Discovered my list of goals for 2017 and well, um, yeah. That. A year ago I got on my high horse and touted the benefits of writing things down to make them happen and had every intention of following through, and was even off to a good start with a CT Press Club Best Personal Blog in Connecticut prize and as a BlogHer Voice of the Year honoree. Plus, I basically flashed my boobs
When reaching for New Year’s resolutions, or what I call broken promises, I’m old enough to know these 10 pounds are not only not coming off – not ever – but instead have taken on a life of their own, expanding to 15, 20 with no end in sight. Onward and outward so sayeth my ass! But last year’s goals, ass not included, were not in vain. Write, submit, get paid, speak.
Ever wonder why baby new year ages so quickly? Cute little naked dude January 1 with a sash and top hat, then 12 months later – whammo – he’s a straggly AARP geezer with a beard dragging the floor, hunchback, and weather-beaten, tired face with desperate eyes pleading to Ryan Seacrest to put him out of his misery? I blame those impossible New Year’s Resolutions. They’re pathetic and set you up to fail.