Today I will live in the moment…
Unless the moment is unpleasant,
In which case I will eat a cookie.
Every New Years, all the magazines at the checkout stand look down on my cart and judge me with their uber-fit abs. They scoff at my weakness for Velveeta cheese, and roll their eyes as they count my empties. The mirror reflects my lack of self-control by accentuating wine-puffed eyes, cystic breakouts, and a ruddy red nose. January is the Monday of all months, and this is why it blows.
When what to my wondering eyes should appear, but 10 extra lbs. on my hips, thighs, and rear.
Compulsive overeating in December is tradition. I took off my bra and a potato chip fell out. I’m sweet because I’m full of sugar. Food deprivation in January is sudden, harsh, and makes me fucking hangry.
A winter coat hides the fact I’m braless when running to the store.
My clothes are so fucking tight, my vagina is moaning about the cramped living quarters. Nobody likes an unhappy flappy. It’s not pretty when full coverage panties fit like a thong.
I have seen the future and it is very much like the present, only longer.
The headlines on the magazine covers assure me that 2015 is going to be my year, but I’m calling bullshit. My horoscope foresees a year of better bad decisions, and my fortune cookie predicts I’ll be hungry again in an hour.
I’ve got all the money I’ll ever need; if I die by 4 o’clock.
I’m flat-busted. I blew my wad on liquid lunches with m’ ladies, which for me is the true meaning of Christmas. It’s ironic how much I can find for myself when I’m supposed to be buying gifts.
What’s a nice girl like me doing without a drink in her hand?
It’s my first week on the wagon, and I’m not nearly as funny as I used to be. A dry January is the most unoriginal, and unrealistic resolution of them all. If there’s nothing to sedate me, what’s the meaning of life?
I didn’t make it to the gym today. That makes five years in a row.
In January there’s a big push to get back to the gym. I’m already pushing 50, that’s enough exercise for me. As much as I crave a fitness routine, I won’t jump on the bandwagon until the new members fall off. That should buy me a few more weeks on the couch.
Winter…the four month break between a woman and her razor.
Who doesn’t love chapped lips, dry skin, staticky hair, cracked nails, bloody cuticles, Corinthian leather hands, sandpaper heels, and a dusty muffin.
Until you’ve learned to drive, you’ve never really learned how to swear.
Chances are when its -30 and I’m in a hurry, my gas tank is sitting on E and the windshield is encased in a block of ice. Shivering like a Chihuahua while the car warms up is hell frozen over.
Winter is nature’s way of saying “Up yours.”
Seasonal dysfunction disorder. I haz it. The holiday season is beautiful until the festive lights come down, and then nothing’s getting lit anymore. Whore frost is classier than her cousins, frigid sleet and smutty slush.
Sangria Wine Rack
|Sangria Sisters Top 10 Resolutions for 2015|
|1. Plan more outings with friends. If you build it, they will come.|
|2. Stop using the magnifying mirror. It’s fucking scary.|
|3. Go to afternoon matinees without a hint of guilt. Invite Glosette Raisins to come along.|
|4. Put on my own oxygen mask first, before helping others.|
|5. Respect the fine line between happy and over-medicated.|
|6. Moisturize my neck and décolletage. Accept that my hands pre-date me by 20 years.|
|7. Recognize that no matter how slow I go, I’m still lapping everyone on the couch.|
|8. Be a pillar of support for my parents. Stop thumb-sucking in the corner.|
|9. Go to bed when I’m tired, instead of one last look at the Internet.|
|10. Love the wine I’m with.|
Tunes you should have on your iPod:
Pat Benatar ✦ Fire and Ice
Mumford & Sons ✸ Winter Winds
Bruce Springsteen ✪ Tenth Avenue Freeze Out
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