If you were reading me last year around this time, you might remember that I don’t do New Year’s resolutions anymore. In fact, my exact words were:
I don’t do New Year’s resolutions anymore.
And then I followed it up with:
I’ve decided to spread out my ridiculously high expectations throughout the entire year so that I can thoroughly enjoy each and every accompanying disappointment in all of its glory, rather than experience one general, massive, overwhelming, excruciating, cataclysmic disillusionment on January 5. This way, I won’t have 360 continuous days in which to ask myself Now what the hell do I do?
I still feel that way. I have no desire to type a list of resolutions out loud because actual people might hear them and then they might hold me accountable and I’ve got enough things for which I’m accountable in my life, including two kids and a dirty Honda which still sports the memory of one huge collective bird poo orgy from eight months ago.
My Honda, that is. Not my kids. I am aware of no poo orgies involving my kids. Although I think I’ve just come up with another item to add to my spreadsheet entitled STUFF I NEED TO WORRY OVER THAT NOBODY ELSE EVER THINKS ABOUT.
So I see no need to resolve anything on January 1, 2010, least of all to scrape that weird, disgusting, splotch of congealed gunk off the inside of my dryer. And don’t think I’m not aware that my dryer hates me, has always hated me, and would jump at the chance to out my colossal resolution failure by sneaking out the door, zooming over to your house, running up your stairs into your bathroom, dropping trow and flashing you while you’re flossing. Then you’ll scream and not because the weird, disgusting, splotch of congealed gunk on its innards is still there and grossed you out, even though I’m sure it did, but because you probably floss in your undies and it saw you and in my world, there’s nothing worse than being seen in my undies except maybe being seen without my undies in which case, just apply some blunt force trauma to the back of my head with a big shovel and be done with it already.
Screaming will probably make you gag on the floss and then you’ll most likely heave all over the place and the weird, disgusting, splotch of congealed gunk on the inside of my dryer will no longer be visible because it will smothered under viscous pools of vomit. Your viscous pools of vomit and in case you didn’t get the memo, I no longer do vomit, viscous, chunky or otherwise, especially when it is hurled from the mouths of those who cannot thank me for their bellybuttons.
So now you’re out a carpet cleaning and I’m out a dryer and no one is happy, especially me because not only do I have to dry my clothes in my oven but I also have to register all my appliances as sex offenders.
Ergo, I don’t do resolutions. But as with 2009, I do have hopes for 2010 and they are, in no particular order:
I hope the weird, disgusting, splotch of congealed gunk on the inside of my dryer spontaneously disappears.
I hope the weird, disgusting splotch of congealed skin that I affectionately refer to as MY THIGHS spontaneously disappears too.
I hope no one vomits this year.
I hope Nate stays employed.
I hope your Nates stay employed.
I hope I can stop worrying and find some other way to waste time.
I hope no one gets sick this year.
I hope everyone will have excellent health insurance, just in case.
I hope that insurance fully covers the best prosthetic devices on the market today for those of us who will pay an arm and/or a leg for it.
I hope I can stop looking like a “before” photo.
I hope Anderson Cooper comes to his senses.
I hope “Made in America” is taken off the endangered species list.
I hope that New York State changes the minimum age requirement for a driver’s license to 37.
I hope they do it before Zoe turns 16 this year.
I hope that I find the strength to let Zoe walk out the door on her first real date without crying.
I hope I don’t jump in my car and follow them.
I hope they don’t see me if I do.
I hope Helena can fit into Zoe’s purse, just in case.
I hope the Jonas Brothers go away.
I hope they take Jon Gosslin with them. And whoever was in charge of Kate’s hair.
I hope Helena is always excited to receive deodorant from Santa.
I hope I get a Nikon D90 and a laptop.
In the alternative, hope I get a laptop and a Nikon D90.
I hope they find a cure for cancer and it turns out to be cheese.
I hope Nate and I learn to communicate better so that he can stop asking me WHAT’S WRONG fifteen times and I can stop smacking him upside the head with a 2×4 engraved with FOR SHIT’S SAKE, DO YOU REALLY HAVE TO ASK in big, block letters. With sparkles.
I hope I become a better wife and mother.
I hope I become a better person.
I hope you continue to visit me, even if I don’t.
I hope I make you laugh. Either at me or with me because laughter is the best medicine of all and it doesn’t even cost a co-pay so all you parasitic, leeching, health insurance companies out there? SUCK IT.
I hope 2010 is better than 2009, to the tenth power.
I hope to see you back here soon.