In 2008, I gained TBID, a one-bedroom apartment, professional writing experience, confidence, and hope for the future.
I lost touch, a boyfriend, a beloved pet, and my temper.
I stopped trying to change others.
I started trying more new foods.
I was hugely satisfied by my promotion at work to being a full-time writer, Obama's victory, and finding someone to love who loves me in an incredibly empowering and stimulating way.
And frustrated by my inability at times to let things go.
I am so embarrassed that I was misrepresented in New York's most popular free daily newspaper. But that's not that bad.
Once again, I compared myself too much to others.
Once again, I did not act brashly enough.
The biggest physical difference between me last December and this December is I have red hair now.
The biggest psychological difference between me last December and this December is I'm more positive.
I loved spending time laughing with the people I love.
Why did I spend even two minutes precariously perched on regret?
I should have spent more time developing friendships and working on my writing.
I regret buying some of my lunchtime purchases at local retailers. My closets aren't that big.
I will never regret buying a plane ticket home even though with that money I could have bought a vacation somewhere much more glamorous.
I procrastinated way too much.
I didn’t go to yoga class nearly enough.
The constant limitation of time nearly drove me crazy.
The most relaxing place I went was home to Texas.
Why did I keep my mouth shut when I should have just been honest?
The best thing I did for someone else was helping kids I tutor get into new schools and academic programs that will give them chances for a better future.
The best thing I did for myself was finding a new apartment on my own and starting over.
The best thing someone did for me was believe in me.
The one thing I’d like to do again, but do it better, is invent the best version of me possible.

*Fill-in-the-blank template from Mary Schmich at The Chicago Tribune

What's your most interesting New Year's resolution?

Mine is "Wear sunglasses."

TBID is coming to Texas to meet my family in three days. I'm anticipating all the usual questions and lags in conversation and such. It's been at least three guys since I brought a romantic interest home to eat my mom's cooking and awkwardly talk about the economy.

Meanwhile, I've already opened my Christmas presents and am stuck at home. Everything is closed, and I'm lapsing into the post-Christmas Eve dinner coma. It's hard being this relaxed. I daresay my back craves a desk chair and a nice 9-5 slouch.

Since seeing the CEO of my company shimmy and thrust his pelvis to "Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go"(which did indeed invigorate me before I left the holiday party), I am officially on vacation. I had to take a lot of time off, because I kind of forgot to use my days and had no desire to spend a lot of money on trips. That is what 2009 must be about - I want to go on trips. Not the guilt or head or power kind.

Well, those are okay, I guess. But I also want the kind with currency exchanges and sleeping in a bed with itchy sheets and bad wallpaper.

This week, I'll tell you about my resolutions for next year and my year in review, which I'm already looking forward to researching, as I remember nothing. How is it December 14th today? I feel that I should be recovering from studying for my Gender, Class, and Ethnicity in American Literature and Film final or eating leftover Christmas school party cookies or something. Not sitting in my pajamas planning a wild night of cleaning my juicer and uploading cds from the library on my iTunes while thinking about the economy.

When did I grow up, and how do I make it stop?

Bettie Page died tonight, and I'm already dreading all the crap in the blogosphere about how much of an inspiration she was.

Every six months or so, I see some story about a professional of some kind who fooled everybody into thinking he or she was perfectly qualified for his or her position while actually illiterate.

Ever hear the one about the seasoned attorney who couldn't read and relied on the diligence of his underlings to get through each case, but somehow passed the Bar? Are these stories even plausible?

Today I heard about this retired teacher, John Corcoran, who taught 17 years (what I do not know - I hope not Language Arts) and couldn't read. What the hell?

I mentioned my bafflement at these stories to my officemate and he seemed to feel the same way I do. Why are these newsworthy? The last thing I'd want to know if Mr. Corcoran gave me a B was that the guy couldn't even read. It's probably also the last thing I'd want to know if he'd given me an A. (Was his class the easy class? Maybe he taught gym).

I also don't know what these stories are supposed to make me feel. Impressed that an illiterate person could so deftly keep from getting found out? Sad that he or she got away with it so long and was illiterate in the first place? Suspicious of the organization he was part of? Really glad that homeboy can now read Eat, Pray, Love like every other person on the planet?

But maybe I'm reading too much into it.

Dear Amanda,

While exploring potential angles for an article, your editor at work recently asked, "Are people having babies instead of buying homes in these tough economic times?" You replied, "Too bad you can't flip a baby."

Say what you will about independence and stretch marks, someday you might have a child. And squeezing that sack of potatoes-sized infant out of your tiny lady orifice is going to be the easy part.

Let's say you grow up and choose fertilization, because you're in love or crazy or the usual, both. What should you remember to do now that you might forget when you're busy wiping dependent, squalling ass or kissing every digit on a plump hand or foot? These are the things you can start with, from the gleam in your eye that may someday be your child:

1) If there's one thing your parents gave you, it was attention. Your dad has asked how your day was everyday as long as you can remember, and the answers generally range from "Meh" to "Fine." I hope your child is a better phone conversationalist than you, and you will continue the legacy of concerned talking and listening.

2) Let your child be different. Would you know what to do with normal offspring? I don't think so.

3) Talk to your child straight-forwardly about sex, relationships, politics, and general life stuff. You are amazed at the candor with which you and your tutees speak. They respect you as an authority, but there's no dumbing down or coddling or "because I said so." Maybe this won't work between a parent and child, but you can certainly try.

4) Understand that children move closer to independence each day. A close, healthy relationship as adults depends on respecting the right of a child to make his or her own mistakes on his or her own path. Just like you're doing now.

5) Surround your child with people of different races, ethnicities, classes, and sexual orientations. There is no one way to be.

6) Do not wheel around one of those obnoxiously large strollers or change a diaper within 30 yards of an outdoor cafe. You currently want to sterilize those people, and it's totally justified.

7) To the best of your ability, be the first example of who you want your child to be. I don't mean this narcissistically. If you want your child to say "please" and "thank you" and be open-minded, model these behaviors. The advice that the best thing a parent can do is love his or her spouse is simplified, but in the same vein. Your child is watching, and children's mimickry precedes mocking. You should probably start eating your vegetables.

8) Kid, you better work it. Household chores, volunteering, summer jobs, and internships are extremely valuable. Though you aspire to pay for the college education of your progeny - if they don't get full college scholarships, being the brilliant product of you and whomever you mate with - you want your kids to know the value of hard work. Basically, that it sucks if you don't enjoy what you're doing.

9) Lay down the law. Your kid will only watch x numbers of TV per week. No video games, especially handheld ones that fit perfectly in a backpack. There will be no soda or Ann Coulter in the house. Because you're the mom, and you know best.

10) Give your child opportunities you didn't have, like extensive travel, summer camp, and the best possible schooling. Find a way to provide this with no guilt tripping. Okay, with guilt trips that come with a window seat and complimentary beverage. (Not soda).

Sincerely,
Amanda

This Thanksgiving, I'm grateful for...my family, sliders, the healing powers of time, TBID, spell-check, humorous co-workers, colorful leaves, good photos, laugh lines, early mornings, cackling, democracy, gel ink, and Stevie Wonder.

I consider these guys my pets. The little one is named Ike; the bigger one is Big Sister. I know I'm insane.

I originally planned to cut them - or at least Big Sister - up in search of seeds I could roast once they weren't timely seasonal decorations. But now I don't know if I want to do that or keep the pumpkins in my kitchen until they rot. They're just so cute.

If the economy gets so bad that I get laid off, I hope people will pay me to follow them around like a paparazzo. I think I might be good at it.

Like many Americans, I lost a lot of faith in the democratic process during the 2000 election. The problem was, I had no voice. A senior in high school, I was six months shy of voting age. The closest I got to the polls was a mock-election at my small Texas school. You can guess how that turned out as easily as you could spot kids wearing Wranglers or crosses.

In 2004, I finally got to vote. When John Kerry conceded to George W. Bush - a man I am convinced never should have been in the White House in the first place - I was student teaching at a high school in East Austin. I was really feeling down about the political scene and felt worse when I went to the school and found the front entrance locked.

Surely the world hadn't ended? Austin is a liberal city, the only one in the Lone Star State. Had it ceased everything in protest? I knocked on the door when I saw a police officer walk by. He made eye contact and started walking toward me. The door cracked open a sliver.

"Do you have business here?" he barked

"I'm a student teacher," I said, presenting my id. "What's going on?"

He looked from my picture on the hard plastic card to me. "There's a guy here with a gun threatening to shoot," he said, as if he were giving me directions to the nearest bathroom. "You can go wait in the office."

With a tiny bit of concern that my guts might soon be heavy with bullets and disappointment in my nation, I walked a few feet into the office and sat in a chair. The secretary barely looked up. Some tardy students studied me with that expression that meant, "The new student is way too dressed up. Who does she think she is - a teacher?"

Then this woman in the back asked about the Kerry button on my backpack. Because I like to give people the benefit of the doubt, I assumed she was a Democrat.

"Yeah, too bad for John Kerry," she murmured. "He has no respect for family values." Then her head started to rotate. My stomach lurched, and I tried to think of the best way to express my opinions and keep my internship.

"What an ignorant and stereotypical thing to say," I replied. Then I started thinking about gun laws and the armed guy running about the halls. Once we were free to go back to the normal school routine, I asked around and discovered the judgmental biddy was the guidance counselor.

*In case you're wondering, the crazy gunman got away. He only wanted to shoot his knocked up girlfriend, anyway. Kids...

My second election experience is a chance for America to make it right by voting left. I went to the polls at 6:25 this morning and waited over an hour before flipping my switches and pulling the lever. It was hot, crowded, and slow-moving, and I waited it out with many others. Words cannot describe how much weight and levity simultaneously inhabited that room. My historically black neighborhood was pumped. Elderly people with wheelchairs and canes made it out. A few parents brought their children. No one got impatient or yelled or gave up.

I've never felt such a sense of community in my neighborhood or in this city.

A teary-eyed old man kept repeating, "I had to get up early. I never seen anything like this."

Everyone nodded in agreement.

November first, the beginning of NaBloPoMo. A very loaded day.

Today's my mom's birthday. The story I remember being told was that her teenage mother (my mom was an unplanned pregnancy) wasn't due for another few weeks that Halloween in 1960. It was unusually cold that year, and when she waddled to the porch to give some trick-or-treaters candy, she slipped on a patch of ice. The next day, my mom was born.

She looked exactly like she does now. It's uncanny. As a kid, I remember looking at my own baby pictures with no recognition. But my mom's were different - I could clearly see her in that black and white infant face, looking authoritative even in diapers.

Today is also Cade's birthday. It's weird when someone goes from being a big part of your life to a part of your backstory. When it's been less than a year after you've stopped dating someone like that, there's this Emily Post kind of struggle. Am I obligated to point out via e-card that I remembered his birthday? What do I write in it now that I know so little about his life?

After I broke up with Sam, my college boyfriend of three years, I send birthday cards two years in a row. I couldn't let February third pass without some kind of communication. He never expressed thanks or anything, but I know he got them. I didn't send one last year, because the date passed before I realized what I'd done - I'd forgotten what used to be an important day.

It's just like how you forget how badly you were hurt when you fall in love with someone else. (It may be fleeting however, that romantic dementia). There's something liberating about it.

Chances are, though, I'll never forget November first. It holds sunlight and reddish leaves and wet smells for me. It is so much birth.

Hi, everyone.

I had a very structured, productive day, so please understand when I tell you that I can now barely put three sentences together. Because so many of you nice people stopped by today, I'm going to post something. It'll be extremely stream-of-conscious, and I'm giving myself a certain small amount of time. Ready? Okay, let's go.

*

Why I want a bulldog right now:

My heart just exploded a little.

*

This weekend was kind of odd. TBID and I made plans to visit this place that was on The Sopranos. It's apparently a good place to dispose of dead bodies. It's also a good place to get caught in the rain with nothing to do, as we went through with our trip despite an 80% chance of rain. Then we went to Philadelphia. It's the same kind of place, I guess, minus The Sopranos.

*

I am now obsessed with high-end sliders. I ate them Saturday, Sunday, and made plans to have them tomorrow night with the man I used to beard. Sometimes it's embarrassing to have such juvenile food fetishes. I won't ever really enjoy a leek soup.

*

Today I thought to myself: "It's been a really long time since I accidentally wore my underwear inside out."

*

Tomorrow, I'm interviewing a big company that rhymes with Moogle. Thursday, I get to talk to Kraft. I ate so much macaroni and cheese as a kid that I feel like I should get sentimental or something.

*

I'm doing a decent job keeping my book blog up-to-date. It's quite teacherly.

*

John Legend's new album, Evolver, drops tomorrow. I'm thinking he will have finally sold his soul and sound really poppy, but he just looks so good doing it. Guess who will be going to his next concert and screaming like an idiot? TBID. And me.

*

I plan to do NaBloPoMo again this November. The idea of writing a blog entry every day fills me with trepidation. Please email me or leave a comment if you have any topic suggestions.

*

Nabokov is so great.

*

And I'm done. That's all she wrote.

Last Friday, I asked my officemate what animal he thought he most resembled. Not caring to give it much thought, he said he had no idea.

Sighing, I tried to prod him. "For example," I said, thinking of a co-worker with lots of dark, unkempt hair. "Phil would be a yak."

My officemate dismissed the comparison. "Phil isn't big enough to be a yak."

We got quiet and went back to our work.

"You'd be a rabbit," he finally said in a joking tone. "Because you sometimes get a crazy look in your eyes and are always about to pee."

It's true, more or less. I am always about to pee -- I drink at least three liters of water daily. My officemate hears me leave my desk approximately 4,327 times a week.

After seeing this candid picture TBID took at Sunset Park , I realize I probably often look like I have to pee, too.

Some people call it the pee pee dance. I call it just being me.

Somewhere deep inside of me is the desire to blog. I know there is. There's also the natural ability to float on water, and let's just say I have been sinking like a rock since 1983.

I really don't want to write at this very moment. Instead, I'd prefer to read, talk to myself in the bath, and sleep. In that order. But I feel really guilty when I don't blog, just like some people feel guilty when they skip yoga class weeks on end (read: me) or eat fast food (read: almost never me - living to see 60 is overrated).

Thus, this entry. I have two things I've been thinking about in the last few days that I want to share in as non-preachy a way as possible. And then I'm going to recline and not get back up for a very long time. Don't worry, no extra value meals will be involved in this indulgent proneness.

1) A few friends of mine are in transition stages right now. One has just finished graduate school with a degree in something he is passionate about, a course of study that is not favored in a crappy job market. Nonetheless, I know he will find a position with benefits doing something.

Well, he will if he looks for one. The guy is so busy going out that I don't think he's really come up with a solid job search plan. I know it's scary, because I've been through it, but I'm getting really tired of being regaled with stories of his nights on the town when he's started worrying about scraping rent money together.

In conversation with another completely different friend last night, I started thinking about how other people I know are holding themselves back. Why do we - and I include myself here - sometimes shirk what we owe ourselves? We cling to this idea that denying ourselves what we so desperately need is okay, because maybe that means things are less messy, not as lonely, and more comfortable.

Stop it already. Do what you know you need to do for yourself, whether it involves going to bed earlier, asking for help, or sitting on your ass and perusing Monster.com.

You will thank yourself later.

2) I will preface this second thought by confessing that I haven't been following the election as closely as I could have, but I have a crush on Obama, and I don't mean Barack. The surge of Michelle-bashing - from Fox News referring to her as "Obama's baby mama" to people calling her "uppity" - really bothers me.

For all America's recent exploits in sexism regarding Hillary Clinton, the Michelle Obama comments aren't just about her being a strong woman. Many of them are mired in racism. Who calls white women "uppity"? "Bitchy," yes. But "uppity"?

Sure, Michelle can put her foot in her mouth. But I'd rather have a first lady who does that, instead of the glassy-eyed Laura Bush variety. That woman always looks like she's under general anesthesia.

The whole "image softening" blitz bothers me, too. Why does the potential first lady have to sugar it up and go on The View and the cover of US Weekly to convince people that she's not intimidating? Why do the potential first ladies still do that lame cookie bake-off? (Cindy McCain allegedly plagiarized her recipe, by the way). Why do we even call them "ladies"?

Michelle Obama is smart and opinionated. I personally like that she worked hard to get where she is, unlike the other first lady option out there. And also, not that I care, but she looks great in a sheath. Leave her alone.

Q: When are you going to post pictures of the new apartment?

A: When the living floor isn't completely covered by boxes, which is to say, in 2009. Seriously, I'm planning on getting the place set up when my dad comes up for a visit at the end of the week.


Q: Why don't you post pictures much anymore?

A: I'm just not feeling like it. Also, the settings on my handy point and shoot were funked up by someone who shall not be named. I don't care enough to remedy the situation, as I am getting a fancy camera as a belated birthday present.


Q: What's with that announcement about changes being made to the blog? Are you ending the blog?

A: No, I'm hoping to keep the blog kicking until it randomly vanishes one day when I press the wrong button. Then, after years of therapy, I might try to resurrect it. I did have plans to change the blog, but those plans have been put on the back burners' back burners now that almost everything I own lives in a cardboard box.


Q: Do you have more gender-neutral grocery items to share?

A: This idea seems to intrigue a lot of people. Here's what others have come up with since reading my post: Rahuman noodles, humanicotti, Theirshey's Kisses (or should it be Theirthey's Kisses?), and theyro sandwich.

If you have more, please share.

Dear Amanda,

On Saturday, you will be 25. Just 24 years ago, you blew out frosting-flecked candles while flanked by all your loved ones. Now you will be packing your things from a small apartment in New York City - so small only a few loved ones can fit into such a place at a time, provided that they keep rotating bathroom occupancy - into a truck. You will move to a place with more walls and doors than you dreamed you'd have anytime soon. Even though you long escaped the protective clutches of home, it's the first apartment you ever chose all by yourself with no one else's input. You will have no one else to credit when you finally have space for a couch, no one else to blame when you have to carry it up three flights of stairs.

I'm writing this letter to you - to me - in order to record some thoughts I've been having about this quarter-century mark and what it means for us. Sometimes I try to imagine what the next 25 years will be like, if you are fortunate enough to have them, and who you will be at 50. Honestly, my head spins thinking about two-year leases and waterproof mascara, but I know I need to set some goals and think of what you may need to hear one of these days. Below are some things you might want to consider sometime, from Amanda at almost 25 to Amanda at any age after:

1. Never forget where you came from. You will always be a Texan, you will always be able to affect an accent, and you will always think authentic Mexican food is best served by tattooed ex-convicts. You are the product of two lines of working-class people who have struggled to make ends meet and live day to day. This is not a liability. It is part of who you are.

2. Think of all the help you've received from strangers who owed you nothing - your mentor, Life Coach, and countless educators who have helped you achieve your dreams semesters after you were in their classes. Be one of those people to at least one younger person you meet. Maybe he or she will remind you of when you needed a contact or friend, or maybe the circumstances will be completely different. But do it without wondering what you'll get out of it. Do it because you were lucky to have various people fill that role for you.

3. You will lose the people you love. You'll break up with a lover or a handful of them, because things will change for the worse. The law may have to be involved someday, along with lots of boxes, tears, and paperwork. You will get over it. In a matter of time, you will laugh and it won't be done bitterly at yourself and what you thought you had. You will also probably find someone else with whom to share your laughter.

4. It is certain that people you love will die, and you will never be ready for that. It will scar you forever, and you will struggle to remember their voices. (They're easy enough to forget with people who are still around, people with whom you could still talk if you had the desire or courage). Love while you can and try not to take for granted the good things, the annoyances, the fact that you have been fortunate to have your loved ones as long as you did. Maybe I should say do, for death never breaks the bonds between people, the chains between hearts.

5. As I write this, you are still so young with so much to experience. Will I even be able to recognize you 25 years from now? What about 10? Maybe you'll have kids, a spouse, a book deal, a house. Maybe you'll have none of these things. (I'm not even going into the fact that you will always have a mixture of pleasant and unpleasant circumstances that govern your life). Whatever you do, I wish you every happiness you grow to want. Trust that you can make some things happen. Other things out of your control can be survived.

I was going to close with some silly reminders, like "No mom jeans ever!" and "Take lots of pictures!" and "Make sure your having lived makes the world better, even if in a tiny way." But you know some of what to do and will figure out the rest. Maybe you can tell someone like me all about it someday.

I love you and am very excited to watch you grow.

Love,
Amanda

Despite my drying green face masque, I'm currently considering walking to the bodega at the end of the block for a cool beverage.

The phrase "off the deep end" comes to mind.

What I Want To Say...

To You:

A $75 deductible?! To tell me my teeth are fine?! I think I'll go scour the Craigslist apartment listings abroad or watch Sicko now.

And To You:

When we lock eyes at work, it grosses me out. But not as much as when you make business calls in that Valley girl voice while massaging your temples.

YOU!

Each week that I see you, I am more proud of the young woman you are becoming. The empathy and insight you bring to what you're reading blow me away. Watching you grow up is a privilege.

And You:

I shouldn't have, but I felt bad. Did you cry when you saw it? Did you feel remorseful? Did you know any reaction you had was pointless and probably never to be shared?

Believe it or not, You:

You can't remember the last time you had a compliment. Remember this: You are one of the nicest, most genuine people I've met here. That doesn't mean you aren't a curmudgeon, because you definitely are (and you're proud of it). Still, you listen better than most anyone I know and throw out one-liners like a lasso. Your good side casts a great shadow and draws people to you. You didn't think it was the free magazines, did you?

Let's not forget You:

I'm sorry I've seemingly been ignoring you. I just don't know what to say. I never wanted to hurt your feelings.

And lastly YOU:

Have you noticed that the walls you thankfully, haven't tried too hard to scale are coming down little by little? I'm happy I met you.

The best thing about Saturday is it's not Friday, and the best thing about Sunday is it's not Monday. And the best thing about this weekend as a whole is that I went outside yesterday and didn't wear a jacket.

I repeat, I didn't wear a jacket. It was so warm, if a bit cloudy, that I didn't need one. It was right to bare arms. My freckles made like jumping beans, melanin flexing in the warmth. I hadn't realized how much I needed spring.

Now the trees are blossoming, and all the tulips, daffodils, and hyacinths yawn into bloom from the custody of city flower beds and pots. There were numerous street fairs along Broadway replete with cheap purses and jewelry, palm readers, music, and deep fried Oreos.

I walked around downtown with this guy I've been dating, taking in all I could. Sometimes it's nice to just look and listen and feel the sunshine on your face like someday you'll be depended on to tell someone what that was like back when the sun used to do that, and jackets weren't necessary.

That person will most likely be me next winter, perhaps in those stubborn, freezing days in March. I wonder who I'll be then. I wonder if I'll feel the waiting, heavy as coins, for weeks, or if I'll just stumble again - in a single day - upon exactly what I needed.