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?