Ramblin' Man

I was just commenting on my blog in a forum today. See how computer savvy I am? Blogs and fora and…mine sweeper.

Anyway, upon commenting, I realized I hadn't posted anything here in a while. I know you all missed me, and I think Google was upset that I was using up one quintillionth of one percent of one server storing old entries and not adding new ones, so I'm back! For a minute. Got stuff to do, you know.

What stuff? you ask. Well, there's laundry and cleaning and balancing the weight of the world on my shoulders. Okay, I guess I can give up that last thing. But then there's all this writing I need to work on. I'm actually writing a novel (insert eye roll and groan here). Yeah, yeah, zillions of people are "writing a novel". Well you know what? I am writing a novel, so there. I've got almost 5 or maybe even 6 – yes 6! – pages finished. Well, if you count the doodles.

I'm also working on that hollywoodshallows.com thing I told you all about. I say "you all" as a colloquialism, and not because I think anyone but Mom is reading this. And maybe not even Mom. Anyway, don't try the link, it's not live yet. And don't go telling people that I make up web sites that can't be linked to and pretend they're mine. Yeah, I hear things. Word gets around.

And then I intersperse that writing with short story. That's not a typo. It's not plural. Ahh, well. Let's see you do better.

Wow, this is one of the most rambling blog entries I've ever done. Do you like it? Let's see you do better.

See, this is why you should never write your blog entries while drinking rubbing alcohol.

So, this was pathetic. I'm going to post it anyway. For those of you reading my blog for the first time, scroll down to the good entries. There are some. Really. There are.

Well good night everyone. Don't forget to tip your waitress, and drive safely!

Survey Says...

A friend of mine sent me one of those "How well do you know your friends?" email questionnaires today. I decided to respond with silly answers. Yes, me. I did that. I know you find it hard to believe, but I did. Anyway, I thought I would post it here for fun and shameless self-promotion. Feel free to copy and paste anything you want (come on, you know you will!). Just please, do not fold, spindle of mutilate.

Oh, and don’t' remove the mattress tags. That's illegal.


Questionnaire

Welcome to the new edition of getting to know your friends. Okay here's what you're supposed to do, and try not to be lame and spoil the fun! Just copy (not forward) this entire e-mail and paste into a new e-mail that you can send. Change all the answers so that they apply to you. Then send this to a whole bunch of people you know, INCLUDING the person that sent it to you. Some of you may get this several times. That means you have lots of friends.


1. What is your full name? His Royal Highness, Donald of Sarcasia
1a. What are your nicknames? Dipwad, Hey You, Move I Can't See the TV
2. What color pants are you wearing? Pants?
3. What are you listening to right now? The voices in my head, Queen on the radio
4. What was the last thing you ate? Crow
5. Do you wish on stars?No, it's too hot. I wish at home.
6. If you were a crayon, what color would you be? Flesh tone
7. How is the weather right now? Oval
8. Last person you spoke to on the phone? Phones are of the Devil
9. Do you like the person who sent this to you? In what way?
10. How old are you today? Today, I think I'll be 12.
11. Favorite drink? Nectar
12. Favorite sport? Thumb wrestling
13. Hair color? Where?
14. Do you wear contacts? Yes, but not in my eyes.
15. How many siblings? Not sure. Dad got around.
16. Favorite month? Gregorian or Celtic?
17. Favorite food? Pez, haggis, communion wafers
18. What was the last movie you saw? Maybe you should ask "What was the last movie that saw you?" Don't you think?
19. Favorite day of the year? This year? Well, for this year, so far, I would say February 11th was pretty good. But in general, I like Wednesday during the third week in May, or any Saturday in November.
20. What do you do to vent anger? Can't say - court ordered gag.
21. What was your favorite toy as a child? A large, hollowed-out tree stump named Bob.
22. Favorite is Summer or winter? Most of the time, yes.
23. Prefer hugs or kisses?Don't care for Hershey products. I like Milkyways the best.
24. Chocolate or vanilla? Chocolate or vanilla what? Body rubs? Cologne? Toothpaste? Socks? It all depends.
25. Do you want your friends to e-mail you back? Hey, don't make me the heavy, man.
26. Who is most likely to respond? The voices
27. Who is least likely to respond? Jennifer Aniston. She never answers my letters, emails, phone calls, or even when I dance naked in front of her house.
28. When was the last time you cried? Last week, in front of Jennifer Aniston's house. But the LAPD didn't have to use that taser.
29. What is under your bed? Why, what have you heard?
30. Who is the friend you have had the longest? My imaginary friend, Mr. Hugs and Touches. He's come to my room at night for as long as I can remember. At least, I think he's imaginary...He is, isn't he? Um, I need to call my therapist again.
31. What did you do last night? Dug a shallow grave for...well, never mind what for.
32. What are you afraid of? Spaghetti-O's, trout, loud whispers, aluminum foil, anything orange, grass seed, Inuit whale-oil lamps, paper clips (if they're straightened out), lederhosen, game shows, Times New Roman 16 point font, frozen waffles - well, the list is just too long to continue.
33. Plain, buttered or salted popcorn? Cold, unpopped kernels in sausage gravy.
34. Favorite car? My mother
35. Favorite flower? Whole wheat, but white works better for pie crusts.
36. Number of keys on your key ring? It depends upon how you feel the universe is structured. Quantum Physics tells us that everything exists in an infinite number of potential realities simultaneously. So in that sense, my key ring contains an infinite number of keys.
37. How many years at your current job? Technically 7, on the books, but only about 2 of actual work.
38. Favorite day of the week? See question 19 above
39. What did you do for your last birthday? Performed a self-appendectomy.
40. How many states have you lived in? 3 - confusion, anxiety, heightened awareness
42. What do you collect? Discarded french fry boxes, lint, loud noises.

Where's Don?

If it seems like I haven’t been around here lately, it’s because, well, I haven’t.  I’d like to apologize to my adoring fans – both of you.  Really. I mean it.

It seems that I’ve bitten off more than I can chew, and I can’t even spit any of it out.  I’m not complaining, mind you.  I’m enjoying my busy-ness, but it doesn’t leave much blog time.  I’ve been writing articles for a site called howtodothings.com, which has been good, but I keep ending up with these deadlines.  I’m not used to deadlines.  On top of that, I’m collaborating with a writer from Australia on a choose-your-own-adventure serialized book that we hope to have published at thedeepening.com – if they accept it of course.  

I’m also working with a partner back home on a website that we hope will be entertaining, funny, and lucrative.  It’s not up yet, but it will be called hollywoodshallows.com.  Keep a look out in the future for this amazing new website from the creators of writepassage.blogspot.com, The Simpsons, and Family Guy (OK, maybe not those last two).

Top that off with my own individual stories and projects, and a 3 month, on-going battle with the Superintendent of Schools and the Board of Education to get a certain administrator investigated, and perhaps given corrective action.  (Names withheld to prevent ambulance-chasing societal leeches from finding a target).  It’s been a busy summer!

So with all that said, dear reader, please know that I love me as much as you do, and I will do whatever I can to give to the world what it wants most – me.

Hammer Time

Ever had anyone come to your house to “give an estimate” for custom window replacement?  Now here’s a way to completely waste four or five hours of your life.  Since my wife and I have owned our house, we’ve probably had three or four different companies give us their pitch.  Why? you ask.  I don’t really know – I think maybe we’re stupid.  But, if you’ve never had a window guy come to your house, allow me to share my pane.

The first thing these window guys do is arrive with this charming, happy attitude – like selling windows is more fun than watching Paris Hilton fall to her death from a 38 story building – and try to be your pal.  They pet the cat, ooh and aah over kids’ drawings on the refrigerator, laugh at the pain inflicted by your son and his Bob the Builder pliers, take out your garbage, wax the kitchen floor, and clean your sink trap.  The plan is to soften you up for the big sales pitch.  But not just yet, not just yet!  

The next step is to bring a portable window-in-a-suitcase assembly into your house to show you the Argon gas between the panes.  Argon gas is invisible to the naked eye, but they have to show it to you, and tell you how it stops over 90% of all the sun’s rays (so your cat doesn’t fade), and helps keeps your home at a constant womb-like temperature of 37 degrees Celsius year round.  Then, just to show you how strong these windows are, they hit the portable window sample with a hammer.  It’s important for a window to be hammer-proof.  It really is.  Why, I can recall this time my wife and I were practicing our hammer juggling act, with five pound sledges… But I drift.  

After the window hammering, they bring out this big book of infra-red pictures that show houses losing heat through their windows, complete with testimonials by home owners who, since purchasing these windows, have never had a problem with hammers.  These testimonials also attest to the fact that since the home owner had them installed, his heating bills have dropped 134%.  The utility company actually sends him money.  And it is at this point that the window guy asks, “If I could show YOU how you could save 134% on your fuel bills, would you want to know more?”  This is a question designed to get you to begin answering “yes,” and to make you feel stupid for not already having these windows.

They will continue to ask you questions designed to elicit “yes” responses for the next 15 minutes.  “If I could show you how to keep more of your paycheck each month, you would be happy about that, correct?”  “If I were going to give you a check for $10,000 dollars, you’d like that, right?”    “If I could beat myself to death with this hammer, you’d giggle like a school girl, wouldn’t you?”  

The point of this exercise is you are so stupid that if you say “yes” enough times in a row, you won’t be able to stop saying yes when the big pitch is thrown.  “You’d like to give me a large check for work that won’t get done for at least six months, wouldn’t you?”

Once all the testimonials and yes-response questions are completed, they measure all your windows so you can – finally – get that estimate they’ve been promising for three hours.  As they measure, they shake their heads solemnly, and make that “tsk” noise so you understand how truly awful your windows are.  And then they cap it by telling you that your current windows are a “non-standard” size.  Uh oh.  The difference between standard sized and non-standard sized is, well, size.  That’s it.  Since they are “custom building” your windows anyway, it’s really moot whether or not they are standard sized.  But this is how they soften the blow that will hit you square between the eyes when they tell you how much it will cost.  I don’t know what they told you, but they told me $25,000.  Yes, a 25 followed by three zero’s.  Invisible gas and hammer protection doesn’t come cheaply.  Of course, I purchased my entire house for $17.50. The hammer cost more than that.

But here’s the real trouble.  When you tell these guys that $25,000 for windows is not economically feasible at this time – thanks, but no thanks – they sit down.  They just sit there and refuse to leave.  This is because they now have to call Bill back at the home office, and explain that you said no, and look all shocked and sad about it.  And then Bill has to speak to you, and ask you if Window Guy told you about the Argon.  Yes.  Did he tell you about the hammers?  Yes.  Did he show you the pretty picture book? Yes.   OK, well what if we knock 10% off that price?  Will you buy then?  No.  How about we finance it for you?  Window Guy has an application you can fill out.  No money down.  No payment for 12 months.  Only 29% interest.  NO!   Well, okay, I’m sure sorry to hear that, but you seem to have made up your mind.  Let me talk to Window Guy.  

When you give the phone back to Window Guy, Bill from the home office tells him he has to sit there until you say yes.  And Window Guy will do just that.  There is no way to get him out of your house, other than buying his windows.  

Well, there is one other way…

Hey, Window Guy, can I borrow that hammer?

Impending Mantle of Power

So it looks like my wife and I will be co-presidents of the PTA next year. Now it’s not official yet; the elections have not been held. But as we are running unopposed, I think we have a better than 50-50 chance of bagging the big office. I guess we’ll have to wait and see – not counting premature chicken fetuses and all that.

What does it mean to be PTA president? I have pondered this for several weeks. Will we have secret service parents protecting us? Will we be driven to events in Minivan-1? Will we throw out the first pitch at the Phys. Ed. kickball game? My guess: no. The previous president didn’t do any of that, although she ran a heck of a bake sale. I suppose we’ll have to wait and see what next year brings.

Friends who have gotten wind of our impending mantle of power have asked my wife and me, Why? Why did you do it? Why put yourselves through all those headaches? My answer to those nay-saying Negative Nellies is: I thought I was signing up for pottery class.

Oh, and just a warning to other school PTA’s, if we get wind of any pencils of mass destruction (PMD’s), we’re comin’ for ya.

Gotta go, I think Minivan-1 just pulled in. Affairs of state, you know…

Brownian Motion

So the boy has been developing his potty skills.  And that’s a plus.  But the downside to this is a new anal fixation.  His thoughts seem to constantly gravitate to his butt functionality as evidenced by his word choices.  Here is a typical conversation with the boy.

“Hi, boy.”

“Hi, poop poop.”

“Oh, did you make a poop on the potty today?’

“No,”

“No?  Oh well, maybe later.  What are you doing now?”

“Playing with my poop poop trains.”

“You’re playing with Thomas?  Good.  You know you can earn your stickers to get a new Thomas when you poop on the potty?  Would you like that?”

“Yes!”

“Great!  Do you have to poop now?”

“No.”

“Alright.  So, what else did you do today?”

“Ate lunch with Mommy poop poop.”

Ignoring the poop poop reference, “What did you have for lunch today?”

“Poop poop chicken and poop poop noodles.”

Unable to ignore the poop poop reference any longer, “Well that sounds good, but let’s not talk about poop unless you have to sit on the potty, OK?”

“OK, poop poop.”

“Where’s your sister?”

“Watching Dora poop poop.”

“On, Dora and Boots and Diego?”

“Diego poop poop.”

“And Swiper the Fox?”

“Swiper, no pooping!”

“Boy, what did Daddy just say about the poop talk?  Let’s not talk about it unless you have to sit on the potty, OK?”

“Poop poop.”

“Boy…”

He runs screaming from the room, “Poop poop poop poop poop poop poop poooooooop!”

What then happens is he runs and hides for a while.  His eventual return is proclaimed by the unmistakable odor that precedes him, and punctuated by something that looks like a tennis ball in his pants.

“Boy, what’s in your pants.”

“Poop poop”

Well, at least this time he’s using the euphemism in context.

Flash

This needs a bit of a preamble.  For those who don’t know, Flash Fiction is very short fiction.  The idea is to write a story – a complete story, not an excerpt – with a limited number of words.  I am a member of an online writing group, and the group founder hosts a daily flash contest.  He provides a prompt, such as a setting or a line, and we all try to write a story based on that prompt.  There is a 300 word limit.  The first line of the story below was today’s prompt (I added the capitalization).  My wife thought it was cute, and suggested I post it here.  I wrote it in 15 minutes to get it in by the deadline.  You know how it is with the boy whizzing all over the place, and the other 3 yelling “Daddy” every 2.7 seconds, it’s hard to start these projects early.

Enjoy!
Legends

Dark Clouds rolled over the horizon; Lightning flashed and Thunder clapped in the distance.  

The gods were drinking again.  

Dark Clouds, the god of rain and snow and anything precipitous, thought he could hold his sauce.  Being a god of fluids, he always felt he was best at absorbing and then shedding any liquid – and those that made a “lesser god” somewhat unsteady were the ones that Dark Clouds liked best to imbibe.  A bit of a show off was Dark Clouds.

Of course, as it is with drunks, their egos are often bigger than their ability to tolerate mind altering substances, and tonight he’d overdone it.  His large, billowy, cumulo-form manifestation in this dimension rolled, unsteadily, over the horizon and on into tomorrow.

This display of inebriation, so inappropriate for a god, made the equally stupefied Thunder (god of all things loud) clap and cheer and yes, believe it or not, giggle like a fatuous child watching the circus clowns caper and cavort.

Lightning, who fancied himself the most spectacular of the gods (but was rather more of a spectacle when he was drinking) because of his brilliance – in terms of light waves not brain waves – tended to make the biggest scene.  He had thrown on an old trench coat, covering a naked body, and frolicked about exposing himself at intervals.  Unfortunately, this type of “flash” was what he had gained more renown for than for the electric streaks of white light.

If you wonder why the Earth has become such a mess, look no further than these three idiots – or so say the old Native American legends.

Thomas the (Toilet) Tank Engine

Let me tell you how Thomas, that “very useful engine,” has helped the boy learn to make his wee-wees in something other than a diaper.  What do you mean “other than a diaper”? Don’t you mean on the potty?  Oh, yes, on the potty – and on the floor, the wall, his leg, my leg, Mom’s shoulder (don’t ask; I don’t know), his pants, my pants, and, occasionally in the potty.  We’ve potty trained 3 girls without much difficulty, but girls, you see, don’t have a spigot. And aiming that thing can be a challenge for the inexperienced.

But to be fair, he went from diapers to “big boy underpants” (they are, of course, Thomas the Tank Engine underpants – after all, he is a “cheeky” little engine) in essentially one day.  He won’t wear a diaper anymore, and he sleeps through the night without wetting the bed.  All because of that little blue engine.

You see, we made a potty sticker chart, and should the boy complete a row of stickers, he earns a new Thomas the Tank Engine train accessory.  We underestimated the joy these little die-cast trains bring.  He earned his first train the second day of potty training.  He’s gotten four more trains, and some new tracks in the past week.  We can’t afford for him to be a big boy.  Diapers were cheaper.  That kid sits and squeezes at every opportunity.  And when he gets a new train, inside the packaging is a fold-out, full-color brochure showing all the trains he doesn’t have – yet.  And I swear to you, he studies it.  He makes little mental notes about how many pee pees it would take to get the whole set.  I’d like to personally thank the toy manufacturer for that little scam.

However, the good news is, I think we have single-handedly brought the Island of Sodor out of a recession.  Everyone from Tidmouth Sheds to Farquhar Quarry is rejoicing.  Just yesterday there was a message on the answering machine from Sir Topham Hatt - thanking us.

Now, if we could only do something about the poop.

Machines and Arses

So what makes a man a man? That’s a loaded question, isn’t it? This could open up that proverbial worm-infested can. By the way, why would someone buy, sell, or wish to own a vessel occupied by worms? And how are they canned? Is it like green beans or creamed corn?

But let’s get back to the topic: manliness. Now, I don’t want a deluge of comments from the-gender-of-which-I-am- not-a-member accusing me of sexism, misogyny, or gender-bias, but let’s face it, boys will be boys and girls will be girls. And never the twain shall meet – well, er, occasionally they meet, but that often results in the production of more boys and girls.

So 120 words have passed, and I haven’t said anything. Yet you, dear reader, have been lulled into believing I have. Like with political speeches. Isn’t that something?

Back to the topic, again. I was concerned about the manliness of my son. He is the fourth child, and only boy of the four. He plays with dolls, and he plays house with his bossy older sister. Naturally, I watched – without interference, do not chastise me ladies – with a certain sense of concern. Would he be fey? Would he prefer floral arranging to auto mechanics? It’s the same age-old question asked by all fathers. In fact, my father is still asking that one. I never did get the hang of auto mechanics (or ¾ inch-drive drills, or pipe dope, or torque wrenches, or galvanized rebar sprocket splicers). And yet I turned out almost just fine.

If I may cut to the chase, my boy is all boy. How do I know? There are several key indicators. First, even though we have no guns, per se, in the house – no cap guns, ray guns, squirt guns, or BB guns, not out of any conscious decision not to have guns, the girls just never asked for any – the boy still shoots at things. He will use whatever stick-straight object he can find: a broom handle, tennis racquet, even Thomas the Tank Engine*. He does this all without prompting by anyone. Cross his path, and you die. Manly.

The second key indicator of manliness is machinery. The boy likes trucks, cars, trains, airplanes, or any motorized vehicle. Not only does he like the plastic or die-cast version of said vehicles, he likes the real things. He watches the garbage men with keen interest every Wednesday morning. We hope this is not an indication of his future. No offense to all you Sanitation Engineers who work very hard at a thankless job. In fact, let me thank you now. Thanks.

But the third key indicator may be the most relevant of all in the determination of manliness. Let me explain it with an illustration. Upon driving home from church on Sunday, the older girls were looking out the window at clouds and describing what they looked like. “That one’s a bunny.” “That one is flower.” The youngest girl joined in as well, not to be out done. “That one looks like a Dora the Explorer*.”
The boy, just two and a half and lagging behind in language skills, at least as compared to his precocious and loquacious sisters, would not be left behind in this one. He looked out the window, and in an uncustomarily clear and articulate voice said, “That looks like a butt.” He laughed, made farting noises with his lips, and then laughed some more.

Behind the wheel of our motorized vehicle, the boy’s father breathed a sigh of relief. Yep, he’s a boy, no doubt about it.


*Thomas the Tank Engine and Dora the Explorer are registered trade marks of big corporations that make way more money than I, and don’t know anything about me or my family or any fart noises emitted therefrom.

Perseverance

Have you been told that persistence pays off? Stick to your guns! Never give up! Never surrender! The following is an example of this stick-to-it-iveness: a lesson for us all. It is a conversation I had with my two year old son, transcribed here for you my friends (to the best of my recollection).

(Camera pans down. A typical kitchen in a typical house comes into view. In the center of the kitchen stands a father holding a lemur-like two year old boy. The boy is wearing jeans and a long-sleeve tee shirt stained with chocolate ice cream. The boy spots a bag of chocolate chips on a high shelf)

BOY: Want chips.
FATHER: No. No chips.
BOY: Want chips, please.
FATHER: No chips now.
BOY: Want chips.
FATHER: You can’t have any chips now.
BOY: Want chips, please.
FATHER: You just had ice cream.
BOY: Want chips, please.
FATHER: Those are Mommy’s chips.
BOY: Want chips.
FATHER: Daddy said “No.” Now no chips.
BOY: Want chips.
FATHER: Hey look! It's the Doodlebops!
BOY: Want chips, please.
FATHER: It’s just not a good idea for you to have chips now. So stop asking.
BOY: Want chips.
FATHER: So you’re saying you want chips?
BOY: Want chips, please.
FATHER: How about Daddy buys you a puppy?
BOY: Want chips.
FATHER: Here.
BOY: Mmmm.

Try that next time you ask for a raise, or want your spouse to get “a little friendly” with you. Report back to me with your results.

Are You Ready?

It’s that time of the year again. No, not tax time. Academy Award time! Who’s ready for some down-to-earth, level-headed discourse on literary relevance? Well then, how about an award show instead?

Now don’t get me wrong, I love movies. I’m a bit of a movie freak, if you must know the truth ( and you must, you must). But I just don’t get this whole award ceremony thing. People get wound up for weeks; it becomes the talk of the water cooler. I remember just a few days ago one of my co-workers asking me who I though would win for best Third World Cinematography in a Foreign or Unknown Country with a Super-8 Camera. I think the answer to that is obvious!

But really this whole Lhasa Apso and pony show boils down to the incestuous relationship Hollywood has with its own kind. That little community, full of self-important windbags who actually believe that making a movie is more important than making, say a computer circuit board or jet engine turbine, are quite out of touch with the real world. In actuality, making a movie is about as important to the functioning of the world as making a nice pickle relish, but less filling.

I haven’t even seen any of the movies nominated for Best Picture – unless Wallace and Grommet: Attack of the Were-Rabbit is nominated. Now there is a picture! Giant rabbits, Rube Goldberg-like machinery, and cheese. It has it all. I nominate it for Best Picture, and Best Supporting Clay Canine.

All I know is that whichever movie wins, it will most likely be the one that has the best-dressed actress in it, and will involve a plot and characters that few relate to and fewer understand. But it will be “an important piece of allegorical, neo-political, pseudo-pretendable” cinema flummery that will change the course of human history – if your history involves sequins or gay cowboys (or preferably both!).

But you know, when Oscar night rolls around, you’ll definitely find me glued to my TV. I’ll be watching My Three Sons re-runs on RTN and enjoying that pickle relish. If the world suddenly becomes a better place because Charlize Theron gets another bald-headed gold man – or an Oscar – give me a call. I might be busy, however, because while Hollywood’s elite is packing up their $10,000 embossed dental floss holders, I’ll be clipping string cheese coupons. I love string cheese.

Resolve

New Year Resolutions: Everybody makes them. Writers write about them. Bloggers blog about them. Pundits pun about them (whatever). So it is only befitting that I too toss in my musings regarding this most holy of affirmations.

My primary, and let’s face it, only, resolution for 2006 should be: Be more diligent in my writing. (Why overload with a list of 10 or 20 when one is hard enough?) This means more writing, more queries, more submissions, and of course, more blog entries (notice how special you all are to me?). So to that end, as of 1/9/06, I have not written anything, not queried anyone, not submitted anything, and have waited until the ninth day of the new year to post my New Year Resolution blog entry. See, it’s all going according to plan!

My friends, why do we make these resolutions? Huh? Whose idea was this? We just came off of the holiday season, fatter, lazier, and more hung over then we were all year. Is this really the right time to make resolutions? Are we really in the right frame of mind for this?

Right now, I just want that big fiery ball of gas (not my boss) to stop stabbing my ocular nerves with those piercing rays everyone always seems so happy to see. I can’t focus. On top of that, my shirt smells like a mixture of cocktail sauce, onion dip, and berrwinerum. And the world wants resolutions?!

Okay world, how about these? I think I can do these:

• I resolve to shower today.


• I resolve to stop drinking beerwinerum (at least in the quantities required by the holidays).


• I resolve to stop eating dip for breakfast.

These, I think, are realistic goals. Why start out a new year with goals that I can’t achieve? This just makes the whole rest of the year so depressing, which causes me, by the end of it, to party too much in an effort to forget a year’s-worth of weak resolve. Which puts me right back where I started – stinky and hung over. You see? It’s a vicious cycle.

I need a self-esteem boost in 2006, not another failure. But of course, I do need to write more, query more, submit more, and blog more, so I guess I better add this to my list.

In the mean time, I need to eat some breakfast. Pass the dip?