Tomorrow I return to work. And here's the weird thing--I'm EXCITED about it. Sick, right? I mean, work is supposed to suck; by definition, it's enforced toil of some unsavory sort, otherwise we'd do it for free. However, my job is just not that awful. And, let's face it, I do it for pretty close to free. (kidding, sort of). I love the people I work with, the students I teach, and the general classroom thing. Paperwork, bureaucracy, and pissy people aside, my job is amazingly cool. I get to talk about things I enjoy almost more than sleeping--reading and writing--and I get to manage my own environment (for the most part). What more could a bookish slacker who doesn't do well with direct authority wish for?

One significant drawback to returning to work, though, is the total destruction of any semblance of domestic order I may have wrought in the last two weeks. Clean kitchen: gone. Tidy living spaces: gone. General sense of order and control in my house: a faint dream. This transformation will occur within seconds of my departure tomorrow morning. The kids will hear my car door slam, crawl out of bed, and proceed to wreak havoc on all of the organization and cleanliness I created, laboriously and with rubber gloves affixed--and they'll probably laugh and whoop while they do so. My good intentions of home-cooked meals and minimal frivolous expenditures will last a little longer, but if the past is any indication, all semblance of organization will cease within a few weeks. I weep for my clean counters already.

How can I stave off the encroachment of disorder and dismay? I can already see it in the alarming sway of the shelves of lovingly folded linens where a boy (unidentified, but probably naked and soaking wet at the time) has yanked the bottom-most towel from the stack. Sadly, there have already been a number of shrill and discordant outbursts in which phrases like, "Dear God, can't you just hang up the towel ONCE?" and "Does anyone else in this house ever pick up a dish?" have figured prominently. It's not something I'm proud of.

My mother, of course, is feeling the irony of all this from her faraway location and probably laughing aloud. This level of obsessive concern about dishes and towels from the girl whose adolescent room was condemned at least weekly by the parental inspector? Such domestic focus from she who never, ever hung up her towel while living in her mother's house? Karma does, after all, exist. And man, does it pack a wallop!

I'm glad to provide my mother (and others, many others) with such amusing irony, but the question remains: how can I maintain the tenuous toehold on household harmony I've gouged by the sweat of my brow and the tenacious wielding of rubber gloves and scrub brush?I feel the approach of anarchy even now...should I worry?

Here we are at the beginning of another fresh, new year. I love the blank calendar and the untainted scent of the early days of January--nothing scratched out or screwed up yet. But we shall not devolve into negativity--this is a NEW YEAR, and it must be relished and honored.

I almost never mope about the past year's lost opportunities or gained pounds; I am a forward-looking girl, always ready to take on the challenge of a clear slate. While I gave up on resolutions years ago, I do enjoy a good planning/dreaming session at the beginning of each year. What will I do better/differently/at all this year? My optimism bubbles up with the champagne of New Year's Eve, and I look past my past foibles to what can only be a better year than the last.

This year, I'm on a spending freeze. No more coffees and magazines bought on a whim, no more I-can't-stand-the-idea-of-cooking fast food meals. This year's economy promises to be grim at best, and our finances can't take one penny's worth of additional strain. No leeway at all. Sadly, anyone who knows me also knows my impulsive nature, which, combined with a deeply ingrained aversion to all financial matters, puts this plan about two steps above excruciating on my personal pain scale. ARgh. But hope springs eternal and all that shit, so I'll just have to bite the f--ing bullet and put away the debit card for the duration.

Perhaps said spending freeze will also result in lost flubber? One can only hope, and the wardrobe gods will be glad, too. The seams have been a-straining lately, and since the budget is locked up tight, no newer, looser, kinder clothes shall be forthcoming. Thus, I shall have to get my therapy elsewhere.

Ah, therapy...whence comes my peace this year? It's been all too absent lately, and I could use some balance in my world. Somehow the boys, beloved as they are, don't seem to help with the peace thing. Husband neither, but that's to be expected. I just remember thinking--as I gazed lovingly and tiredly at my infants and toddlers and preschoolers--"I can't wait until he's older and can be reasonable and helpful." Yeah. Every mother in the world just fell off her chair, laughing hysterically. I now understand the pitying amusement in my mother's expression when I said these misguided and outrageously foolish things.

Teenagers, in my experience, are neither helpful nor reasonable. Every request I make, no matter how involved or simple, is met with a combination-eye-roll-lip-twist-and-tooth-sucking expression that must be some sort of genetic, DNA-level trigger for the visceral urge to smack the teenager in question out of his no-show socks. Unload the dishwasher? Roll-twist-suck. Make your bed? Again with the rts. Help your brother (who is 7, for heaven's sake) make his lunch? AGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHH!

Clearly, another topic for scrutiny this year (all year, daily, hourly) is my search for peace and balance. Between the boys and the husband and the house (don't get me started--see above rant about the dishwasher unloading) and work and my own school, I'm seriously out of control. I think I need therapy...or a really good assistant. Anyone know a housekeeper who's not afraid of boys-only bathrooms and who works for cheap?