Me and Taylor are going back to December

I wish we could get double portions of December and just skip January altogether.


After the jovial over-indulgence of December (“Eat! Who ever heard of a skinny Santa??”), here comes that blasted harpy January–with all its cranky resolutions and its Weight Watchers commercials and its relentless reminders of reality.

Every year, January just comes at us like an icy blast of water to the face, and quite frankly, I don’t care for it.

January is a drill sergeant flipping on the lights in the middle of a perfect dream about going sleigh riding through Devonshire with Colin Firth and screaming, “Drop and give me twenty!” (which I haven’t done since last January.)

January is a sneering busybody slapping my hand with the snickerdoodle in it.

January is a big fat boring killjoy taskmaster who’s weirdly obsessed with everybody’s weight. And on top of all those endearing qualities, January is cold. (Usually.)

I am not a fan.


Here’s our dead wreath. Also not a fan. (January is the Wreath Reaper.)

Sure, December struggles with being a bit too frenetic and trying a little too hard, but somehow we can let that stuff go because December’s just so darn charming.

I mean, think of all those twinkly lights and the crackling fires and the cheerful songs. Oh yeah, and the copious amounts of cookies.

IMG_4099IMG_4004IMG_4105It’s like one minute we’re basking in all the treasures under the tree, watching Danny Kaye tap dance across our TV, and trying to remember what it felt like to be hungry.

The next minute, a cold shriveled finger is wagging in our faces, browbeating us on how we’re gonna right this ship and get our crap together and eat a salad already?

I know I should have made some New Year’s Resolutions, but I just wasn’t in the mood for January’s theatrics this year.

(Oh, here’s a resolution. I really should get my watch battery changed so I can stop wearing my daughter’s Minnie Mouse watch. Or not. I honestly don’t care.)


But that’s it.

January, you are not the boss of me. I’m ready to skip right on to February. There may be only 28 days, but at least they’re crammed with hearts and flowers and rows and rows of candy I can buy for myself.

I’m so ready to run headlong into the loving arms–and candy aisles–of February. Because February loves me.

Its conversation hearts told me so.

Actually they said “TXT ME” and “U Go Girl.” But you get the idea. There’s definitely something there.

And seriously, I’ll take “#LOVE” any day over another Jenny Craig commercial.







Champagne Wishes & Motivational Poster Dreams

This was the best New Year’s EVER.

You really have to try this for yourself next year. Here’s what you do:

1) Conspire with friends to pretend it’s midnight at 10:15 p.m.

2) Swig a quick glass of champagne.

3) Go home and get into your best chubby couch-sitting pants.

4) Fall asleep while the ball drops.

Take that, Ryan Seacrest.


Champagne was poured. Glasses were clinked. Count it.

Maybe you whooped it up with the masses and your favorite air horn. Maybe you cozied up by the fire with some lobster tails and that special someone. But as for me and my New Year’s Eve, eh, I’d rather sleep through it.

I mean, really. All those glittery hats? All those Times Square nut jobs? And all the noise?

All the noise, noise, noise, noise!

(Oh. I hear it now.)

Look at me being a New Year’s Grinch, when I long to be Cindy Lou Who.

I honestly wish I was that person who welcomes each new year with bright-eyed wonder, who turned the page on her 2015 calendar of motivational sayings just bursting with hope, daring, and to-do lists.

“Yes!” I would repeat to myself in the mirror. “In the confrontation between the river and the rock, I WILL BE THE RIVER that wins, not by strength but by perseverance!” (You can actually buy that poster at a website actually called Not even kidding.)


Oh, just drink in that Grand Canyon at sunset. Consider yourself MOTIVATED.

But for me, all the New Year’s hype seems to have the reverse effect.

After the confetti falls, there I stand on the same messy carpet in the same messy house with the same messy family that somehow, some way, needs to clean up its act. Instead of invigorating me, New Year’s gets me all angst-ridden and weary and forces me to vacuum. (This is not my idea of fun.)

New Year’s also weirdly compels me to clean out drawers, where just yesterday I found a long list of my 2011 resolutions. Oh man, I was hard-core that year. Everything was detailed and plotted out to the nth degree in an effort to be über-intentional and not my normal wishy-washy back-sliding self.

Back then, I’d wanted to help the kids be more self-reliant, grow a strong work ethic, be mannerly, be more active and creative and not addled by screen-addiction, to grow in their faith. As for me, I wanted to use wrinkle cream now and then and dress better and eat my veggies and grow professionally.

O-kayyyy. Seems I have all the same resolutions these four years later. I mean, to the T.

Guess that could mean one of two things: I am stuck. I am no better than I was four years ago. Nothing will ever change. I am a failure. (Those messages are playing on a really loud loop on my internal mix tape.)

OR it could mean: Most of those things I’m working toward are hard. They are important. And they take time (sometimes years, sometimes a lifetime) to attain. And I’ll probably need help — from above and from down here, too. I may have to ask.

Just because I haven’t won yet doesn’t necessarily mean I’ve lost. It just means there’s more to do.

Can’t you just see the motivational poster now? Something about life being a journey, not a destination? Picture a canoe on a riverbank. And oh yes, picture a sunset.

And then picture me paddling that infernal canoe until my dying days. That’s how long it’ll probably take me to start eating my veggies.