I am resolved.

So I never do New Years resolutions. I mean really, I’m perfect. But since I’m a joiner . . . here we go.

For a Better life: Step One
Oh yes, I know you think I’m going to say lose weight. Every woman says lose weight, even those size 6 bitches. But no. I mean, yes I want to lose weight, but I will and then I’ll gain it back. I’m just stable at this size. And besides, it’s not like I’m fat. I’m just fatter than I want to be. So no, not to lose weight. To love my body, my strength, my skin, my curves, no mater what they look like. Besides, it’s not all bad. To get in touch with my body, and remember why I love it, at minimum:

Yoga, 2 times a week,
Muay Thai: 2 times a week.

For a Better life: The Sequel
To make time for my flesh friends. To accept invitations to go places, to spend time with people I have lost touch with. I have great friends, who love me like crazy and I love them too. I need to reconnect with them. 

For a Better life: Or at least a more comfortable one
To finish my house. I mean this is my kitchen floor. It’s just not good. So I need:

A new floor in the kitchen
New carpet or hardwood in the living room
New cabinets in the bathroom
To tear down the built-in in the living room and get some proper storage in it’s place.
There’s more too, but that’s enough for one year.

For a Better life: The Conclusion
Be more open with people. Not the “Hi, let me babble at you and make you think I’m funny and charming, without actually letting you in at all.” The real kind of open. The quiet, honest, compassionate kind of open. The kind I am after a glass of wine (yes ladies, I got the message).

So there we go.  Good luck to me.

This does not make me a lush

When it comes to the wine drinkers spectrum, I’m somewhere between chugging 2 Buck Chuck and decanting aged bottles of red. Not that I wouldn’t love to get my hands on a fine bottle of aged wine, but really, I’d love to get my hand on most any bottle of wine.

Except whites.

And 2 Buck Chuck.

But other than that I love wine. It is my favorite buzz. It’s warm and smooth and makes me feel like a 1940’s starlet, all swing and sensuality. And my friends and family, who realize I’m infinitely more charming after a glass of wine, gave me many fun choices this year.

This is my current wine collection. That is my favorite wine opener. It makes opening the bottle as easy as pressing a lever (which is pretty much what you do). That glass is part of a set a fellow wine freak gave me. They are magic, no stems to fumble with and tip over.

The fellow wine freak gave me this bottle for Christmas. It’s an unoaked 2007 Pinot Noir. FYI: Unoaked means it was fermented in a stainless steel barrel instead of oak.  The stainless steel doesn’t interfere with the natural flavor of the wine. She got it for me ‘cause she’s a lesbian now and she liked the sexy label. I haven’t tried it yet but it looks delish.

The husband picked out this bottle. The picture sold him. It’s a curvy woman in a hammock, but it looks like a skull. It’s called Skulls. Its tastes like shit. We’ll probably cook with it.

He picked this one out too. It’s Mead. We heat it a little with a little bag of spices and its warm and I want to have it every day.

A darling friend gave me this bottle of Zinfandel. Wine dork time again: Old Vine wines come from vines that are at least 50 years old. The vines make fewer grapes and they are smaller with a more intense and better balanced flavor. I am very excited to uncork this little treasure.

These two are staples in the house. I’m currently on my second glass of the one on the left. It’s a decent cabernet sauvignon. It’s organic, but the best part is, its sulfate free. Sans sulfates means more wine, less hangover. The Cocobon is a blend. It’s yummy on its own, but its best with chocolate. Chili chocolate is my favorite, but chocolate is like wine, I’ll take most any kind.

So I know what I’ll be doing this month, I’m just not sure I’m going to remember much of it.

Man, they had better keep making these things.

For my daughter, because not all traditions are dead.

Year 1: You are in our heart.

Year 2: The year the cat learned to hide from your love.

Year 3: To commemorate a special trip.

Year 4: With school and new friends and ballet, you took flight in many ways.

Year 5: You’ve learned so much this year, my little book worm.

Traditions

I think I could spend the rest of my life futilely trying to recreate the holidays of my youth. Half of those people are gone, and the other half live too far away. The husband’s family, who does live in the area, shuns all pagan celebrations, and it is very difficult to get the same warm fuzzy feeling of a large family gathering with just myself my husband and our only child.

This year, mostly out of exhaustion, I decided to be more of a go with the flow kind of person, instead of demanding to hold to my family traditions. We had Thanksgiving at a dear friend’s house instead of our own. There was much wine drinking and children running all around and too many women in the kitchen. They called us family and hugs and laughter were everywhere. It was perfect, like it was when I was growing up.

We didn’t go to my mothers for Christmas. For many reasons, it just didn’t happen this year. Instead we spent my week off driving around, talking, playing and doing lots of nothing. I baked some pies and made a few meals, and even though I scrubbed my bathtub, there wasn’t the stress of getting up early to prep all day for Christmas Day. Instead we accepted an invitation from another lovely friend of mine. We had ham instead of turkey, and we ate off plastic plates in our jeans. We joked and laughed and watched our children play. I sat in their bathtub and offered to take it home. It was silly and easy, and I enjoyed myself very much.

I’m not quite ready to give up the idea of family traditions, but I’m definitely open to expanding my definition of it. Time to start chasing the feelings and not the actions. So, what shall we do for New Years?

Evidently they had a falling out.

"That store that had my watch probably sold it already."

Um, think . . . Oh yeah, Kohls, the watch she wanted for her birthday, in like 5 months. "Maybe"

"That’s okay though 'cause maybe another store has one, or I can have another one, as long as it’s in a shape I like. You know what shapes I like right, mama?"

Well you're really girly, so, "Hearts and Stars, right?"

"Yeah, and Circles, and Squares. . . . But NOT Ovals.”

“Why not ovals?”

“They are BAD shapes”

Now I'm as bad as you

I hate lying. Well in theory anyway. I mean, I lie to adults all day long. I'm in customer service. Little lies get me through the day. It's the big lies I hate, especially lies told to children. They are so trusting and honest, it seems a violation of their faith in me to lie to them.

Which brings me to Santa Claus. Spare me your clotted nostalgia. Yes he is a sweet wonderful lie, one of joy and magic and cinnamon scented goodness. But he is still a lie. And I hate lies. Besides, my husband was traumatized when he became aware of the great adult conspiracy that is Santa, and I'm pretty sure I continued to 'believe' for a full year, to avoid sending my mom into a series of weeping sessions, so we just figured it would be best to fall back on honesty as a best policy.

We told her Santa was a great man who lived a long time ago, and that his kindness to children inspired the world to honor him with the tradition of Christmas. Except that we used age appropriate words. We still hung out stockings and left cookies on Christmas Eve, but she always made the little comments that assured me she was comfortably aware of the reality of the situation.

Until yesterday.

Yesterday my little cherub of almost 5 asked me if Santa was real. I held my breath and asked what she thought. And she, the child who reads and does addition, the child who once yelled at me for pretending a banana was a phone, that logical, analytical child, solemnly told he that he was.

I sat in that uncomfortable place for awhile. Is it lying to allow her to believe something I already told her was a lie? Can you have the fantasy without the lie? We are on shaky ground here. We were getting ready to get on a train to see Santa after all. I decided to let it go for the moment. The husband looked at me like I had better know what i was doing. I didn't.

The train staff, cleverly disguised as elves handed my daughter a piece of paper so she could write a letter to Santa. An old lady dressed as Mrs. Claus stopped in for a chat. At any point I could have gently reminded my daughter that those were costumes, that we were all pretending. But I didn't.

A while later, the big man himself came Ho-Ho-Ho -ing through the train. She pushed the letter into his hand and hid in my armpit when we tried to take a picture. After he left she went back to staring out the train window. That should have been the end of it, but no. We ended up seeing him again, and it was at that point that I truly lost my mind.

She had been worried when she was writing the letter that Santa wouldn't be able to understand her because she can't spell that well. She really wants a unicorn big stuffed (don't get me started on the trials of finding that damn thing), in fact it is the only thing she has asked for. I'm not sure what came over me at that point, but watching her, so small and sweet, trying to ignore the man in the red suit, all the while worried if he would understand her simple request for a stuffed unicorn, I lied. Not just a little lie either, but a huge monster of a lie.

I told her that Santa read her letter.

That he knew she wanted a unicorn.

That he might not have rainbow ones this year, but he has a special pink one with stars that he knows she'll love.

As I am talking I am aware of several things. One, my husband is staring at me like I lost my mind. Two, that I am in fact LYING. Three, that my overly analytical child who can't pretend a banana is a phone is lighting up at this most ridiculous lie. I mean, she has been sitting there the whole time. She KNOWS Santa and I didn't have this conversation. But she believes. And for some reason I'm full of joy and magic and cinnamon scented goodness.

Don't mind me

me: i wanna blog

Me: No.

me: but i wanna

Me: No. Bad idea. Stick to Twitter.

me: 140 characters isnt enough to say what i really wanna say

Me: And you are obnoxious enough at 140 characters. Just look.

me: cant . . . its protected

Me: And why is that?

me: i like anonymity

Me: Exactly my point. Don't blogs usually contain references to your real life?

me: . . . . guess so

Me: And pictures?

me: yeah . . . .

Me: So how is that going to work?

me: dunno

Me: And that is another thing. Your typing skills are atrocious and your grammar has seriously gone down hill since college.

me: piss off . . . . its a blog, not a fucking dissertation

Me: Oh, this is going to end well.