This year I refuse to get into petty arguments with people and will instead follow the advice of Gandhi and settle everything on the dance floor.
This year I will no longer wear black leather gloves to PTA meetings, and then tell the ladies that if they don’t keep the bake sale talk to a minimum, they’re going to meet the new head of the STFU Committee.
This year I will stop calling my right thigh “Chicken” and my left thigh “Waffles.”
This year I will apologize to my estranged friend Jennifer for saying that her husband has the looks and personality of a morning zoo DJ from Omaha, and that she should probably get him tested for rabies before winter comes.
This year I will create a new playlist on my iPod called, “Music to Swiffer By.” (Track #1: Everybody Hurts by REM. Track #2: OPP by Naughty by Nature.)
This year I will no longer run into BBQ restaurants and yell, “Has anyone seen my pet pig? He was just here a minute ago. Petey! Where are you, Petey? Mama misses you, baby! Come hoooome! Hey, why does that rib look so familiar?“
This year I will stop telling other mothers that we can’t have play dates at our house because I’m still under investigation.
This year the Today Show will finally ask me to appear either because a) I’ve written a best selling novel or b) I accidentally amputated my right hand with my Cuisinart food processor and my husband caught it on video.
This year I won’t stand in my front yard and throw doughnuts at the boot camp ladies jogging by. At least not the jelly-filled kind.
This year I will determine if that one reality show is called “Dog: The Bounty Hunter” or “Bounty: The Dog Hunter.” I will also try to find out why my hair looks like his whenever I have my period.
This year I will try to make it through an entire Jennifer Aniston romantic comedy without screaming, “FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, PEOPLE, WHERE’S THE F*CKING MORPHINE? I’M DYING OVER HERE! SOMEONE PUT ME OUT OF MY MISERY! JUST PUNCH ME IN THE FACE, JACKASS! PUUUNCH ME!” even once.
This year I will stop asking the short, spray tanned lady in my neighborhood how things are going down at the chocolate factory. She never knows.
This year I will dye my hair black and change my name to “Khendi” so the Kardashians will finally adopt me and put me in charge of Booty Exfoliation and Implant Management. And if I’m lucky, Bruce Jenner Embalming.
This year I will set up a poison-dart filled booby trap to catch any Girl Scout cookie pushers before they get to my front door. Yeah, that’s right, Troop 211. Live in fear.
And finally, this year I’ll try to get out of the house a little more.
I think it’s probably for the best.
Have some free time?