I was reviewing last year’s resolutions the other day… and several hours later I was able to stop laughing and pull myself together to set some new ones for 2009. But I think I’ll try a different approach this year. There is always room for improvement, but I don’t like feeling that I’m such a mess that I need an endless list of character flaws to work on. Then I become too overwhelmed with it all and give up. So this year I am setting realistic resolutions… things that I can’t possibly fail. I’m hoping the sense of accomplishment will boost my motivation to achieve above and beyond… yet I’ll never feel like a failure. It’s genius, really.

Resolutions for 2009:
1. I will not lose one single pound. 2009 is all about the flab. The only forms of exercise I plan to partake in are 12 ounce curls (lifting a beer bottle to my lips), 24 ounce curls (one beer in each hand), and thumb yoga (through texting and operating the remote control).

2. Go to work most days. I don’t have to go with a smile on my face… I don’t have to go to change the world… I will just go.

3. Spend way too much money. Someone’s got to do something about this economy… I volunteer to keep the cash flowing.

4. Let annoying people know just how annoying they are. My methods will include eye rolling, impatient sighs, and passive aggressive comments… and the occasional, “Seriously, dude?” under my breath.

5. Worry about everything. I got some worry dolls in my stocking for Christmas. What a great idea… I tell the dolls what I’m worried about and stuff them under my pillow… then we can talk about it all night until I’ve worked myself into a complete fit by morning. That’s how it works, right?

Now THOSE are some serious resolutions I can get behind! And if I happen to fail at a few, that’s a good thing, too. It’s a win-win…

Disclaimer: OK… pardon my constant food postings this week. I’m home for the holidays… there’s really nothing to do but eat… and Mom has filled the house with tempting treats as usual… you know how that goes. Besides… once I get home it’s back to my usual bare pantry… may as well bulk up now. *Winks*

We had a turkey dinner yesterday for Dad’s birthday… which always means leftovers. I actually love turkey leftovers because it allows me to make my favorite (and the most unhealthy) sandwich ever. I call it… the bread sandwich. Basically, it’s a whole lot of carbs with a little turkey thrown in as garnish… two slices of soft bread, a layer of dressing/stuffing (about a half inch), and a layer of turkey (about a quarter inch). It is SO good. My mom and sis add some cranberry sauce for more flavor. My dad and other sister heat it up with gravy. I prefer mine simple and cold and delicious…

Every year my dad picks out his own birthday cake. They’re always really… ummmm… bad. Aside from Dad’s birthday cake every year, I’ve never really met a cake I didn’t like… I’m an equal opportunity caker… even when everyone hates a cake, I manage to enjoy it anyway. So this tells you just how bad dad’s cakes are.

They sometimes come from the grocery store or a wholesale club… last year was even a really expensive super-fancy bakery cake. All awful. I’m not sure how he does it, but if there’s a bad cake in New England… he will track it down.

Today, a few hours before his birthday dinner, he ran out to Walmart (of all places) and grabbed a “variety pack” of cake. A fourth each of german chocolate, double chocolate, carrot, and red velvet cakes. This is ALWAYS a bad sign… he loves the variety pack desserts… and the variety packs are usually the worst.

Tonight… in a very bold move… I opted for half a slice of carrot and half a slice of red velvet. I was prepared for the worst. I took a big gulp of water and then dove in. OMG they were SO good!

As we discussed how good everyone’s choices were and debated why it was called red velvet cake (Dad is color blind, so this was a tough argument to win), I declared red velvet the winner for tonight. Then I announced to my family that tomorrow I would sample both of the chocolate cakes… and the next day I would then have a face-off between the winners from tonight and tomorrow night to determine the ultimate cake winner. Of course they chuckled and rolled their eyes at me (I get this reaction from them to most anything I say).

But to me… this is way more exciting than the Olympics…

Well, my blogaversary was Wednesday… the only reason I remember this is because MY DOMAIN EXPIRED. Here I was naively signing in to post something… completely oblivious to the drama that was about to unfold… and snarkykitten was GONE! *Gasps* I actually panicked. Not only had the domain expired… but I couldn’t remember the login for it or the email associated with it. LOL It never occurs to me to write these things down. And it’s not like I have one of those amazing photographic memories. I forget stuff… a lot. But say I had written it down… the paper would be lost right now anyway… so save the lectures, people! This is why I need a personal assistant… to keep track of life’s daily annoyances for me.

AND… all I really came to say was… SNOWWWWWW DAYYYYYYYYYYY!!!! Woohoooooooo! Now I can catch up on things that a personal assistant would normally do for me

(I apologize if you were also greeted with a cat food ad instead of my wonderful musings over the last couple of days. *Winks* Special thanks to Shep and Kseniya for helping me get my domain back!)

While other teachers at those other schools get gift cards… here’s what I get…

Yes, it’s an eraser impaled by a pencil tip with a rubberband strung through it. She placed it on my desk and simply said. “This is for you.” And you know what? I wouldn’t trade it for anything!

Edit: She later told me that it’s a birdhouse Christmas ornament. How cute is that?

A few odd things that only my tightest homies (lol) know about me (and now you):

- I have two master’s degrees.  Yes, that’s right… TWO!  I is smart.  Actually… the hardest part about graduate school is paying for it… oh… and keeping myself… from using… ellipses… in my thesis…

- I have had half of a sewing needle stuck in the bottom of my left foot for 20 years.  You could say I’m the bionic woman… and man my bionic foot ached today… the price of being a superhero, I suppose.

- My Commodore64 was the greatest thing I’ve ever owned.  I miss it.  Typing 8,798,479 lines of code to get it to print my name across the screen… that’s some fine, quality fun.  Perhaps today’s kids need C64’s.  They are so used to instant gratification… I think hours of work for a very small payout would be a good life lesson… in fact, the best life lesson.  Can I get an amen?

- When I was 15, I danced on second base and home plate on opening day in Comiskey Park… WITH Mickey Mouse and the gang.  I know, right?  What’s sad is… I can still recall all of the songs and could probably fake my way through the whole routine today.  (To the tune of “I Need a Hero”… 5-6-7-8… Where have all the heroes gone, yes we are here to say… a guy like Joe DiMaggio would really make our day…)  LOL!

- One of my jobs in college involved being a “Professional Bra Fitter”.  Jealous?  AND I had a snazzy ribbon attached to my ID badge stating that I had earned this prestigious title.  Unfortunately, it meant I also had to measure a few racks… but that’s a whole other blog entry waiting to happen.  A friend recently asked if I had to undergo any further training to keep my certificate valid.  Of course!  I’m hoping to get endorsed in moobs next.

Are these the defining moments of my life?  Not so much.  Conversation starters?  Sometimes.  Reasons why I should be in therapy?  Absolutely.

Today I was packing the kids up to go home… as we passed our coat hooks, I went through the usual list of left behind items.  “Whose gloves are these?”  “Somebody left their hat.”  “Whose boots are those?”  “Lucas, you forgot your sweater.”  “Somebody left their pizza sauce.”  With a hundred little puzzled stares aimed at me, I leaned over to look a little closer to make sure I hadn’t lost my mind… nope… completely sane.  “Somebody left their pizza sauce.”  A hundred little giggles… (and nobody claimed it).

… to my Big Book of Grievances.

He left me the nastiest note this weekend… something along the lines of “Bitch, pick up your mail!” And what’s worse… he kidnapped all my mail and took it back to his lair (the post office). I had to go and wait in a 20 minute line with Toothless Tommy and Stands Too Close Sally.

“I’m here to pick up my mail,” I stated with confidence to the woman behind the counter. “Was it on vacation hold?” she inquired. I shrunk a bit as I murmured, “No, I got in trouble for my mailbox being too full.” She lumbered off and was gone for what seemed like an eternity. I was expecting her to come out dragging one of those huge “fan mail” sized sacks… but it was a modest little bag… just slightly bigger than a barf bag. (Which is so appropriate as my mail makes me want to barf!) I was expecting a lecture, instead she complained about one of the jerks in the back (no doubt, my mailman).

That blasted mailman… he’s forgotten about the time that he left me two books of stamps when I only paid for one… and I returned the extra book to him with a pleasant note. That was the honeymoon phase, I guess. A note alone would have shamed me into being more punctual with my mail… but he had to involve an errand… to the post office! *shudders*

I don’t have any power to do anything in retaliation… and now I have to walk the 10 miles down to my mailbox to pick up my mail every day or my life will be in danger… but I CAN secretly loathe him from afar… and I plan on doing just that. (I’m sure the feeling is mutual!)

During a recent night out with the girls, I found myself listening to the strangest story in the history of the world.  Of course, I feel inclined to share the horror with you now.

A couple martinis into the night, Veronica* says, “Well, girls, I did it!”  (Oh, God… this could be anything.  *Braces herself.*)  “I told Harry* that if he wanted to do the thing he likes me to do, then he was going to have to shave!  I told him I was tired of getting poked in the eye!”  *Drinks spray in the air as we all choke on that last sip.*  Poked in the eye?  ROFL

Of course Harry couldn’t possibly imagine how he could do this himself, so she agreed to help.  Now you’re thinking, as I did, ok that’s kind of hot.  A little mutual shaving… bring it on.  Oh no, we assumed wrong… this was about as hot as surgery prep.  How can that be?  Well, I present you with Veronica & Harry’s Manscaping 101:

Step 1:  Have your man sit buck naked on your beige couch.  Forget about the skid marks you’ll live with for the rest of your life.
Step 2:  Turn on the Cubs game.  Yes, baseball.
Step 3:  Begin furiously trimming with a shaver and scissors.  Picture Edward Scissorhands trimming a bush into a deer shape.
Step 4:  Don’t want pubic hair all over your couch and carpet?  Hold a dish towel under the area as you work.
Step 5:  Sit back and envy your work.
Step 6:  Have your man get dressed and go to dinner at Chipotle.

I can’t get the scene out of my head… it keeps me up at night in terror.  I don’t think I’ll ever be able to sit on her couch again… or really touch anything in her apartment… knowing what went down.   *Shudders*

*Names have been changed to protect the identity of the oddballs.

A dark shadow has fallen upon the snarky kingdom.  I’m beyond depressed.  Is it the economy?  No.  Seasonal Affective Disorder?  I wish.  A plague of boils and locusts?  I could be so lucky.  What I have to share with you is much more apocalyptic than any of these.

MILLER HAS STOPPED PRODUCING ZIMA!   *Collapses*

OK… I know you’re thinking, “Wait… they were still making it?” And yes they were.  I haven’t had it in years, but it was always there on the beer shelf like an old favorite blanket.  It was comforting to know that my all time favorite beverage would always be there for me (even though it hasn’t been socially acceptable in a long time).  Sometimes I would stare at it longingly as I passed by… too embarrassed to buy it.  I was waiting for its comeback.

I have so many fond memories of Zima.  Road trips, nights out, nights in, smuggling 40 oz. Zima’s into the movies.  (ROFL… yes, they made 40’s.)  When it was new, everybody drank it… even boys!  It really was a great drink.., not as bitter and filling as beer… not as sweet and thick as other girly drinks.  “Zomething Different” the ads would affirm.  *Sigh*

This morning, an email was instantly circulated among my closest friends with the subject “OMG BAD NEWS”.  We will be buying every 6- pack of Zima we can get our hands on so that we can have a bon voyage party for Zima… to lay our dear friend to rest.  *Hears Taps playing in the background*