Because this is MY year. And I’m on my third glass. Cheers.
This year, I will finish what I begin. Sandwiches. Cake. Sentences. That third martini. I’ll make you proud, son.
This year, I will learn how to cook. And by cook, I mean perfect my Instagram pictures of meals that my husband and/or the nearest, cheapest takeout restaurant has prepared and I have wasted 27 minutes adding the correct lighting, pastel plate, AND gold spoon I got on sale at Anthropologie. Tag that shit.
This year, my kids will respect me. And they are fully committed to wiping their own asses and taking turns being sick. No more of this “OMG BOTH KIDS ARE PUKING AND CRYING AND NOT SLEEPING AND COUGHING AND THEIR SHIT IS PURPLE — PURPLE — WHY THE FACK IS IT PURPLE!?!?!?”. They will politely wait their turn and ONLY vomit when I am prepared, gloved, and ready for it. Likely, some time next year. Or when dad gets home and begins his shift.
This year, my house will be tidy. As I plan to move my kids and my fancy Ikea crap into the garage and only visit the house for the bathroom. Which I will hire someone to clean. Hourly.
This year, I will take my writing more seriously. Facebook statuses, tweets, IG captions. Plan that shit in advance. Watch the “likes” start rolling in. #thebookcanwait
This year, I will take care of myself. My tits will return and my belly will shrink. I’ll take vitamins. My hair will grow a foot. It will be brushed daily. Toes, painted. Face, moisturized. Skin will tan while I sleep. Glitter will ooze from my pores. I’ll grow fangs. A tail. BREATHE FIRE. Fuck. I’m a dragon.
This year, my daughter will walk. No jokes. I really need that shit to happen.
This year, I will return to the gym. I’m pretty sure I left the third Twilight book there.
This year, I will drink less… Cheap alcohol. Shitty coffee. Tang. Sticking to the strong stuff from here on out.
This year, my son will go to bed peacefully and without any complaints. Likely, around 1:00 AM. When he finally passes out from the all the sugar and I drag him up the stairs, drop him in his bed, and prepare for his 3:00 AM wake up call.
This year, my kids will get along. It’s easier to plot that way.
This year, I will limit screen time. Unless they beg for it or I need a break. Or if I want to watch Stranger Things. Or finally finish The Vampire Diaries. Is Teen Wolf still a thing? Shit. I should just buy an iPad for every room in case they get bored and want me to like, draw with them while I’m trying to text Beth back.
This year, I will stop wearing leggings. HA. No one believes that.
Happy New Year, folks. May your day be magical, your champagne pink, and your kids be much much much more civilized and clothed than mine.