Well, I don’t know about you, but I had me some swingin’ holidays. I took a little leave from work and so began my first holiday as a working person that didn’t involve being on call. At one point a fit of nostalgia took hold and I thought about heading to the nearest Emergency Room to relive the medical chaos called Christmas. Instead I stuck to intellectual endeavours like sleeping until ten everyday, watching classics like The Apartment, reading thick, wordy novels, and, of course, eating. How much Yuletide crap can one woman eat? Turns out quite a bit. Case in point…

treats

I take full responsibility for store-bought nonsense, but that husband of mine must bear the rest—cakes smothered in dark chocolate ganache, a ham bigger than a car, a roast beef bigger than a truck, and now my arse is bigger than I ever dreamed possible. This is what happens when there’s no racing around a hospital during the holidays.

And so it appears I must resort to resolving. Normally I don’t favour such futile folly (as I said here at the dawn of 2012), but this year I may have to declare myself a hypocrite. I’ll try to eat a little less, exercise a little more, blah, blah, blah, big yawn. Rather than use R words I’ll focus on P words: Projects, Programs and such. Sounds more like something with an outside chance of success.

I’d say the one I should get cracking on straight away is a Potty-Mouth Program: a simple mason jar with a slit in the lid. Every time a piece of profanity pops out of my mouth I’ll deposit a loonie, easy enough. The hard part is that I’ll have to wear it around my neck at all times so other people can alert me when to cough up the fine, so low is my swear self awareness.

Of course I’ll be hunched over from the weight of my jar by mid-January but, silver linings and all that, I’ll likely be well on the way toward my second task of 2014: The French Laundry Project. Years ago I secured a table at this world renowned restaurant smack in the heart of California’s vineyards. Alas, for reasons that are beyond the scope of the good taste displayed here—boyfriend at the time screwed the whole thing up, bastard (see, I’m up a buck already)—I never did get there. Now that I live just up the coast, I shall start saving and planning in earnest.

Naturally, this will take some time, decades perhaps given the competing priorities. I need a new coat made for the wet West Coast winters. I’d like to ditch my tiny French (Ikea in Dijon, but still) love seat for a full sized couch that can hold a growing giraffe. Also, there are things called green fees for people who must, simply must, hit small balls with big sticks on Christmas Eve (sorry East Coasters, that’s the way it crumbles out here, climate-wise). All this on a lowly public servant’s wage, bonne chance to me I’d say.

I’m thinking the only way I’ll ever sit at that long dreamed of table is simply figure out how to swear non-stop for all of 2014. Maybe start driving more, get a little road rage going. Watch the news and get double dollars for screaming expletives at the television. Or take up cooking, which has the added advantage of enticing Rusty to join the Program with me. “Get the f*#k out of my kitchen, woman!” three times a day would more than pay for his meal even at the French Laundry.

That’s about as far as I’m willing to plan for 2014. In my long experience as a recovering Type A overachiever, I’ve learned that planning is highly overrated. That being said, tell me Finders, any Programs on your agenda?

 

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