It's that time of year again, the time for donning rose-colored glasses and making lofty resolutions.
But first, an update on last year's resolutions:
1. Procrastinate less. (Yes, I know I already procrastinated about making my resolutions. Leave me alone.)
* I'm pretty sure I used the term procrastination at least 1, 312 times in my blog this past year. But perhaps that's less than the year before? I'll check later.
2. Create more. Enough said.
* It's a miracle. I did create more, even with a rotund, pregnant belly!
3. Limit myself to one Coke a day. And, by Coke, I mean that caramel-colored, effervescent liquid of the gods. (Note: No diet drinks will be included in this resolution--I'm trying to lose weight, not perform miracles.)
* No comment, and, no, I'm not wearing an "Enjoy Coke" t-shirt even as I type this.
4. Clean more regularly, thus eliminating the onset of despair and tornadic aftermath.
* My mom came over, took pity on me, and cleaned more regularly. Does that count?
5. Conquer the laundry. Or at least prevent others from running out of clean underwear.
* Current status of the laundry in my room:
6. Don't kill the new fish.
* It's not my fault. Somehow the fish froze to death in his bowl in November. I suppose I should've moved the bowl away from the drafty kitchen, but how was I to know? The most disturbing part? My mom thought the boys would want to bury him, so she put him in a small brown jewelry box/coffin in the freezer until the funeral. He's still there.
We almost took him as a White Elephant gift to my husband's Christmas party, but decided someone might find that to be in bad taste.
Perhaps resolutions aren't my strong suit. I think I'm going to take a little more time before I make this year's. Right now, all I've got is "Sleep through the night," and I don't have much control over that one.
Leoda was a neighbor up the road that my mom rode horses with on a regular basis. She was a rather "sturdy" woman who often wore figure-conforming purple pants and owned two Palomino horses, hers being named Taco. I can still recall the rhythmic, laboring grunts of poor Taco as Leoda bounced up and down during a fast trot. 
But the real point of this reminiscing is that on the rare occasion that Mom would treat us by going out to Long John Silver's with Leoda, Leoda always ate her french fries two at a time. My sister and I would watch as she pounded down those greasy fries like a competitive eating champion. Undoubtedly as a result of this trauma, for years now, I've carefully eaten my fries one at a time . . . at least I thought I had. Somewhere along the line--perhaps after that fateful 35th birthday--I'd cast my solemn vow aside and become Leoda.
