Where'd the monkeys in my hair go?

I don't do resolutions. I think they're stupid. And clearly they don't work. I think everything's stupid sometimes. Its one of my less attractive personality traits- a tendency to get all look-down-my-nosey. Its lame. But I'm just so cool. Or snotty. Or something.

Anyway, I figure if you need to change something about your life, you need to change it now. I mean now. Or tomorrow when you've got a plan for how to do it. But a magic analog change of the year, flippy number, brand newness... not going to do it. Change come because you work for it, becuase you're ready for it, because it needs to.

My brother makes minutia resolutions. Like that he'll randomly turn on his turn signal more often, or use words that start with q more often, or something equal inane. I love them. One year, he reset his trip-tick in the car every time someone did something utterly stupid. I don't think he ever got above 3 miles.

But I'm on the cusp of some change that needs to happen. It has to do with my picking. Not noses. I know I just posted about 7 year olds wiping boogs on the wall and that I've confessed to picking my own baby's nose but I have no intention of stopping either of those things. Well, until my baby's 7. By then, I promise to have stopped picking his nose, and if he's wiping them on the walls of his bedroom, we'll see how I feel about New Year's Resolutions, then, shall we?

No, I'm a husband picker. A critical, snotty, know-it-all who wants things done my way. A girlfriend just confessed that she started to ask her husband if he really needed that much shampoo when they were showering together and I thought, "YES! That's what I mean!"

I realized it when I was watching him play a video game and he went a different way than I would have and internally I screamed out "YOU'RE GOING THE WRONG WAY!"

Who is this lady and what has she done with me? I don't want to be a picker. I don't want to be a nasty wifey type that just groans and complains about everything my husband does.

It started small though. I was afraid of being on the other end of the spectrum. Those annoying types who say "hubby" and talk about how perfect their man is all the time. "OMG! He's, like, so incredibly sweet!" I think barbie-colored vomit will come out my nose if I look at them when they act that way. I mean the ones with husbands who are all bloated on the couch and she does everything and he does nothing and doesn't ever listen when she talks. BLECH! Women with adult bodies but children's roles. Or maids. I want no part of it.

I like strong women. Women with backbones and big mouths. Who occasionally stick their foot in their big mouth and laugh with their mouth full anyway. Laugh big full bellied laughs that fill the room with confidence and good feeling. You know?

But somehow I crept over into picking instead of staying with my toes on the right part of this balancing act of marriage. My toes over the line and I'm going to have to scratch that one and swallow hard instead of asking what setting the laundry was run on. WHO FUCKING CARES? Wait, I do. I care that I have a husband who gets up in time to have the driveway shoveled for me. I care that I have a husband who buys beer I'll like at the store now that I'm not pregnant, and bought kinds he knew I wouldn't when I was. I care that he asks what time I'll be home and sometimes has a plate ready for me (he's on his leave now.)

He's a pretty nice guy. No, he's a really nice guy. And a darned fine dad. And I should treat him like I want someone to treat my son and leave the criticism behind. You know when it needs to be left. Leave it in 2010. Its the tweens, starting tomorrow. And I'm resolved to shift myself away from the bitchiness, the scritchy, scratchy, picky criticalness. And just enjoy the best year of my life.