It is 2012 and, now that the celebrations are done and hangovers cured, we can all get back to the normal day-to-day grind of work, looking for work, and wondering when our government is going to get to work. But I’ll leave those worries for the Canary to chirp on. After all, I wouldn’t want to put that little birdie out of a job, what with the price of birdseed and newsprint these days!
I rang in the new year with my husband, the Brit, and our grandson, Mini-Brit, by watching the ball drop in New York City’s Times Square from the blissful warmth of our living room, while sipping sparkling apple cider. We then tucked the boy in for the night and, like many couples our age, watched the balls drop again as we undressed for bed. I have learned that the law of gravity is just as hard on menfolk as it is on us ladies! At least we can tuck our orbs into pretty, lacy things that make them look alluring. Believe me, no amount of lace, braces, or twinkly lights can improve on pendulous pudenda masculinum.
While some people are anxiously checking their Mayan calendars for the predicted day of doom, I am making plans well into the year for family visits here and away, school events well into the fall, and the soccer season for both the Brit and Mini-Brit. These two celebrate weekends clad in red and white team shirts for Arsenal, their British football (Brit-speak for soccer) team. With this in mind, I have made up my mind to make some resolutions we can all easily adhere to here at Waterman Manor.
First, I resolve to not jump out of my skin early Saturday mornings every time the Brit screams “GOAL!” I have tried to get him to modify his enthusiastic cheering for team Arsenal, also called the Gunners, an apt title since it sounds like a war zone here every Saturday and Sunday morning. Brit booms British curses when they miss, he makes thunderous threats when they falter, and bellows his approval when they win, so loudly that I have had to put the neighbors on notice so they don’t call the police. It doesn’t help that Mini-Brit is keeping pace with him, bellow for bellow.
Secondly, I resolve not to bellow, either, at a bull-headed Brit who refuses to wear his hearing aids around the house. Mini-Brit and I continually stare in amazement at what he thinks he hears us say to him. “Honey, I making dinner, how about fish tonight?” I’ll inquire. “I did the dishes last night! It’s your turn,” he replies.
“GrandDad, would you like to play chess?” asks Mini-Brit.
“Oy, young man! It is not appropriate to ask if I like ladies’ chests!” exclaims GrandDad. “Where do you come up with such things?”
“Me?” inquires Young Man incredulously. “Where are your hearing aids, Sir?” To which Sir replies, “Band Aids? Why? Did you hurt yourself?”
And so it goes on and on. Now we simply smile and put his hearing aids in front of him with instructions: “If you want to converse, put your ears in!”
Third on my list is to resolve to come up with a new reference for my grandson, who recently celebrated his 10th birthday. He is quickly becoming a tall, lithe, handsome, young man. I now realize that having children is a two-edged sword. You want so badly to keep them forever young and innocent and small enough to hold on your lap. But you also cannot wait to see what remarkable things they might accomplish as an adult.
I can no longer refer to him as Mini-Brit. I don’t much care for Junior Brit, Brit II, or Midi-Brit. Maybe I’ll let him choose. We’ll get back to you on this, as he presently thinks of himself as Lord of the Pokémon Pack. Whatever he decides, I have resolved that his Pokémon pack will be vanquished if his homework is not done and he is not in bed at the pre-ordained hour. Take that, Pokémon Lord! I choose you to eat all of your peas!
While we’re on the subject of peas, Resolution No. 4 is non-negotiable. My boys had better improve their aim or we’re installing an outhouse for their exclusive use. I have sat on my last soggy seat with a fright in the middle of the night. I have mopped up my last puddle o’pee! I’m damp as hell, and I’m not going to take this anymore! Take aim, men, or pee outside like the rest of the cavemen! I love my husband and grandson dearly, but I also love a dry toilet seat. Then, again, what woman doesn’t?
“Hold on a minute,” you may be saying by now, thus eliciting stares from fellow java hounds in your coffee bar of choice. “These resolutions have all pertained to the men of your house, Lady Waterman. What about your own resolutions for personal improvement?” Well, you are absolutely right, my friends. I have made my resolutions and resolved to keep them simple: I resolve to become more organized, lose more weight, and cut the jibber-jabber. Enough said!
Ariel Waterman has, so far, kept none of her resolutions. Send organization and weight loss tips—as well as new name suggestions for Mini-Brit—via her editor, Ryan Miller, at rmiller@satamariasun.com.
This article appears in Jan 12-19, 2012.
