Slightly Off the Grid

Happy New Year!  This year, like every other year, my resolution is to be like Mary Poppins–“practically perfect in every way.”

(I can hear your snide remarks but, admit it, you have the same resolution. )

We’ll start with the cheery disposition, rosy cheeks, and no warts.  I’m ok with the wart thing and there are lotions for those “horrid age spots” (even though the shampoo girl at the hairdresser still keeps trying to rub them off, thinking they are hair color stains).  Rosy cheeks–there’s make-up for that.  And the cheery disposition can be amended with coffee in the a.m. and wine after work.

But I don’t stand a chalk-sketch’s chance in a rainstorm of being Mary Poppins perfect.  And here’s why:

• I start to fall apart with the “playing games, all sorts.”  Really.  I’d rather pretend to watch you play a game while I read a book.  I’m good with treats, though.
• As for outings, after a 70 mile round trip commute to work every day, I don’t do outings.  I do innings, minus the baseball.
• I can’t snap my fingers to have a tidy house.  And while I may be able to con a little kid into cleaning a room, I can’t fool myself– which is why I’m sitting here writing my 100th post (woo hoo!) instead of organizing the disaster around me.
• My purse.  I can’t even find my car keys in the one I have.  And who wants a purse big enough to hold a coat rack?  Seriously.

Besides, the goal is not to be Mary Poppins.  It’s to be “practically perfect.”  In 365 days.  This year, 2012 helps out with an extra day.  Not that it will matter.  I can’t even decide where to begin.

I could begin with this office.  It could take me all year to get it in shape.  Can I achieve a practically perfect office in 366 days? It’s not a bad goal–it’s huge enough to make a difference in my life, but defined enough not to be overwhelming.

I’ll need an incentive…a spoonful of sugar, as it were.    I’ll make a deal with myself.  When the room is practically perfect, I’ll get myself a new desk chair.  A comfy brown leather one like I gave Shelley for Christmas.

Sounds like a plan.  A supercalifragilisticexpialidocious plan.