Ouch ... dates don't lie. It's been six months. But I'm going to write this anyway.

Most people would be embarrassed to have started a blog, let it go for a few months, then started again ever so enthusiastically, only to once again let it go for even longer. Six months, to be exact. But strangely, not me.

I feel a little lame, of course. Actually, a lot lame. But I know this blog is a good idea, so here I am again, Feb. 20, 2010, a whopping six months since my last post, getting back on the horse again.

If that doesn't inspire you to go ahead and do that thing you've been avoiding for so long, well, maybe something else will. But feel better knowing that you're not alone feeling lame about not doing something that you know is so good for you. You've probably let it go for so long that you're thinking to yourself, "What's the use? I'll just drop it again another time." That's what I've been thinking about this blog, anyway, for last three months or so. So, know you're not alone.

Naturally, it's that thought that makes me stop thinking about this blog and avoid doing it. We make ourselves feel so bad about not doing what we've set out to do, whether it's keeping a journal, cleaning out our closets, or reconnecting with a loved one we've lost touch with, that we just keep on not doing those things, and keep on feeling bad about it anyway.

Big or small, once we mess up -- or give up -- it becomes an easy excuse to keep up with the giving up (or the messing up, or whatever masochistic habit or lack of habit it may be).

Why are we like this? What's the secret to not being like this? I think the secret might be to have no shame. I thought I felt lame about starting this blog back up for the third time. But as I write this, I'm starting to see what I really feel lame about. And it it's not about starting this blog back up.

It's sharing that I've started this blog back up -- for the third time -- that makes me feel lame. It's thinking about what my friends and family will think when they get my enthusiastic e-mail that, "It's true! I've started my blog back up for the third time!"that makes me feel lame.

And so, the secret to not feeling lame, I've decided, is just have no shame. That's it.

My couch may be ruining my life

I think I may be hypocrite. And it's my couch's fault.

This bummer of a wake-up call happened last night while I was relaxing on my couch, enjoying some quiet time alone after a busy weekend.

The culprit couch is in one the two rooms in our new-to-us house that I consider in pretty good shape. The walls are painted and are (mostly) blemish-free. The furniture -- a mix of new, hand-me downs, and flea market and discount store finds -- actually kind of matches and looks good. And it's easy to keep clutter-free. I like it.

So, I was lying there last night, unwinding, and started to think about the weekend. We'd had some friends over Saturday to hang-out by the pool and cook out. But other than celebrating the appearance of the sun finally, there was another plan that had lead to this gathering: It was a "fight night."

A fight night is exactly what it sounds like. There was some special Pay-Per-View fight on that night that my husband had been anticipating for weeks, and he and his friends had been getting geared up for it for days.

So this big fight was coming up and of course, they were plotting to hold this brutality viewing extravaganza at somebody's house. Immediately upon hearing this, my stomach turned.

We have a pretty good house when it comes to hosting a party or two. We have a pool and yard, plus a couple of decent-sized TVs (and that's an understatement) and a variety of gaming systems. So, it's kinda the ideal place to gather.

Usually, though, the "fun" naturally flows to either the outside patio or the basement, where the games and highly durable furniture live. But this time, on this night of nights, only one room would do for the fight -- the "Renee's peaceful-and-pretty-and-free-of-eating-and-dark-colored-beverages" room.

There was that stomachache again.

Luckily, I had an important event the following morning, plus we were having work done on the house the next day, so I had many reasons to back up why this fight night really shouldn't happen at our house. (That, and my husband is well-versed in my reactions at anything happening in, on or around my precious new and light-colored living room set.)

But somehow, somehow, I still wound up hearing those dreaded words come out of my husband's mouth later that day, almost like a record played on super slow motion: "We're just gonna do it here."

Nooooooo!

That's right -- Renee's peaceful-and-pretty-and-free-of-eating-and-dark-colored-beverages room was the choice location.(Disclaimer: The group originally slated for six or seven guys had at that point been whittled down to just three including my husband. This change was his grounds for boldly making the move to stay at our place for the fight. Boldly. Very, very boldly ...)

Upon hearing the news, I'm sure my brow furrowed, and then I ran inside and hid the Doritos (orange ... fingers ... guys who've been drinking poolside all day -- the horror!). Then, still not feeling secure, I actually texted my husband from the other room (so as not to make a scene, of course) to PLEASE not drink anything other than beer in there (I figured it's clear, I can work with it).

Still, with all these lines of defense, I was in shock at what was unfolding before me. And powerless to do anything. Was I going to make a scene, in front of his friends? I don't think so. But inside, I was all torn up. Torn up!

(And here's where I'm a hypocrite: We bought both our moms nice handbags for their birthdays this year, and guess how many times I've seen either of them use them? My mom once (and I know she did it because I'd been asking), and his mom, zero. Why haven't they sported their nice new Coach bags? They don't want to -- guess what? -- ruin them. I've threatened to take back my own mom's if she doesn't start living a little and using it. Pot. Kettle. Black. You bet. That's what I'm saying. I need help.)

A day after fight night, everything -- naturally -- was fine. There were no stains (though I didn't flip the cushions, now that I think of it). There was no dire destruction of my custom sofa and chair (my biggest purchase since our Maui honeymoon, I'd like to add for the record).

But I'm still a little freaked out. More freaked out at myself, though, I think. Who is so worried about her furniture being ruined that she texts her husband ground rules in the middle of a party?

I tell myself -- and anyone else who's kind enough to act like they care -- that I'm extra sensitive about the stuff because it's the one nice thing I've bought for our house, the one thing that wasn't either handed down or settled on because it was found at a bargain price. I actually hand-picked the stuff and it was made to my exact specifications, my first big contribution to our first home. It was an "investment piece," or pieces. That's what Ethan Allen said, anyway.

But investment aside (And is that even possible? For furniture?), is it worth all this crap? Is it worth the worry anytime my husband or anyone else ventures in there with -- oh my God! -- a beverage? A food? Probably not.

But then I have that other voice in my head saying, "Renee, this is one of the only nice things you have in the house. Don't you want to take care of it? Don't you want it to stay that way?"

And I don't know what to do.

Is there some happy medium where you can still enjoy the things you've worked hard for, while keeping them nice as well? Will I say, "To hell with it!" one day, and then regret my carefree attitude when there's a major blemish (i.e., imperfection) the next?

Does it have to be one or the other? I'm not sure. I could actually use a little advice on that.

The one thing I do know is, it's not really worth getting upset with my husband -- or worse! -- freaking out a friend, just to keep it "nice," right?

I guess it's about letting go. If someone could just teach me how to let go without letting things go (i.e., letting things go to crap), I'm all ears.

Feel free to offer your words of wisdom or tips in the comments below. Maybe I just need a little nudge in the right direction, whatever direction that may be.

Family is messy

Family.

It's the stuff of countless TV shows, just as many movies, and fodder for some of the funniest stand-up comedy acts I've heard. It's the other "f" word.

After recently spending a day with my own, and then collapsing in a pile on the couch after their departure -- and this was for a kid's birthday party -- I wondered how it is that these people I call my family can take so much out of me.

"I don't feel this exhausted after spending the day with friends," I thought to myself, kind of horrified at my feelings, and totally perplexed.

"Why was that so hard?" I kept trying to figure out.

After having friends over my house, I usually feel just fine, having had lots of laughs most times, lots of merriment, etc.

So why, then, after hosting my family, is the feeling I'm left with so different? After all, wasn't my family my first real group of friends, so to speak? Shouldn't things be easiest, most comfortable with them?

"Is something wrong with me that I just found it so tiring to be with my family? Is my family that dysfunctional? Is it just me? Do we just not spend enough time together ...?"

But no. I don't spend a ton of time with my friends, either, but whenever we have a planned or even impromptu get-together, it's just so much easier.

And then, as usual, it hit me. The classic perfectionist issue: For perfection-seekers, family is a constant, losing battle. It'll never be perfect. Not in the clean, tidy sense of the word, anyway.

Family is totally imperfect, because as much as it defines who we are, it also defines exactly who we're not. We may be related and have so much that makes us alike, but that doesn't mean we're the same. And that can equal wrinkled and messy.

Despite our best individual attempts to be who we want to be, sometimes family can fly in the face of that, and we'll look at them and wonder, "What the *&%#?"

The very fact that no matter what, they're a part of us, can be endlessly frustrating when you can't for the life of you figure out where they're coming from.

While we can accept the imperfections of our friends because we're probably thinking, if we even notice, "What's it got to do with me?" the imperfections of our family are just too close to home to ignore, aren't they?

For some of us, maybe it's because their imperfections remind of us our own, and that annoys us on a level we're probably not even aware of.

Or maybe it's because were so closely entwined just by the blood running through our veins -- or our shared history, or even our lack of shared history, as the case may be -- that what our family does just cuts deep, holding some kind of meaning for or reflection on ourselves, whether we like it or care to admit it or not.

Sometimes with the fam, the little things don’t just roll off our backs the way they could with a friend. Families are tied together whether we like it or not, whether one of us is being awesome or horrible, funny or annoying, kind or mean. And unless we plan to ditch the family, we just have to deal with it.

Of course, we can address the things that bother us with the offending family members, perhaps even with greater ease than we could with a friend. But this -- for the reasons it bothers us in the first place -- can be even more exhausting, and begs the question, "Is it even worth it?"

Friends can be pains, too, don't get me wrong. But family is supposed to be our place of safety, of security. At least, in a perfect world it would be that way.

But as long as perfect to the perfectionist -- or the over-achiever or the Type A personality, whatever you want to call it -- means neat and orderly and tidy, family will inevitably be exhausting.

If we take a step back, though, and realize that all the years of love, arguments, joys and sorrows could never be orderly, this new perspective might make the imperfect thing we call family just a little bit easier to deal with.

So the next time I find myself wondering, "Where did these people come from?" I'll try to remember this:

"My family is a wrinkled, imperfect mess. They may exhaust me -- and I them -- but they're my family, and they make me, me. The good parts and the bad."

What I learned from Liv Tyler

People who know me will probably roll their eyes when they read this, but I'm going to say it anyway: I may not have a perfect stomach, but thank God I have skinny ankles!

I stole that from actress/model/Steven Tyler's daughter Liv Tyler, actually. It's a quote of hers I read recently, and it hit home in a way that made me realize, "Wow, what a good way to think."

It may seem obvious that it's always better to look at the positive. For a person with perfectionist tendencies, though, it's not really part of the deal. For a perfectionist, there's always something that can be improved, something that could be better.

The actual quote, from Britain's "The Sunday Times Style" magazine, is, "All you can do really is try your best and accept yourself. I'll always have a more round stomach, but thank God I have thin ankles."

Reading this quote somehow, for the first time, really made me realize, "Hmm. I guess some things just really can't be controlled."

If a superstar with endless resources realizes she can't have a perfect stomach -- or whatever else it may be -- maybe it's time I accept this, too, I thought.

I'm pretty sure all of us are unhappy with at least one thing -- and in most cases, for women at least, a few different things -- about our appearances. Mine has always been the stomach area. It's just the one thing I've always focused on, staring at it, prodding at it, checking it out from different angles, different positions, both seated and lying down. It's the first and, well, last, measure of how good I'm keeping up with myself. And with my genes -- where six-pack abs are just not in the cards -- checking it out more often results in a, "Ugh," as opposed to a, "Wow, way to go!"

Now the eyes are really rolling, I know. I know this because I realize I'm in pretty good shape. I exercise most days and eat a pretty healthy diet. I'm petite and by no means am unhappy with my figure. But, that's kinda the point.

No matter who we are or what we look like, many of us still focus on the things we think are crappy -- or imperfect -- about ourselves, and use that as a measure of the whole package. (For perfectionists, unfortunately, this female tendency is magnified even more.)

But Liv Tyler doesn't measure herself by the imperfect (or at least she didn't the day she gave that quote). Instead, she said something pretty profound for all of us body-part haters out there: Focus on the good stuff, damn it!

This idea of focusing on the good is an age-old motto, but somehow, I've never really heard it applied to body image stuff. Or maybe I just never listened.

I found myself stopping after reading that quote and thinking, "Wow, I don't have a perfect stomach either, but darn it, I do have nice ankles!"

Some people don't like their ankles. Some people don't like their knees, or their legs in general. But maybe those people get boatloads of compliments on their beautiful skin, gorgeous hair, stunning face. Do they focus on those nice things, though? If they're perfectionists -- and in most cases, if they're women -- probably not.

So, I just want to say, "Thank you, Liv Tyler. I think you're gorgeous. And I'm appreciating my ankles now, thanks to you."

Of course, the belly checks still take place ... I don't know if those will ever end. But I do have another little voice in my head now, running after the less-forgiving one, and it's saying, "Hey, stop being so mean to yourself. Maybe you don't have perfect abs, but check out those ankles!"

I never thought past 28

I've been freaking out lately about my life.

It seems that ever since my 25th birthday, I never really fully embraced my new number -- or age, to be more specific. Not that 26 or now, 28, is old. Of course I know that. But, for some reason, I think I've failed to really know my age since my mid-20's. 

Let's see, how can I explain this?

For my whole life, my age was something I could just announce without thinking. I just knew it. I couldn't imagine not knowing it. Then, when I was buying some very girly malt beverages recently and the store owner looked at my ID and then asked me how old I was -- I couldn't answer. I literally hesitated, said 27, quickly thought of what year it was, and then said, "Oops! I mean 28. I'm 28. I can't believe I didn't remember that!" Followed by some nervous laughter and avoidance of eye contact. 

Um, who's nervous buying liquor at the age of 28? Someone who suddenly realizes she doesn't even know her own age so who knows what else could happen, that's who.

I left the store unscathed -- other than the disapproving look I got from the store owner who was probably hoping he wouldn't get busted for selling liquor to a girl who didn't even know the age on the "ID" she was using -- and I went on with my life. A little weirded out, but I didn't give it much more thought.

A month later, on a summer-like spring day, I started thinking about my age again. More specifically, I found myself thinking, "Oh my god. I'm only a year-and-a-half away from turning 30!"

This threw me into a different kind of age-related tizzy. This one was more focused on the question, "What the hell have I been doing for these last few years and how am I going to make up for all this lost time before I turn 30?!"

For days and weeks after, I found my brain landing on this topic a lot, wondering how I was going to accomplish all of these goals I'd thought I'd accomplish by the time I was 30. (Other than the fact that 30 is just a milestone age, it's also the number I always used to avoid thinking too much about when I'll have kids.)

"Oh, I'll start thinking about that when I'm 30," was what I'd been telling myself and most others who'd asked.

And now -- awesome! -- it's practically here!

With a year-and-a-half to go, you'd think I'd have jumped right on that big to-do list of "accomplishments" I had running, right? But instead, I just kept freaking out. Looking back, I was like a dog chasing it's tail. I'd think about this looming milestone, have a brain freak-out, forget about it a little, then think of it again and freak out again. This cycle continued for weeks.

And then something hit me one day. 

I never thought past 28.

At first, this realization seemed absurd. I'd think, "Of course I've thought past 28, and I imagined myself ... " Blank. It was blank. I really hadn't thought past 28. This is not to say I'm one of those people who never thought I'd make it to a certain age -- I've actually always imagined I'd live well into my 90's, for some reason. But what I'm saying is that I never really pictured myself in my life past this age.

There were things I'd pictured I would have done by now -- age 28 -- like meet my future husband (check), have a job I could be proud of (check), visit lots of cool places (check-ish ... don't want that one to be "done" per se). But there are other things I definitely want to do and accomplish, but I guess I just never really pictured myself doing those things the way I'd always pictured myself at this age.

I think it always just seemed so far off, like a version of me I couldn't really relate to. At least for me, when I was younger and in school or in my first job, the world just sort of seemed like it was at my fingertips, so full of possibility, so open to take me in so many different directions.

Hitting 30 has always represented a time when grown-up life starts, when things get more serious and more, well, boring. But I'm only a year-and-a-half away from that now and that's nothing like how I feel. So, I've been freaking out.

But not anymore.

I certainly don't feel like a "grown up" today, despite owning a home and being married with a dog and a yard and having a tax bill to pay (ew, that one sounds so grown up). But I'm starting to realize, maybe there is no scary, crappy day when you suddenly turn "grown up" you and become lame.

So if that's the case, then there's no reason why now can't be the future, right? What I mean is, I'm already doing the things I pictured that "Renee at 28" would be doing. I'm not, however, doing the things that I want "Renee at 30" to be doing -- the fun career and personal-life things, that is (Not the yucky tax bill kind of things ... I'm already doing that!).

So why not start right now?

Here I've been pretending that my age hasn't increased past my mid-20's (see liquor store incident, above) -- just sticking my head in the sand anytime my mind started to wander to the next big age -- when what I should have been doing was being happy about where I am today and working to do even more to keep it that way. Did I really think the 20's version of me would just disappear the minute the birthday clock strikes 30? I kind of think I did. And it could, if I let it.

But all this freaking out has lead me to realize what people are really saying when they repeat the old cliche, "This life is not a dress rehearsal."

It means that this is my life today, right now. It's running along this very minute. So I better stop wasting time wondering about what will happen when 30 comes and get back to living all the moments leading up to it.

How will I find the time to squeeze in all the fun I want to have and accomplishments I hope to achieve by then? Maybe I should start by quitting the wondering -- and, let's be real, the worrying -- and just do it. Today.