The Road Less Travelled

Studies show that the more you talk about your plans for a New Year's diet, the less likely you are to do it. Actually, studies show (or experts say, I can't remember) that talking a big game about any future plans makes one far less likely to take action.

I don't really know how the researchers reached their conclusions, given that it would take a mind reader to identify the folks who keep mum about their intentions. But experts are experts, and I am much more likely to believe a report issued by experts than the rantings of your average schmo down the street. So I'm assuming the carefully conducted research took into account the problems with subject identification as well as the widely held belief (okay, widely held by me) that diets just don't work.

In my own personal experience, I have found that talking about a diet is less a kiss of death than simply thinking about a diet. Just pondering the prospect of food deprivation of any kind leads me to strap on the feed bag and dig in. I take action all right, just maybe not the kind of action the voices in my head have contemplated. And, as far as I know, nobody else hears the voices in my head, so going public is generally not the problem.

Let's face it, when we come up with good intentions, those intentions are generally contrary to what we feel like doing. Dieting -- like getting organized or leaving our comfy spot on the couch to do something productive or always having enough back stock of toilet paper so that you don't have to run from bathroom to bathroom with your pants down -- takes effort. Lots of effort. And whether we talk about our plans or keep them to ourselves, the path of least resistance is far more alluring to most of us than the path of toil and trouble and elbow grease.

Given the likelihood of failure, we might as well do some talking and reap at least a few social benefits. Talking about our good intentions or just about anything has become so easy that even the shyest and most private among us can succumb to the temptation. Why wait an eternity for success at a diet and its accompanying kudos when we can take a few seconds to change a Facebook status or fire off a tweet (or write a blog) to fill everyone in the universe in on our noble plans? Without actually having to endure so much as one conversation, we are almost certain to be inundated with thumbs ups and congratulatory tweets and all other forms of cyber pats on the back.

If the road to hell is paved with good intentions, I tremble to think where the road paved with bad intentions leads. I will continue to keep folks posted about my lofty hopes and dreams and, dare I say, goals. I am not taking any chances.

I Feel the Earth Moving

It's that time again, time to make some New Year's resolutions.

This year, I am going to try to come up with a few I can actually keep. The things over which I have no control are out. Like reversing climate change. Or finding a cure for cancer. Or establishing peace on earth. Or finalizing my divorce. Yep, crazy resolutions are out of the question this year.

I don't want to aim too low, but my expectations are certainly less lofty than they used to be, say, when youth and a false sense of financial security clouded my judgment. As I scrolled through online pictures this morning of the frightening ways the earth can change in a split second -- glacial calving, volcanic collapse, earthquake islands -- I thought how ironic it is that such major alterations in the earth's landscape can occur so quickly while the more mundane transitions of everyday life seem to occur at, well, a glacial pace.

But enough about my divorce "proceedings" (a term I use very loosely) and back to my resolutions. As if some cyber god had read my mind, an ad suddenly appeared next to a picture of a meteor crater, an ad for an e-book that seemed to be written just for me: Vulnerability Management for Dummies. Sure, the blurb seemed to suggest the book was created to help protect online business networks from various kinds of attack, but it specifically noted that size and scope were irrelevant. As an avid (albeit obscure) blogger, a proud owner of a domain name for a fledgling business and, most importantly, a card carrying dummy, I am most definitely a candidate for a VM program.

So, therein lies my New Year's resolution for 2012. I will learn how to guard my Achilles heels and manage my vulnerabilities. I will become a fortress, impermeable, indestructible. Neither major changes in the earth's landscape nor petty shenanigans by attorneys and their clients (just a random example) will penetrate my thick skin or diminish my resolve. I am going to get with the VM program; I am woman, hear me roar.

Bring on the attacks. Heck, bring on the Mayan Apocalypse. You ain't seen nothin' yet -- just the tip of the iceberg.

Ghosts of Christmas Past

This was my second Christmas in twenty-six years not spent tearing presents open beside a tree. It was, instead, a Sunday like so many I had experienced growing up in Brooklyn, complete with bagels and lox, a movie, and Chinese food.

A day like every Christmas I had experienced for exactly half my life, yet it felt strange, more strange than it did last year, when the novelty of a return to a Jewish style Christmas trumped the feelings of loss. This year, I was plagued by inexplicable pangs of nostalgia: for the long and tedious ride to Michigan, for the last minute Christmas shopping at an overcrowded mall, for the endless hours sprawled in a food coma watching a continuous loop of A Christmas Story while awaiting the next leaden meal.

I suppose I will one day grow accustomed to the occasional holiday spent without my children, but, for now, it's all still raw. The thought of them cavorting in the enemy camp, feeling warm and fuzzy in the embrace of those who have heard all sorts of nasty things about me, the thought of someone else occupying my favorite chair, all these things stir in me decidedly "unChristian" feelings. And a decidedly un-motherly desire for my kids to have a lousy time.

All this negativity in spite of a perfectly lovely day filled with good food and a few hours watching a young Grace Kelly and Jimmy Stewart in Rear Window in a downtown theatre that took me back to my childhood with its uncomfortable seats and ornate walls and elegant red velvet curtain. Even the weather was lovely -- sunny and unseasonably warm. I secretly reveled in the noticeable absence of a single snowflake, content to know that if I couldn't enjoy a traditional white Christmas, nobody could.

The kids return today, and, tomorrow, we will celebrate Chanukah with a fanfare grossly disproportionate to the minor status of the holiday. I will be armed with gifts to rival anything they found under the tree, I will stuff them with grotesquely fattening food, I will have cookies decorated with sickeningly sweet blue icing.

And, no doubt, I will continue to do such things, until the ghosts are put to rest.

All I Want for Christmas is Yuri

I have a new love. He's Russian, so we'll just call him Yuri. Heck, his name could be Stalin and I'd still find him irresistible.

He'll be single soon -- his wife is divorcing him, accusing him of serial infidelity. Bitter, gold digging bitch. From what I've read the guy is a saint. Generous to a fault (he just bought his twenty-two year old daughter an $88 million apartment in New York, and he didn't even try to negotiate a better price), and he has no criminal record (he was acquitted of participating in a plot to murder his business partner).

Oh, Yuri, I would take you away from those folks who don't appreciate you, and all I'd ask in return is that you buy me the nicest double wide in town. Nothing too fancy, no gold hubcaps, no diamond beveling around the bathroom faucets. Just a good location (I want to be near a Walmart) and maybe an occasional dinner out at the local Old Country Buffet so I can dress up. Who could pass up an offer like that? The whole deal will cost less than one of the toilet paper holders in his daughter's apartment, and I can be really good company.

I'm not looking for any great romance. My heart is cold these days. I don't break into a sweat anymore when I watch Mark Harmon close an impossible case on NCIS. Even when the episode features men in uniform. Nothing. Although I did feel a little tingle when I saw the Navy's recent "First Kiss" photo of two lesbians shoving their tongues down each other's throats to celebrate a homecoming. My heart literally went pitter pat when I thought about how the military brass felt watching that little spectacle, their little crew cut hairs literally bristling. Oy, don't ask. Don't tell.

But back to my Yuri, my sweet, generous Russian. Who knows? With a little soft lighting and sexy music in the trailer, a little borscht and some cheap vodka, and me in a hot little teddy from Walmart, anything is possible.

Borrowed Time

Sometimes you just have to let your hair down, go hog wild. Yesterday morning, when my workout partner suggested -- about seven minutes into it -- that we finish our session at Starbucks over some coffee and her homemade Christmas cookies, I shook out my pony tail, grabbed my coat without a moment's hesitation and off we went.

Hold on to your seats; it gets even wilder. There were seven varieties of cookies -- SEVEN!! -- and I sampled each one. No workout. Seven kinds of cookies, well before noon. Without guilt, without regret. I even made a conscious effort to not be conscious of the love handles that seem to be spilling even further over my workout pants this season, love handles I'd love to blame on the holidays except I have yet to be invited to a single party. But really, I've barely noticed them at all, and really, they don't bother me.

Okay maybe they bother me just a little. But apparently not enough to do much about them. Which makes perfect sense, as the official countdown begins today to the Maya Apocalypse on December 21, 2012. With only one year remaining to indulge in earthly delights, bring on the cookies and the cakes and the potato latkes that literally moisturized my skin from the inside out last night. (Happy Chanukah by the way.)

Our conversation at Starbucks yesterday morning was as enjoyable as it was predictable. My salivary glands kicked into high gear as my partner described the latest seventeen course gourmet feast she had whipped up for her family. My stomach started flip flopping as I described my latest efforts to ignore the signs that I will, indeed, be living out my golden years in a trailer (forgetting, momentarily, that with only a year to go, it's all a moot point). Our trainer -- who needed very little convincing to join us in our delinquency -- was armed, as always, with scripture passages and plenty of advice on giving it all over to Jesus. Whatever "it" is. I usually ignore his preaching, but this time I paid attention. If it's true that none of us will be waking up a year from tomorrow, I might as well start making friends with the guy. On the off chance I end up in his neck of the woods.

In any case, while I'm letting my hair down and going hog wild, I might as well give it all over to somebody, the "it" that interrupts my sleep and causes all my teeth to crack. Giving it all over to the lawyers certainly hasn't worked, and Jesus probably charges a lot less.

Watch Dogs

There's a news truck parked outside my Starbucks this morning. Maybe they're here to get local opinions on the shocking death of the North Korean dictator. Or maybe they're here to get our reactions to the recent spate of home invasions in the neighborhood.

My take on reports of Kim's death? I'm skeptical. I'm not a doctor, but I just find it difficult to believe a heartless dictator can die of heart failure. My take on the inordinate number of burglaries lately in my corner of deep dark suburbia? Maybe the police need to shift their focus, be a bit less zealous in their pursuit of drivers using cell phones (yes, my daughter was pulled over after she reached up to put her hair behind her ear, her cell phone tucked safely in her purse) and a bit more vigilant in patrolling the dark winter streets. We don't have a lot of Christmas lights in these parts, not too many blow up neon Santas to ward off the bad guys.

After all, I can hardly count on my neutered blind dog -- who routinely guesses wrong when positioning himself to appear as if he's looking at you -- to scare off some criminals who have testicles large enough to keep striking in the same place. Let's face it, nobody around here can count on their dogs for much protection, even the ones who can see. This is a neighborhood filled with designer mutts who don't like to walk in the rain, who wear coats on top of the ones they're born with, who have standing appointments with their groomers. Show me a crook who's going to be scared of a yapping fur ball and I'll show you some North Koreans who are crying because Kim died and not because they are terrified that things can actually get worse.

I realize I'm being a bit shallow, worrying about someone stealing my flat screen TV's while there are people starving in Korea, but that's just the nature of things. There are plenty of lunatics out there oppressing their own citizens while they aim nuclear missiles in our direction, but really, what can we do about that? Send the troops leaving Iraq now that they have nothing to do? Beyond that, not much, other than shake our heads with disgust and, when the alarm sounds, crouch under our desks and keep our fingers crossed.

But burglars in our midst? We can do something about that. I'll be keeping my cell phone handy -- even when I'm driving -- and if I see any suspicious shadows on the dimly lit winter streets, I'm gonna risk that ticket and do my part to keep things safe close to home.

The Reign of Zane

Politics is like a box of chocolates. You never know what you're going to get. All I know is I like plain talk. Save the technical terminology for someone who needs to be impressed.

So, if you're like me, you call a spade a spade, and, if you're like me, you almost start to like Mitt Romney when he calls Newt Gingrich zany. I rarely understand what any of the Republican candidates are talking about, but zany Newt? That I get.

The thing of it is, folks are being a little critical of Mitt for stooping to such low name calling, but I think a lot of people are missing the point. A guy who proudly announces that his campaign has gained the support of Christine O'Donnell, former Senate candidate and witchcraft practitioner, is obviously no stranger to zany, probably even thinks of it as a good thing. Let's face it, O'Donnell makes Newt seem pretty middle of the road.

Mitt himself may not be casting magical spells while he's busy casting aspersions, but that doesn't mean he's got his own two feet firmly planted. Married to the same woman for forty-two years? The same church all his life? Seems pretty zany to me. At the very least somewhat masochistic and misguided. But, then again, consider the source. Nobody has ever accused me of being sane or even remotely clear headed. Not recently, at any rate.

I kind of like zany people, actually, and now that Mitt has put a finger on Newt's "problem," I'm actually feeling sort of kindly toward Newt. Yes, I know that zany may be fun at a cocktail party and maybe not so much at the helm of a government, but gosh, except for the Republican presidential debates, Washington can be so boring sometimes. It's not like I'm looking for Qaddafi kind of zany, but a little quirkiness might not be such a bad thing. They all flip flop, they all get into bed with strange bedfellows, they all have skeletons in their closets. And you have to be a little zany to want the job in the first place, so a little overt kookiness may be just what the country needs.

As Forrest Gump would say, "zany is as zany does." Let's see if Newt can live up to the task.