So. It’s another new year. And as the curtain opens on another jaunt around the sun, thoughts turn to a subject treasured by many of us, at least for a few days every January: New Years resolutions.
I made some resolutions this year. At least, I tried to. For the past decade or so, my wife has assumed veto power over my prospective resolutions. It’s for my own good, really — there was some unpleasantness a few years ago. Apparently, ‘finally sticking it to the man’ isn’t an appropriate goal for the year. Not if your definition of ‘sticking it’ involves fire hoses and flaming bags of horse poop, anyway.
So these days, I run my resolutions past the boss. And she has little patience for any New Years nonsense.
You can imagine how badly this goes.
This year, I decided I’d resolve to grow dimples.
She wasn’t having any of it. “Dimples? You can’t just grow dimples.”
I begged to differ. With a good screwdriver and a little patience, I could totally give myself dimples. It worked fine back in grade school, when little Tommy Donovan wanted us to turn his ‘outie’ into an ‘innie’. And he’s doing just fine without a spleen. It’s completely safe.
“Apparently, ‘finally sticking it to the man’ isn’t an appropriate goal for the year. Not if your definition of ‘sticking it’ involves fire hoses and flaming bags of horse poop, anyway.”
My wife tried to soften the blow with a redirect:
“Why don’t you resolve to better yourself somehow? Take a class, or lose weight, or emulate a personal hero or something.”
“Those all seem like very reasonable ide- hey, did you just call me fat?”
“Well, who couldn’t stand to lose a few pounds after the holidays?”
“Good point. I’ll get the screwdriver; how much do you think a spleen weighs, anyway?”
She talked me out of that idea, too. What’s the point of owning screwdrivers if you never get to use them? Sheesh.
Gently, she steered me back to the ‘hero’ idea. I’m sure she was hoping I’d resolve to be more like Ghandi or Martin Luther King or that guy on Blues Clues who seems to get along with everybody. She’s so cute when she’s optimistic:
“So name a hero you could emulate.”
“I dunno. Ozzy Osbourne?”
“Gerald, or Henry?”
“Maybe we should try something else.”
Finally, she suggested that I might resolve to better the world around me. But she didn’t like any of those ideas, either. I don’t think she’s very philanthropic, when you get right down to it. Still, I tried:
“All that driving to work uses up a lot of gas. I could stop doing that.”
“You mean, start taking the bus?”
“No, I mean stop going to work.”
“Not a chance.”
“I could poop in the yard, to save on fertilizer.”
“We don’t use fertilizer.”
“But we could. I bet I’m chock full of phosphates.”
“No doubt. You’re still not pooping in the yard.”
“I can’t believe you’d waste all these phospates. Why do you hate Mother Earth so?”
“Look, I give up. Resolve whatever you want. I’m going to bed.”
So in the end, she was no real help. All those good ideas, shot down with vetos until she finally gave up. And now I can resolve whatever my little heart desires.
Looks like it’s back to fire hoses and horse poop. “The man” better watch his back in ’07, baby. It’s shaping up to be a good year.Permalink | 1 Comment