Auld Lang Syne, My Ass

So, two days into the new year, and what do you think I've been doing? Conducting the approximately 8 years of research on my novel? Washing the 20 articles of hand-wash only clothing (dear god, why do I have such high-maintenance taste in clothing? It's KOHLS, for chrissakes)? Throwing myself with massive dedication into Operation Get Skinnier than Jim? At the very least, reading something in the condescendingly self-help genre?

Oh-ho. One can only wish.

The fact of it is, my ass is fused to my mattress. And my recently-dyed red mop of hair is leaking and ruining my Pottery Barn Euro Sham. (Turns out I don't care much for my duvet set, so I don't complain too much.) I'm into, like, Day 15 of Epic Sinus Infection of 2011, and I am perilously close to losing the will to live. So forget trying to keep any of my resolutions. Instead, I've been almost a complete layabout, watching Eat Pray Love and reading the Julie/Julia Project and Pioneer Woman blogs.

Shit. 2011 is going to be the Year of Vicarious Living, darn it.

All is not completely lost. I did cuddle my cat Austen a fair amount, stowed away a lot of the Christmas stuff, vacuumed, swept, did dishes, and folded laundry. I even bathed. That's a LOT to ask of a sick girl! And I'm not done, either. I shall do more laundry, and paint my nails, and maybe file some papers. And then I am going to fix a vodka tonic and the last of the gumbo and get ambitious and fuse my ass to the couch.

Whatever 2011 will be, I fear that 2011 is not be the Year of Ambitious Living.