ll jump into 2015 looking to exceed rather than endure. 

 

Scott asked me the other day if I expected 2015 to magically be better. Of course not, I said. But it’s like a clean slate. New Years is a tangible mark, a concrete, albeit human, passage of time. Time allows distance and clarity, healing and hope. Time, right now, is the best friend I’ve got.

This year I fell. Come January 1st, I will start standing again.

October Revolution

It would be great to say I was so entirely busy with my life that I just didn’t have time for blogging, but I try to be honest here so I can’t claim busy as an excuse. In all honesty, there really isn’t one single excuse.

I lost interest.

It became a chore.

I had nothing good to say.

I was doing other things (not too busy mind you, just pursuing different creative outlets).

All sound pretty…excusey.

I could throw this one out there: My eldest got obsessed with interneting and because of that my interest diminished.

And that almost comes to the point. In fact, if I’m going with excuses that one is the only one I would lay claim to. As her interest developed, I started paying attention to my internet habits and realized how much time I actually spent online. It isn’t necessarily a bad thing, spending time online, but I saw how much time I could reclaim for other activities.

The time spent at work, much of it while the girls were at school, limited our family time and interneting sucked even more time away.

I stopped writing blog posts, I stopped reading blogs, I stopped clicking on links. I checked my email and Facebook a few times a day, the weather and the news, and then I walked away from the computer. I crafted, played, cleaned, worked.

But even that is an excuse.

There were plenty of times that I thought to myself: Ooo! I should blog this! But didn’t. I didn’t feel like sitting down at the computer. So I made notes to myself and moved on with my day.

So yeah, maybe I just needed a break.

Let’s go with that: needing a break. You saw other blogs and that’s okay. We were on a break. But I want back in.

Out of Commission

So remember when I posted a bit about my teeth a couple of weeks ago? Here and Here and also Here.

Yeah. I'm having some work done. Surgery-like work. In the morning.

(Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.)

I've prepped some photos to go for the next couple of days.

(Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.)

So. Once I stop hyperventilating, I'm sure I'll be fine.

Fine. Just. Freaking. Fine.

There's a bright side here somewhere, but I can't see it over my panic attack.

(Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.)

I read somewhere once that a smart person learns from their mistakes but the truly wise learn from the mistakes of others. Today, I think I am neither. Today, I teach a lesson. Teeth are important. Fears can be conquered with enough anesthesia. Accepting the consequences of your actions may be one of the hardest things to do but it is vital that we own up and take responsibility.

I accept that my teeth troubles are my own fault. I accept that my fear has kept me from doing something about it sooner and now I have far worse problems. I accept that I am a big chicken and wonder if the dentist will think it odd if I bring a stuffed animal with me for comfort. I accept that I will not being enjoying the fabulous turkey dinner I cook unless it is liquified (but I will be all over that pumpkin pie).

Do you feel better yet, Self?

Yeah...I didn't think so.

Big Dream One: The RV Life

I’ve always been a big dreamer. I set my sights on goals that are almost unattainable like winning the lottery despite never actually playing the lotto. I dream of sailing around the world in my custom built 60 foot sailboat, The Hyperbole, despite the fact that I get seasick just looking at a boat. I dream of thru-hiking the Appalachian Trail despite my overwhelming fears of aliens, sasquatch, and alien sasquatch. I dream of opening a gaming shop with my husband even though we’d end up strangling each other after the first day or two. I dream of a bakery with Sara even though she isn’t nearby.

I dream Big Dreams.

Two of the most diametrically opposite Big Dreams have been at the forefront lately. One stems from my love of travel and sightseeing, the other from my growing desire to be self-sufficient. A third Big Dream is really the most realistic it's just a matter of pushing myself. 

Today I’m going to talk about Big Dream Number One.

Before I met Sara, home to me was a place. A single location where roots were set down and bonds formed in the community. Home was a tangible, unique space. Growing up, I moved around a lot. Maybe not more than a military family, but it seemed every few years we were up and going somewhere else. I hated it. I wanted a place that was ours and we’d never have to leave. Sara, however, taught me that home wasn’t a place and roots could be transplanted quite easily. Home is my family: Scott and the girls. If I’ve got them, then I’m good. It doesn’t matter where we live. I’m sure I would have figured this out eventually, but Sara, being awesome, helped speed the process up.

The longest I’ve ever stayed in one house was six years. It seems that maybe all that moving around in my youth stuck with me and I get itchy feet every three years or so. There’s a Tom Petty song I love, Time To Move On, and I am fairly certain he meant it to be my theme song because I always have this need to just go. 

Dream Number One would help to alleviate those feet. If I had any assets to liquidate, I would do so immediately, buy an RV (I really like this one and this one) and take to the road. I would love to travel the back roads with the girls and Scott exploring every nook and cranny this country has to offer. How cliché, right? But how very cool would it be to wake up in the morning and say, “Hey, let’s go check out Montana” and just go? How freeing is that? Today I feel like…New Mexico…Next week, how about Ohio?

If I RV’d my life I would certainly have to make some major changes. And maybe they’d be for the best. The appealing idea here is that not only would I get to travel the country, but I would have to, by the very nature of living in an RV, downsize my life. Go minimalist. I am the first to confess an attachment to my stuff: books, craft supplies, gaming supplies, bakeware, all my Christmas decorations! Gack! Just thinking about not putting my Santas out on display makes me squirm in my guts. But like wiping a blackboard clean, there is something very appealing about getting rid of everything. I’m not anywhere close to being a hoarder. I’ve seen true hoarding and trust me, it keeps me in check! And surely anything that I could not bring myself to part with would find a home in storage until I needed it again.

Maybe after a few years or so driving the road, I’d yearn to plant myself firmly in one spot.

A Funk Explained.

Before I even push back the covers and sit up, I know that my period has started. In the bathroom, I confirm it, slightly pink-tinged underwear and blood on the tissue.

I start to cry as I wash my hands.

Scott calls through the door, “You okay?”

I’ve woken him with my tears.

“Fine,” I sniffle, “I’m taking a shower.”

“Alright.” A moment’s pause and then, “You need a towel?”

I nod, knowing he can’t see me but not trusting my ability to talk without crying more. I know the pause was his sleep clouded head registering why I am taking a shower. I never take a shower first except on days when I have my period.

I turn the water on and steam soon fills the small room. Scott taps on the door just as I pull the shower curtain closed shutting me into my own private space. The door opens a crack and without him saying anything, I know he is hanging a clean towel on the rack for me. He pushes the door shut with a soft click as he leaves.

In the shower the hot water beats on my back and I let the sobs I was denying take over. My eyes sting and I can’t seem to catch my breath; I gasp and lean against the tiles letting the water wash the tears from my face. I know that if Scott hasn’t gone into the kitchen yet, he can hear me. Although he is use to the tears now, I try to stop.

This is ridiculous, I tell myself, we aren’t even trying. 

But every month it is the same, hoping against hope that an accident will happen even though I monitor my cycle like a scientist with an experiment. I chart, I take my temperature, figure and refigure, count days and track symptoms. I have to. It is a habit now forged when I took medication that would have damaged or killed any life within me.

Eight years I spent taking rat poison daily until finally I had enough and begged my doctor to help me find an alternative. When he refused, I stopped seeing him and started a holistic regiment of vitamins and minerals that achieve the same results.

Eight years I spent knowing I couldn’t…shouldn’t do what I so desperately wanted to do. I stopped talking about it after the first year. It hurt too much. I focused on work and crafts and anything else just to not think about a baby. I told myself all manner of lies to make myself feel better about not having more children.

A month ago, I was out to dinner with my mom, sister and nephew, when my recent back trouble was at the most painful. I squirmed all through dinner – sitting hurt far more than standing. As we were getting ready to leave, my sister suggested that I try leaning on the railing of the deck where we ate and let my hips and legs just dangle to alleviate some of the pain.

Willing to try anything at that point, I did as she suggested to no avail. By back hurt just as much and I felt silly hanging on the railing.

“You and your odd hips!” my sister joked.

“They aren’t odd,” I said patting my hips as we made our way back into the restaurant proper, “I’ve got good child birthing hips.”

She gave me a funny look. “You do,” She said. “You should have had more children. You’re a good mom.”

Thankfully she looked away because otherwise she’d have seen the tears start to well in my eyes.

This morning I wake up after, once again, a night filled with dreams of pregnancy. I have them four and five times a month, usually between ovulation and the start of my period. I touch my stomach and sigh. The clock reads 6:21. I must have hit the snooze a half dozen times trying to stay in my dreams. Scott is making noise in the kitchen and soon I know he will come in to drag me out of bed.

While he is dressing, I tell him of my dream; he shakes his head and tells me I need to find a job or more hobbies to keep me occupied. But his gaze doesn’t meet my eyes. He tells me this because he too wants another child and it is easier sometimes to ignore the yearning. 

We’ve talked about it before, having more children. Had I not been diagnosed with PE shortly after Cyra was born neither of us doubt there would have been more children.

Twice in the past year, when alcohol muddied our senses and gave us cause to not think or worry, we played the two week waiting game. Twice I spent two weeks holding my breath, hoping, dreaming, thinking about names, picking out color schemes for a baby afghan. Twice Scott spent two weeks asking me how I felt, looking at my stomach, telling me “it is what it is,” then grinning as he suggests boys names.

In a few months Cyra will be 10, a few months after that Ashleigh turns 16. Maybe I am yearning now because my girls are growing up and I miss the babies and toddlers and little girls that they were. Maybe, as oft cited in magazines, my biological clock has kicked it into overdrive…hyper-speed. Maybe I am already anticipating an empty nest.

Maybe.

But I doubt it.

Awkward

You know how when you haven't seen a friend in a while and then you see them and say something innoccuous like, "Oh yeah, I'll totally give you a call next week and we'll get together" and then a week passes and you think, "Hey! I need to call so-and-so," but you don't because you get distracted by everyday living and other shiny things.

And then another week slips past.

And then a few weeks become a month or longer.

And then you kind-of feel awkward about picking up the phone to call because, really, did you actually have a valid reason for not calling? And how do you explain you couldn't call because...you know...laundry and junk.

So more time passes and it gets easier to justify not calling but you feel like a total heel because you are supposed to be friends.

And then other people tell you you really need to call so-and-so because they miss you and you feel even more like a tool.

Yeah.

Blogging is like that.

Exactly like that.

But stay tuned, my friends, I am writing again. Finally. And recent fun has resulted in a better mood and a lifting of the funk curtain that has been blocking the sun.

March Photo A Day - Before and After

I really don’t have a good before and after photo to share today. Not for a lack of trying, you see. I tried. Take a gander at this:

Before – Piping hot sugar laden funnel cake

After – Mostly eaten funnel cake surrounded by three girls who kept saying things like “We really shouldn’t have gotten two desserts” and “Boy do I feel pukey."

The Before and After I have in mind really can’t be photographed. Let me tell you a story instead.

Way back in the old days (aka 2006) Scott and I bought a townhouse. It was a decent house but it needed a lot of care. It was nearby to my mom and sister which was a bonus. It was in a semi decent school zone. It cut down on my commute although it added time to Scott’s. Centrally located in a large metropolis the neighborhood nonetheless felt more suburban than city.

In 2006 buying this house made perfect sense. Until, HOA fees skyrocketed, the economy collapsed and it took my entire pay check to pay the mortgage. See, back in 2006 we had crummy credit and a high interest rate. We were convinced real estate agents and mortgage brokers that after three years of faithful payments, the bank which held the mortgage (and would never, ever sell it because *this* bank didn’t believe in doing things like that) would be more willing to negotiate a refinance for a lower interest rate. It was a gamble that we took.

When the crash started, we were just starting our third year of payments. We struggled still from paycheck to paycheck and we needed that refi. HOA’s kept going up. Stress kept going up. And the mortgage company our loan was sent to wouldn’t even consider us for a refinance. When I called and begged them to work with us, they told me that I spent too much on groceries and should only be spending one hundred dollars a week for a family of four. And I should also consider getting rid of the pets.

Really?

Scott and I fought. A lot. They were quiet, simmering fights that often erupted over the most insignificant things. At the heart of everything was the financial whirlpool we were struggling against.

The house was now worth 70,000 dollars less than when we bought. The cars needed repairs. Doctors needed to get paid (and despite having decent insurance, you know that isn’t always enough). Bills, student loans, everything. And each month we watched as nearly every penny we earned was paid out to someone else.

By the end of 2010 we knew we couldn’t do it anymore. The house needed a new ac/heat unit, two of the three bathrooms were in major disrepair, the cars were still falling apart…the list goes on and we could afford none of it. But the more important concern was Scott’s and my relationship. Screw the house, the cars the money, we were falling apart.

Concerns over everything else turned us sour. We didn’t talk except to argue. Stress from both of our jobs played a role. I struggled with my job daily. I was frustrated and fed up with a system that I didn’t think would ever work. I came home everyday crying.

On a particularly bad night in December 2010, Scott and I made the choice to walk away from the house. It wasn’t worth our sanity anymore. The mortgage company told us they wouldn’t consider a short sale. They didn’t want to work with us. We stopped paying. We concentrated on getting other bills paid off and saving up money for the summer when we knew we would move.

I felt such tremendous guilt the entire time. I was raised to be responsible, to take care of my debts. Walking away from the house went against everything I believed in. But I did it anyway. I hurt my mom and sister, as I knew I would, because I didn’t turn to them for help. I didn’t want help at that point – I still don’t. Even worse, they made the assumption that I was jumping into this blind. I already felt miserable knowing I was disappointing them now I felt incompetent. In the end, I had to do what I thought was best for me and my family.

Scott and I found a place to rent in a great neighborhood at a price we could afford and we took the plunge. We knew I would quit my job. The commute and the stress were just too much. It wasn’t worth it. We knew that we’d still be tight just living on his salary but we figured I would find some form of job to cushion our bank account.

As promised, this is a before and after snapshot of my life.

It has been eight months since we moved. I still don’t have a job although I look everyday (I’m actually rather picky about what I will do as it has to fight around my schedule with the girls). Money is still tight because of it. But we budget and make do with less.  

The other day, Scott was leaving for work and I walked him out to his car. The cement carport was cold beneath my bare feet and the air held a crisp bite that promised to warm up. We held hands and hugged.

“Have you noticed how much nicer it’s been since we’ve moved here?” I asked him. He knows I don’t just mean the money or the bills.

“Yup.”

“Less stress,” I said. “Less fighting, more peaceful.”

The birds chirped and the sun just tipped over the top of the garage out back turning the sky a delightful rich pink. Scott pulled me tight into his arms. He needed to go to work and I was delaying him but he didn’t seem to mind. His commute now is about three minutes. He kissed the top of my head and rubbed my back.

“Yes,” he said, “Much better.”

Deja Bill

I’m cyclical. I have my routines and I like them. So it should come as no surprise that every February 2nd, along with millions of other Americans, I watch Groundhog Day. Every year, I see something different in it. This year, before even putting it in the DVD player, I recognize the self perpetuating rut that Bill Murray is stuck in. And I sympathize because I am also in a rut.

Unemployed, overweight, unproductive. Full of self pity, self woe and self hate.

Everyday is the same thing. I might not wake to Sonny and Cher every morning, but the metaphor rings out with truth. The alarm rattles my brain. Kids get up. Kids to school. Chores. Craft. Look for a job. Walk. Chores. Cook dinner. Chores. Go to bed and the cycle resets. If you say it quick enough it gets very chanty, like monks in prayer.

Nothing. Ever. Changes.

Bill Murray escaped from his rut by opening himself to new experiences and opportunities and love. I’ve got love. Being unemployed is certainly a new experience. And opportunities? Well, I’m not to sure about those.

The problem I seem to keep coming back to is that I feel I am not contributing to the house. I am here all day, doing wifely and motherly things, but I’m not bringing in money and our attempt to make a better financial future for ourselves is now being severely undermined.

When I left my job back in August I was confident that I would find something else. As August rolled into September and October, I was still determined, but more than a little worried. I started applying for jobs that I knew I wouldn’t like: waitress, night audit, retail. All jobs I’d did my time in before. And the sad thing is, I wasn’t hired for any of them. I wasn’t even called in for an interview. At a few places I was told I was too qualified. What the heck does that mean? I am too educated and therefore I can’t serve food. Seriously?

November came and with it company and the holidays. I put job hunting on the back burner and crossed my fingers that we’d be okay with just Scott’s salary. And it turns out we were okay. But only just. As before, we have no extra padding in our bank account. Each dollar, every penny is accounted for.

Should I have left my job knowing I had no job offer in the works? Yes. The commute alone would have killed the car and cost us in daycare expenses. Plus, I was unhappy in my work. I felt that I wasn’t making any difference in the lives of the students I taught. I grew frustrated by all the mandates from the district and state. And my frustration and anger was often taken out on Scott and the girls. It was the right decision for us to make. I am a much more pleasant person to be around now.

But still…I’m in this rut. And like Bill Murray, I sometimes despair at ever escaping it. Bill Murray eventually accepts responsibility for his actions and more importantly for his moral development. If he is to escape from a time loop, he must take action to make it happen for himself.

Eight years ago the commencement speaker at my college graduation said to us, “If it is to be, it is up to me.” Ten tiny powerful little words that I had never really thought about…until the other day when I was going through my letter box and each card my dad had sent me in the last eight years had this saying scrawled in the bottom left corner.

If it is to be, it is up to me.

If I am to escape from the rut that I am in then it is my own devices, intellect and actions that will make it happen. I cannot forever wait on the universe to go my way for in doing so I would be playing into a belief that the universe and all in it revolves around me and my wants.

So, Good-bye Rut. I’m tired of you and your silly nonsense. Today is the last day I allow myself to wallow. Yesterday I cried for something I did not have. Today, I scream to the world, what I want I can have if I make it happen.

Like Bill Murray, it is all up to me. My attitude needs to change. My habits need adjustment. My actions need to reflect my goals.

WWBMD – What Would Bill Murray Do?

I wonder if I can get that on a bracelet.