Revisited Resolutions

So... it's be almost a year since I wrote this post...

Let's see how I did.

Shape up (why should this year be different from every other year of my adult life?).
FAIL...

Fix my problem with "da Benjamins."
Eh, could go either way. I'm getting better, but I don't think it's fixed.

Blog at least once a week.
To be fair, I do have more than 52 posts. Eh, more win than fail.

Meet Him. (No, not that Him. I'm not ready for Him. I mean Mr. Right.)
Win, big ugly beautiful hairy expensive amazing disgustingly wonderful win.

Become something meaningful.
This might be a draw. While I don't doubt I'm something meaningful to someone, I'm still not sure how meaningful I am to myself.

Do something substantial.
I said yes, and next year I will embark on the greatest adventure I've had yet. I may or may not kill someone in the process.

Love myself a little better (So that He can love me at all).
He loves me just the way I am..

Not break a heart.
Win.

Find patience.
Uhm...

Find happiness.
Double win, triple win even.

Not roll my eyes when someone (anyone) reads this and mentions my relationship with that Him.
Win, since no one read it.

Hone my wordsmithing skills. (Not a word, I know.)
Win...ish.

Real names, real people, real places.

So, it's hard work keeping up with nicknames. I have a lot of people in my life, and even more about whom I talk.

And this nickname crap is getting old.

So, without further ado...

Names and Faces!

Charlie Browne = David, my fiance'. (I know, I know, how the EFF did THAT happen? I don't really know either.)


Hannigan = My mom. Her name is Susan, but I've called her Hannigan or Moooooommmaaaaaa for years.

Grasshopper = Thomas, my big little brother. He's six feet tall. I've called him Grasshopper since he was in jr. high. Still do.

This is the two of them after Grasshopper graduated.
I'll let you guess who's who


This is Jessica. She's the batshit insane one. I never really have reason to talk about her.



Pooh = Becca, my youngest sister. She's the hot one.
Except right here. Here, she's the hungover, partied-out one.



Bonus = Beau-ness, my baby brother extraordinaire.
He's kind of a nut. He's also eleven...I think.




Last but not least, this is Dad. He's name is Ray. He's technically my stepfather, but he's so good at it, so I claim him as the real thing. The other guy in the picture is Gary, our neighbor, and of course, Becca, working on her tan. She does that at random intervals.




And, that's it for now.

The cat in the bag...

Or out of the bag as the case may be.

Seems not only does Charlie Browne know about this little blog of mine, but he's been reading it since effing October.

Excuse me, do you have a towel for the egg on my face?

Oh, and as usual, I have plenty of expounding to do, all of it about dear ol' Charlie Browne and giving in.

It's been awesome. And a relief. Total, fucking relief.

Heroic Standards of American Citizens

Did you see those pictures of Michael Phelps hittin' a bong at a party?



So did I.



Do you think they warrant the intense media circus that has befallen them?



Neither do I.



Dude's what? Twenty-four, -ish, thereabouts?


Find me one red blooded American male in his mid twenties who has not hit a bong. Go on, do it. I'm not saying you can't; I'm saying it will be really effing difficult.

If this guy, dear Mr. Phelps, were not the half-man, half-fish swimming freak of awesomeness that he is, he'd be finishing his senior-ish year in college, where he'd probably shared plenty of face time with those pretty glass tubes.

And nobody would give a shit, except maybe his mother. That's assuming, of course, that she found the photos on someone's Facebook.

Unfortunately for Mr. Phelps, he is in fact a half-fish freak of awesomeness who crushes records, competitors, and walnuts with his delicious washboard abs (and assorted other, equally delicious body parts), and isn't allowed to participate in anything but the most vanilla of recreational activities in his free time. You know, the time he has all to himself?

Which begs the question: WTF?!

My real pursuits.

Who am I kidding? I'm not the uber-eloquent politico wordsmith I fancy myself. So I'm giving up on the endeavor all together (hey, that rhymes!). Instead, I'll spend my blogging bandwidth just yakking away about the ickle thoughts that scamper across my under stimulated mind.

Ahhhh, freedom.