Do It Yourself, Bob.

Growing up, there was one motivational mantra that was ingrained in the minds of my brothers and I from day one. Ok, so maybe it was more of a motivational wisecrack than a mantra. Well, if I'm being entirely honest, it was an infuriating cop-out of an excuse for instilling independence in children that became as cliche as "Because I said so," "Wait and see," or "If so-and-so jumped off a bridge, would you do it too?". (Sorry, mom.)

This banal retort of my mother's was her standardized response whenever one of us asked for something to be done for us. Or rather, us telling her that something needed to be done, in tune with the oh-so-cordial manner of asking for favors by children and teenagers.

Us:
"I have no clean clothes, do my laundry!"
"I'm hungry, make me a snack!"
"I want to watch a movie, put one in for me!"

Mom:
"Do it yourself, Bob!"

(Nevermind the fact that none of us were named Bob.)

So here I am, five years removed from my parents house: a 23-year-old new wife, soon-to-be home owner, two-time cat mommy, part-time marketing manager and full-time obsessive-compulsive organizational freak. (Try to top me in hyphenated titles, I dare you.)

And as shallow as I know it is, I often find myself sucked into the superficial, Keeping-Up-with-the-Joneses mentality that is consumerism. I want a nice house, I want nice furniture, I want to cook nice meals, I want to give nice gifts, I want to wear nice clothing, I want, I want, I want, I WANT!!!!!

Whew, Ok. Deep breath................

Well, I realized that with my part-time hourly salary and my husband's sufficient yet entry-level one, it's going to be quite some time before we can afford that mid-century farm house on the acreage with the wrap-around porch, attached 4-car garage and 250 sq. foot walk-in closet featuring my Coach bag collection. :-)

"DREAM HOUSE":

What's a girl to do? I figure I have two options: A.) Wallow in self-pity, adopt another cat, spend my days watching Golden Girls reruns on Lifetime while eating Ramen noodles and canned tuna and my evenings watching Seinfeld and downing bottles of Blackberry Arbor Mist and smoking Pall Malls (eventually leading to obesity, heart disease, alcoholism, lung cancer and divorce, I'm sure).... or, B.) Do It Myself, Bob.

So while Option A might land me a made-for-TV movie in my honor after I OD on Percocet and my neighbors find me weeks later only after the incessant meowing becomes too loud to handle, I'm gonna go with Option B.

I invite you to join me as I embark on my little journey of self-actualization and, surely, embarassment. I must warn you, my DIY skill set consists mostly of paper crafting, semi-level picture hanging and ready-to-assemble furniture building. I would tell you exactly what this blog will entail for its readers in the future, but I myself am unaware of those details.

And if while reading about my novice ventures, you find yourself thinking "Somebody should tell this girl what she's doing wrong!" Please. I beg of you.

During the past year, my mom adopted an addition to the family and named him Bob. Ironically, Bob's a cat, and the only things he can truly do for himself are eat, scratch and poop.