The Trouble With New Year’s Resolutions

THE TROUBLE WITH NEW YEAR’S RESOLUTIONS is that they change your life when you actually keep them. For better AND for worse.  For better, I went to the gym this morning (Resolution #1).  For worse, that put me 87 minutes behind schedule, and now here it is, 3:00 in the afternoon, and I still haven’t run my errands, paid my bills, nor returned my phone calls.  But I did go to the gym, take a shower, and take time to prepare a nutritious meal (which was Resolution #2).  (Do you hear me patting myself on the back, here?) Now, as I’m about to head out and run errands, I’m facing the beginning of rush hour traffic, and the dilemma confronts me:  Go anyway, and take twice as long to run those errands, than if I had run them earlier in the day (like I used to, before I started keeping Resolutions 1 and 2)?  OR – stay home and eat leftover lasagna (thereby breaking Resolution #2) for dinner, instead of the fresh veggies I would have purchased on my twice-as-long errand run, over which I’m stressing, even now, as I type!? Which leads me to Resolution #3: Blog more often
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My Very First Turkey

… I WAS 18 WHEN I COOKED my first Christmas dinner.  Correction . . . almost cooked it. I had never roasted a turkey before, and was a bit flummoxed Christmas morning when I realized I should have defrosted my bird in the fridge for three days PRECEDING the big day.  Nevertheless, I was full of hope that my teeny tiny bird . . . it was just the two of us that year, for we were 1,000 miles away from family, and my new hubby had not been released from active duty for the holidays. Anyways, I was hopeful that my miniscule turkey would defrost oh-so-quickly in warm water. (This was back in the days before you could simply nuke it.) So I found a good, sharp knife and looked for a way to free my hard, icy gobbler from its plastic wrapper. Finally, I decided to slice the wrapper directly underneath the wire prong that clamped the plastic shut at one end.  But wow — that plastic was tough!  OOMPH!  I gave it my all – and sliced the bag clean through, all the way through to the pointy finger of my left hand. Which I also sliced clean
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Margaret Thatcher meets Hyacinth

APPROXIMATELY 6,489 YEARS AGO – give or take a decade – I was in show business. My specialty? Make ’em laugh! (Which, if you know anything about show business, is actually rather a risky business.) Well folks, the risk is ON! For I am coming out of retirement and am in the business of making ’em laugh, once again. Yee-haw! And THIS SUNDAY marks my big debut. (Or maybe I should say, come-back.) For I am reading one chapter from my book at a local bookstore in Pasadena CA, dressed up as a kind of British Fairy Godmother – half Margaret Thatcher and half Hyacinth, with just a dash of Mrs. Slocombe. I can explain. We set the date – January 31st. We set the time – 3:45 pm. And we had the location – Vroman’s Bookstore at 695 E Colorado Street. But when I walked into the store to study the signing area before Christmas, and I saw the rows of empty chairs waiting for an audience – something happened. Suddenly, my senses were heightened and I could hear it – the roar of the crowd. And I could smell it – the odor of greasepaint. And I could feel it – my
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Post Traumatic Moving Disorder – My Somewhat True Story

THIS IS A TRUE STORY. (Except for the parts where I exaggerate. . .  or lie. . .  or quote statistics.) On my birthday this year – June 2 – my life took a gigantic U Turn. I moved to Los Angeles. I had been commuting to L.A for two years, and over the course of too many round-trip journeys on too many super-crowded freeways, my buttocks and lower back became permanently molded into the shape of my bucket seat and my once-girlish figure began to resemble an overripe and overgrown pear. Soft and bottom heavy. And so, I became convinced that my life would become oh-so-much easier if I simply pulled up stakes and moved to L.A.. Wrong! There is nothing, absolutely nothing, easy about L.A.. (Except, perhaps, the morals.) I am a writer. I work at home. So, wherever home is, it shouldn’t really affect my writing life. Right? Wrong! Again. (And no, not you – me!) Because I have discovered that every other person in L.A. is writing a book, has written a book, or is about to write a book, and whenever I happen to let it slip that in addition to writing and editing books, I also happen
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