I was going to have twitter interview me but I am apparantely not that interesting. So when The Husband came home, I made him do it. I figure it’s going to be the highlight of my New Year’s festivities, so I may as well make it a real party and hit publish.

The Husband: What’s for dinner?

Aspiringmama: Dude, NOT what I was talking about when I asked you to ask me a question for my interview. Try again.

The Husband: Oh, ok. I suppose it’s supposed to be something about your book?

Aspiringmama: Maybe. Or my sparkling personality.

The Husband: So I can’t make this about me? (and seriously, what’s for dinner?)

Aspiringmama: Not about you? Oh right, I forget the rest of the world can’t see the sun spinning in orbit around you.

The Husband: Dinner, woman…

Aspiringmama: Fuck. You.

The Husband: well, you did put it on your resolution list

Aspiringmama: NEXT!

The Husband (attempting to sound like a cheesy local TV newscaster): so what’s next on your list of things to do in the writing world?

Aspiringmama: (blank stare) Um? Well I was thinking that I should start getting serious about that non-fiction project that’s gonna suck up all my free time and leave you searching for a clean pair of undies for your next work shift.

The Husband: And that would be different from…?

Aspiringmama: You are such an asshole. Who let you on my blog?

The Husband: First answer: I know. It’s why you love me. Second answer: Dumbass. Next question: Aren’t I supposed to be interviewing you?

Aspiringmama: Right. *Sigh* Carry on.

The Husband: So how’s it feel to be married to a guy who looks like (insert your favorite actor here.)

Aspiringmama: Ask @Hc_Palmquist andhttp://www.twitter.com/jinxie_g. And Juliette. They’ve seen your face. Which means I may have to kill them.

The Husband: Seriously, give us a hint about the topic of your next non-fiction book.

Aspiringmama: If I did, I’d have to kill you. And that would mean no more weekend-pass fun on my blog.

The Husband: And then you’d go to jail and then you couldn’t blog anyway.

Aspiringmama: Don’t push me. Snookie got a book deal because she dresses like a hoochie and has a bump-it. A murder wrap would so make my career.

The Husband: Going for the street cred, huh?

Aspiringmama: Damn right. If I play nice, Juliette might even lend me her crossbow so I can be ready when the zombies come.

The Husband: Of course. Before that happens, you are gonna make me dinner, right?

Aspiringmama: (Googly eyed) I love you. Happy New Year, sweeter.

The Husband: Happy New Year, babe.

 

I have two blog posts left in 2010 to cement my place in history. As what? I’m not sure. Which means I probably should just accept that this and the next post will probably be cute and mediocre, and the world will be a much happier place.

Since it’s appropriate to sit here and look back over the past year and cry into my cheerios about everything I didn’t accomplish while making a list of big dreams to turn into my own realities Santa apparently doesn’t read my blog, it only seems fitting to write up my List of Promises to Myself I Will Probably Break of Resolutions.

In the realm of health and fitness:

*Continue to dream about that Husband-sanctioned affair I plan to have with a plastic surgeon so I can score a Mom Job (read: boob lift, tummy tuck, and lipo) while focusing on the reality that I don’t know any plastic surgeons to have an affair with.

*Eat right, work out more, and bitch less. Wait…no. If I do that, I have no blog. Ok…Eat right, work out more, and just bitch. Kind of like Nike…only funnier, right? There, that’s better.

*Cancel my gym membership. *Screeching halt* What? Yeah, you read that right. While the rest of the free world joins Jenny, starts counting points, or waits for their dehydrated Nutrisystem scrambled eggs to show up in the mail while simultaneously doing 15 sets of squats on the way to their shiny new gym, Me and My cellulite will be walking into my old gym sometime soon to sign the break up papers. Before you get all What The Hell and What About The Search for a Smaller Ass, Pauline?, remember that I don’t have time to waste wishing I had gone and then saying Screw it, Where’s My Dairy Queen when I could instead be focusing on what I have readily available to me. (Read: My legs, my shoes, two dogs, a jogging walking stroller, and a kick-ass hilly subdivision. Also? Enough dust on the unused exercise DVDs to start my own bunny farm and a pretty new PS3 and Zumba game to get my Latin-Mama groove on. Bottom line? 2011 is the year of no excuses (ok…I’ll make excuses. But I at the very least Resolve to make them amusing.)

In the the realm of Motherhood:

*Try to say “In a minute” less often.

*Forgive myself for when I say “In a minute” too often.

*Lather, rinse, and repeat.

In the realm of Wifedom:

*Try to say “In a Minute” less often.

*Forgive myself when I say “In a Minute” too often.

*Lather, rinse, and repeat.

*P.S. Add “sex” to my To-Do list more often. The Husband is happy when this happens. He gets attention, I get to cross something off of my To-Do list without ruining the moment by thinking about what I could be doing to cross something else off of my never ending list, and it’s generally a win-win for everyone involved. (Also see “Try to say “In a minute less often.”)

In the realm of writing:

*Because I decided last night that I already met my goal of finding an agent in 2010 (Because I did, dammit. I found 25 of them. *Holds hand up* Stop! My blog post. My semantics war.) I figure I can make 2011 the year an agent finds me. In the bottom of the slush pile. In a hopefully typo-free query.

*Make peace with my Chronic Typosis Disorder and just deal. There’s a reason I went into REPORTING and not COPY EDITING. Namely, I didn’t get the copy editing job. And? I typo like it’s going out of style and I just can’t let go. We have a neighbor like that. She never met a can of aqua net and a bang wave she didn’t like. If she can look in the mirror and think that looks good, I can hit publish on a blog post or write muff top in a query and still think I am a good person, dammit!

*Keep trying. Keep querying. Keep writing. And? Buy more rejection panties. I’m  a big girl with big dreams and (shut up) I can only bitch if the rejections stop coming in. Because that means I’ve stopped trying. Which isn’t going to happen because I just said it wouldn’t so…moving on...

*Start that Super Secret Project with Juliette that doesn’t involve zombies or crossbows.

*Buy less shoes so I can bank the unspent cash for a writing conference or two. Ok, fine. Less shoes and less purses. And clothes. Definitely less clothes.

In the realm of All Things Pauline:

*Keep dreaming. In the I can do EEET! kinda way and not that Keep dreaming, asshole kinda way. Because I think I can. Even if they say I can’t.

Which reminds me:

*Figure out who THEY actually is. Because dude, it’s driving me crazy. And…wait…that’s an entirely new blog post…

 

Call it a New Year’s cop-out. Call it a self-imdulgant trip down memory lane. Or just call it funny and laugh it up. I’ve come a long way since starting my blogging/writing/weight loss (attempt) journey, but my outlook (or snark output) hasn’t changed.

And 2011? I’m ready. Bring it.

From the Bookieboo archives….

I can’t look at a Twinkie without tripping over a blog post or a tweet about New Year’s resolutions, and with the holiday right around the proverbial corner, it’s very appropriate. But since most of the online mentions I am seeing about said resolutions are about weight loss and getting into shape and healthy, healthy, healthy…well…let’s just say me and my Oreo Cheesequake Dairy Queen Blizzard are just gonna sit this one out tonight. Now don’t get your yoga pants in a bunch. I haven’t fallen off the wagon. I’ve just got it parked in my garage for a few days and stepped off with all of my faculties intact. I knew that the stress of family holiday drama, combined with the stuffing and birthday cake, was going to take a toll on my weight loss efforts. And that bodybugg I just bought? Yeah…it’s sitting in my purse waiting for me to put it back to work.
I know what you are going to say: “But Pauline…there are so many healthy options for holiday meals…”
Or “Pauline, why not get rid of some of that stress by taking a turbo-kick class?”
Or “Seriously? You just consumed 820 calories and 35 grams of fat in one sitting and you’re bitching about your thighs?”
So let’s address the points one by one, shall we?
1) Yes, there are plenty of options for healthy holiday meals. I just chose (and that’s they key word here, people) not to make any. The trick is moderation and maybe next week I’ll post about how I should’ve employed a little more that tactic…
2) Yes, I could have gone to the gym more while said Family Stress was visiting, but well…I basically screwed the pooch on this one. Call me a masochist, but I figured missing three days at the gym was well worth spending time with relatives I’d rather not see on a daily basis who live some 2,000 miles away. We had some laughs, I had plenty of arguments in my head, and everyone survived Christmas. Yay for no prison time!
3) Yep…I did, in fact, just consume a blizzard and am still going to bitch about the size of my thighs, the rolls on my stomach, and the cellulite craters on my ass. And you know why? Because it’s human. Because I know I’m not the only one who wakes up each morning with the best of intentions and the ass-end of follow-through. Because tomorrow *is* another day. And well, damn it, because the day I stop bitching is the day I’ve officially given up and accepted that this is me and Dairy Queen becomes a daily staple in my diet.
News Flash: that ain’t happening any time soon. Sound your battle horns, ladies…I haven’t given up yet.
So call me your “Every Woman” in this weight loss battle. The “Wanna-be.” The “Real Mom of Calorie County.” Whatever you want. If you can relate, we should do lunch.
If I can’t be honest with you, I’m sure as hell not going to be honest with myself. And I’d say honesty is a key component with all this food and calorie tracking that I’m going to be doing again next week when I dust that wagon off and pull it out of the garage.

 

When The Husband was still The Boyfriend and we got serious about birthdays and Valentine’s and all other gift-giving related days, I made it perfectly clear that combining Christmas and birthday gifts into one Mappy Birthmas gift was an automatic Break Up Rule (later to be upgraded to an automatic Divorce Papers Filed rule).

And we lived happily ever after.

Then he got sneaky.

He brought this little guy home.

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This is Fezzik. The little furball agreed to sit pretty in the very Christmas stocking I was brought home from the hospital in 33 years ago in exchange for a treat and a belly rub.

I got a blog post out of it and The Husband is currently celebrating his success at having found an exception to my rule.

 

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It’s astounding how similar Santa’s handwriting and tendency for typos are so similar to my own.

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