Happy New Year, Fluent in Blonde family.
My star New Year’s resolution this year is to move to the South for a while; “a while” meaning however long it takes for my kids to develop a deep accent baptized in gravy.
I’m positive that whatever shortcomings I have in raising my babies to be great humans can be greatly subsidized by a charming pronunciation of “pieee.”
You’re right. That’s not a resolution. None of my lofty New Year’s “resolutions” are, seeing as a genie lamp is the only real conduit to their fruition. All my New Year’s not-goals are more like birthday cake wishes. Seeing as my next German chocolate birthday cake isn’t until September, I thought I’d try to Air-drop them to the universe now in case it accidentally accepts my request.
The thing is, each year at my house, we make New Year’s resolutions.
…and, each year, we wheeze at the comedy that is the unattainability of previous years’.
Frankly, New Year’s wishes have the same likelihood as any other diluted “resolution” I may have. Cutting sugar? I don’t think so. Get organized? Ehh. Is that even possible with kids?
And that is why I’m refusing to omit, edit, or water down my inclusion of “lunch with MaryKate and Ashley” on my New Year’s…goals…or dreams. Manifestations? Maybe motivations. Whatever.
I’d also like to whisper to America that I accidentally opened my cursed box of New Year’s Eve decor from 2020. I still have it, either because I was anticipating it to be a high value historical artifact one day, or because my past New Year’s resolutions lists have never included “clean out the closet under the stairs.” Either way, if anything globally catastrophic occurs soon I think…I think it was me. I’m sorry.
Dream big, 2023.
