I know. I know I know I know I know: I’ve been a terrible blogger. Please forgive. My New Year’s resolution is to be a better proprietress of the Smash. (Actually, it’s to eat more cheese and be less reliable. But close enough.)
My vacation in beautiful Boston continues. It’s relatively warm, and I have a party to go to tomorrow night and a large plate of cookies at my elbow. The Law & Order marathon is on USA. I’m not sure, but I think my Dad is cooking something in the kitchen. Really, it doesn’t get any better than this.
I realized something this week, which is that I can never ever retire. Even if I have the money someday, I’d never survive it. I made myself eat some vegetables today because I was afraid that scurvy would set in. I still haven’t managed to take a shower. Ah, sloth.
And now, before I leave you and return to covering sofa cushions with crumbs and drool, I will engage in a popular New Year’s tradition, and give you my actual resolutions:
1) Go to the gym. Boring, yes, but my friend Caryn and I are embarking on the new hottness, and I need to do something to offset all these cookies.
2) Be nicer to myself when I don’t go to the gym (or snap at people, or eat too much, or fall down the stairs at parties, etc.).
3) Give money to something worthwhile, instead of spending it all on lipgloss and taxi fare. (Especially since I saw Sex & the City for the first time in ages the other day, and realized how loathsome those women are. Anything, anything, lord, just don’t let me turn out like Carrie. She deserves Mr. Big.)
4) Call people back right away. (Sorry, pals. I’ll do better!)
5) Wait five seconds before returning email. (Totally creepy to respond right away. I know I would think I was a serial killer, if I didn’t know me better.)
So there you have it! Not insurmountable. Not even very significant. This is the way to make resolutions.