Who's counting anyway? The Mayans?

By the time you read this, we may all be flying through space wondering why we didn’t go ahead and invest in that “survival pod” touted by doomsday preppers.  It would have been $48K well spent, given the circumstances of unprotected space travel. 

Of course, if we were hurtling toward oblivion you wouldn’t be reading this - so, thanks for your loyalty.   

You have to hand it to the Mayans, don’t you, even though they can be a downer.  I mean, way to go with the foreshadowing and suspense.  They’ve had the whole country leaning forward, tense, anticipating nothing.  Kind of like those “fiscal cliff” negotiators in Washington D.C.   

Thanks for keeping things in perspective too.  It’s never been clearer to me why it’s unimportant to run that dust mop down the hall again. 

But what better time than now (my deadline precedes the catastrophic demise of the planet), two days before the Grand Finale, to have one’s life glide past her field of vision?  

Let’s start with recent history and have a look at those 2012 resolutions.  Play along with a review of your own New Year’s promises, if you dare.  

First, I resolved to make a pie.  How did that go?  

Here we need a flourish - Ta dah!   

I made two pies!  That’s right, TWO pies!  I exceeded my resolution to make a pie by 100%!  (We’re going to gloss right over the fact that it took two years to complete this resolution.) 

The first pie was pretty darn good if I do say so myself.  Crust flakiness.  Fresh fruit.  Nummy num num num.  

And it wasn’t that hard to do…Hmmm!  I immediately told myself this could be my signature piece!  What I become known for!  Everyone will talk about my flaky-crusted fresh fruit pies!  When I’m invited to a potluck brunch they’ll say, “Oh Carolyn!  Please bring one of your beautiful and delicious pies!” 

So I made another one.  But the second pie exposed an internal flaw - my already waning commitment to the pie-making proposition (begging the question of why I set the goal to begin with).  It felt like doing a remake of “Casablanca.”  You cannot top the original.  

So, instead of measuring, sifting, blending and kneading, I bought a Pillsbury ready-made piecrust.  So ashamed. 

But the bigger mistake was telling my husband about the store-bought crust.  He said it wasn’t as good as my made-from-scratch crust.  That’s supposed to be a compliment, but it just adds pressure leading to a mathematically proportional decrease in the likelihood that I’ll make another pie.   

Oh all right!  I’ll make another beautiful and delicious flaky-crusted fresh fruit pie!  Sheesh!  But I will not reveal the origin of the crust. 

Second, I resolved to have an Elvis party. 

And oh yes, we partied with the King!  That party lives on.  Even now, weeks after he left the building, our guests continue to reminisce about the jumpsuits and capes, the wigs and sunglasses, the peanut butter and bananas and the Kentucky Fried Chicken.  We partied like it was the end of the 13^th cycle of the 400 year revolution of the Mayan calendar.   

(You may refer to your “Think Dream Play” archives to relive the details – October 19, 2012.  What?!  You don’t save my columns?!  Well trust me, it was a lot of fun to dress up and sing.  You should come next time – if there’s a world, that is.)
 
So, two for two on the resolutionizing.  Extremely effective I must say.  How about you?  Are you keeping score? 

Now might be a good time to jump in since I have to fess up to a resolution that has eluded me through various permutations, compromises, rewrites and gnashing of teeth.  It’s in the category of hair shirts and self-flagellation – you know, “personal fitness.”  

My incremental progress in this arena led me to the wimpiest of all my 2012 resolutions – to keep better records of my radius and circumference in the faint hope that the other part of the resolution, to stick with my trainer, would produce measurable muscles and reduction in flab.  Oh well!  

I guess I’ll just have to adopt the Mayan attitude, “It’s not the end of the world.”

Party like it's 2012

Some of us seem to have let it slip from waking consciousness that we are all on a cosmic surfboard, sliding down the face of a big wave into oblivion. 

Not to be a downer. 

But admit it - you forgot about the End of Days.  Did you even mark your calendar?  December 21^st?  Hello!  

That’s why these mid-year reviews are crucial.  If we don’t look back and gain our bearings, it’s easy to veer off course. 

OK.  I forgot as well.  I’ve been cruising along, or some might say lurching.  And I’ve made some questionable choices given the countdown. 

Shopping at Costco for one thing.  That’s stupid.  We have enough Q-tips and dental floss to carry us into a new millennium, if only there were one on the horizon.  As it is, even MacGyver would be hard pressed to make good use of such a cache of hygienic staples. 

On some kick or another I bought oatmeal!  At Costco!  OMG!  The Quaker’s face is so big on the box it scares the cats out of the pantry!   

So, there’s that. 

I see now that this case of Orville Redenbacher’s Gourmet Popping Corn will not reach its expiration date before we fly off into the ether.  I can’t watch enough movies between now and then to come out ahead on the cost-benefit analysis. 

One can only hope that at the key moment, each 100-calorie pack will burst, adding fun to our finale, and perhaps marking the one and only occasion when all kernels pop.  

All this inventory assessment began when, in the interest of course correction, and as it turns out, doomsday preparation, I checked my New Year’s Resolutions for 2012.   

Tell the truth:  Can you remember the promises you made to yourself?  Why do we treat ourselves so shabbily?  Lie, lie, lie!  

And how can we persist in being so gullible?  Oh!  She really means it this time.  She’s going to meditate every morning before a healthy breakfast.  It is the most important meal of the day!   

Right. 

But in spite of the ocean of evidence to the contrary, I cannot accept that resolutions constitute a charade.   

Case in point:  Despite what felt like a firm and sincere resolution, I never made a pie in 2011.  However, resolving to learn to make a flaky-crusted pie brought me closer to…people who make flaky-crusted pies!  I got a lot of good slices of pie out of that rez.  On hearing my resolution, which I trotted out routinely in kitchens around town, unsuspecting non-resolvers couldn’t wait to let me judge their prowess.  And I must say they were all good. 

So in the final accounting, which is near, all was not lost even though the letter of the resolution was not met.  The spirit of it swam a la mode. 

On review of my 2012 pledges of improved living, I’m stunned to discover that in spite of the shrinking timeline, of which I was well aware, I resolved to “keep up my fitness goals”!   

Puh-lease!  Whatever was I thinking?  That’s like finding yourself floating toward the brink of Niagara Falls on a chocolate raft and saying, “Oh, better not nibble!” 

So all this time I’ve been walking and walking!  For what?  On the appointed day, even we fatties will fly. 

Perhaps the key contract with myself for this, our last year on the planet, was to have an Elvis party.  It’s demoralizing to admit that to date, I have acquired no yellow-lensed aviator glasses with muttonchops attached.  I don’t have his and hers white sequined jumpsuits, nor red scarves.  I haven’t sneered into the mirror since I don’t know when.  

But wait!  What’s this?  A life-sized cardboard cutout of young Elvis?  Gold lame’ suit…  Twig of hair falling just so over the forehead…  Curled lip…  King Creole!?! 

I did do something!  I made progress on my resolution!  Good golly Miss Molly, I said I’m having a party, and I’m having a party!  I’m having an Elvis party!   

Oh yeah.  I can pull this together and create an exit befitting the End of Days.  I’m getting a karaoke machine and some blue suede shoes.  It’s not too late!  An Elvis party! 

Thank you.  Thank you very much.

Resolutions for the End of Days

Given the official countdown of the Mayan calendar to the End of Time, I’m thinking New Year’s Resolutions for 2012 rise to a level of urgency heretofore unseen.  We have fewer than 365 days now to make our resolutions and get ‘em done. 

We’ve had plenty of warnings and false starts.  We’ve enjoyed reprieve after reprieve what with a new, New Year coming after every old New Year in which we promised but did not deliver.  I confess, I’ve grown complacent.  But no more.  I really mean it this time. 

Commitment-phobes, put your heads down.  No teasing.  Don’t string yourself along.  Don’t say it unless you mean it.  This year’s resolutions may be your last!  You don’t want to wake up careening into deep space on a chunk of newly exploded earth singing, “Is that all there is?” now do you? 

Case in point:  This time last year I resolved to make a pie.  More than that, I resolved to make a pie with flaky crust.  Now I still have a few days to make good on my professed goal, but I find it sad to acknowledge in the last week of December that my convictions were so weak as to rate no effort.  No attempt.  No crust.  No pie. 

Which begs the question as to why I didn’t achieve my, er, fitness goal.  I didn’t make or eat a single pie, and yet I remain hovering near the same pull of gravity as I was this time last year.  What’s up with that? 

OK, yes, I did enjoy assorted portions of pies over the months, but so few, so few!  How could such a dearth of indulgence result in such a flop of resolution?  Of course, I didn’t make a firm note of my actual radius and circumference in January of 2011, so who can say with certainty?  Perhaps I have made progress and can’t take credit.   

I hereby resolve to keep better records as I hurtle toward my demise in 2012. 

And yes.  Yes.  I continue to resolve to improve my degree of fitness.  (I do love the euphemism.  And degrees of euphemisms.)  I’m working with a trainer now and she concurs that I am totally buff under this protective layer of … Tempurpedic foam?   

Therefore, I resolve to stick with my training in 2012 in hopes of seeing some sinew burst through when I clutch a flagpole in my frantic effort to stay on the planet a few moments longer as time runs out and the snooze alarm quits working. 

But this last call for resolutions begs for something striking, something bold.  No ordinary promise will be sufficient for taking into the ever after.  We must do something BIG.  Like mountain climbing.  Or spelunking.  Maybe speed dating!  (I’ll have to check with my husband.  Not sure he’ll buy into the end-of-the-world rationale on that last one.) 

Maybe I’ll resolve to fly in a glider.  It’s not the skydiving I’ve toyed with over the years, but I’d consider it a respectable step in that direction.  I can probably talk my sister-in-law into going with me.  We’ll plan it for mid-December, close to the end, so if it doesn’t go well, we won’t have lost too many of the end days.  

And I’m going to have that Elvis party I’ve chattered idly about over the years.  Count on it.  I went on line today and found blue suede shoes, aviator sunglasses with sideburns attached, even gold-studded white jumpsuits complete with flared legs, stand-up collars and red scarves.  That’s right.  I’ll be Elvis, not Priscilla.  Though there are some pretty cool Priscilla wigs online too.   

Elvis’s birthday is January 8^th, as I’m sure you know.  I don’t think I can pull together a soirée befitting the occasion that fast.  So my attitude is that we can celebrate the King’s birthday any time we want.  Given that it might be the last birthday party on the planet serving peanut butter and bananas, I could schedule it for December 22^nd, 2012, the actual last day, according to the Mayas.  

My husband will also be Elvis.  He’ll look good.  I’m hoping for a houseful of Elvises, some Priscillas and Colonels…I’m getting a karaoke machine and singing the whole playlist.  I already know the words. 

Lawdy, Miss Clawdy!  What a way to go!