Yes I am writing this on the 12th of January.

 

I had two resolutions for the year 2016: organize my storage spaces and exercise every day. How hard is that? I have not exercised for four days now, and I lost my storage room keys during the holidays and had to have the locksmith break in, so I have already messed up. And when I did open the door to A1A Storage n’ Key, I was met with an impenetrable wall of detritus. Everything from my children’s first hobby horse, to garbage bags filled with padded hangars and sea glass.  I closed the door and left – defeated.

 

That is the worst part about New Year’s resolutions, isn’t it? The fact you put additional, unnecessary pressure on yourself at the start of a brand new year.

 

Here’s why I hate New Year’s Resolutions:

1. The ideas a person has when the clock strikes midnight on the 1st, are always half-baked. “I’m going to lose belly fat” is open-ended and vague. How much weight? When? What’s the plan?
2. Resolutions are usually based in the negative (or envy) – the hidden ending to the sentence “I’m going to save money this year” is not, “even though I am happy with my financial situation…” The end of that sentence is, “because I am a loser who doesn’t even have a new  [fill in the blank] like Bill does…”
3. I have never accomplished a single New Year’s promise. Does anyone? In her new commercial for Weight Watchers, Oprah says the year 2016 is going to be the year of “my best body ever.” Are you buying that?
4. Plans for the future often involve unsuspecting and unwilling partners – “I’m going to marry Nancy in 2016!” is creepy and stalker-ish, unless you are currently engaged to Nancy…
5. New Year’s resolutions are too grandiose. Something like “I will get all my shoes re-heeled in 2016!” seems achievable, but everyone is too busy announcing their plans to mount Kilimanjaro…
6. Self centered much? I’m all for new year promises to help others, but let’s face it – resolutions are usually personal – like, “I’m letting my hair grow out,” or “I’m organizing my storage spaces…”
7. Resolutions are almost always made by drunk people.
8. When you have a really great year it makes you feel like you’ve peaked. Hello? I QUIT DRINKING in 2013. How will I ever top that???

 

Okay Oprah, the year 2016 is the year I like myself more (and my best body ever and neat-as-pins storage would be great too…). I’m going to take care of myself and even though I probably won’t find a way to exercise every day (I get up at 4:30 as it is…), I will make exercise a big part of my life this year. And I’m going to be nice to people. Plain, old-fashioned nice. These are not resolutions. More like guidelines…

 

How’s that for vague and open-ended?

 

 

 

Either way, I’m not paying the ransom.

I was speaking with Lisa yesterday. She told me that dognapping is on the rise. Her son’s two French Bulldogs were stolen from his yard a month ago and the culprits sent a ransom note demanding $1,500. It was neatly typed, enclosing a SSAE and an affidavit renouncing any claim to further action.

What happened to those cool, creative, hand pasted dictums from the movies? Enclosing a paw and a burner phone, they say things like:

I’ve told you that I bought Fiona in an alcohol fueled, empty-nest inspired haze. She is a mischance: an animal so unspontaneous and malformed people laugh aloud when on the rare occasion she wakes long enough to go for a meander (incessantly scratching at the chronic skin condition I have spent far more than $1,500 to remedy).

The vet has actually suggested braces for her under bite…

Fiona and I have a relationship much like the Grinch and Max. She is cautious of my idiosyncrasies; I allow familiarity until there is slobber involved.

To those would-be abductors who think someone foolish enough to pay three large plus airfare for a mangy cur would pay ransom, I fear I’ll disappoint. Suffice to say I will not enclose a check. Fiona eats organic, venison and brown rice formula dog food with a dollop of Greek yogurt on top. She answers to her name and likes to sleep on French-silk ticking. She is allergic to dust, grass, air and Fabreeze.

Enjoy.

I’m walking Fiona yesterday morning and she’s being all choosy about where she poops,* and for some reason that always drives me crazy.  Usually, her bathroom bouts are easy – she does try to please me, and I’m sure she fears my unreasonable, scary response when she doesn’t perform to my liking (think about Cruella’s reaction when the puppies don’t have their spots yet…).  Yesterday she had me in an alley, on a strip of shaggy grass, in front of a house draped with fishing nets and a sign on the front door that said: SURFERS FOR JESUS.

 

Funny Little Neighborhood…

I live in Jacksonville Beach.  It’s a funny little neighborhood with fishing shacks nestled in the shadows of high-rise condos (the result of stalled “gentrification”), and all walks of people and dogs.  For some reason, there are always stray garbage cans in front of the houses.  If we’re far from the discrete, “DOG REFUSE ONLY” bin near the back entrance of my condo, I sneak Fiona’s full poop bag into one of them.

 

Yesterday morning, when I tossed the poop bag in, I also threw in the impressive wad of keys I carry (jangling like a janitor) on our walks.  The garbage can was just tall enough, that I couldn’t reach the bottom.  And it was industrial grade heavy.   So I had to put Fiona’s leash over my forearm like a Gucci purse (as if she’d ever run away…), and upend the garbage onto the gravel alleyway.  As I was kneeling, elbow deep in the remains of the Surfer’s for Jesus effuse (Fiona straining her fancy lead), a car pulled up out of nowhere.  The guy in the car rolled down the window and asked, “Is that a metaphor?”

 

I need to marry that guy.

 

Although, I think it’s actually symbolism…

 

*It seems like I talk about poop a lot, so I went back and looked at my posts and I only talk about it when the subject is Fiona (or Dartmoor ponies).