I think, therefore I worry. I realize worrying hasn’t changed the outcomes of anything I’ve worried about nor does it serve any other purpose than to give me something to think about at three in the morning. But that doesn’t stop me. Worrying is my favorite pastime. Here are some of my latest.

Worry Number One: The World Will End. Abruptly. In a large nuclear apocalyptic mushroom cloud of doom. Like on the TV show 24. Now, I don’t worry that I’d die in this massive explosion, I worry I will survive. Here’s my worst fear: I’m wandering aimlessly through a destructive landscape of charred bodies and swirling dirt storms with only Spam to eat. Why do we save canned foods for emergencies anyway? How is this going to make you feel better if you’re the sole survivor on the planet? Not only will you be facing the death of mankind, you have to eat salty fetid meat, too? Note to self: buy more freeze-dried backpacking food. What really worries me is that Doomsday will precede the conclusion of Survivor or 24 and I’ll be wandering aimlessly through the desolate streets without knowing who won the million bucks or whom Jack had to torture to save the world.

Worry Number Two: We’ll run out of money, lose the house and be forced out onto the streets. And the food bank will give us only Spam to eat. (See Worry Number One). Even though I would no longer have to worry about property taxes, a giant mortgage, house insurance, earthquake insurance, remodeling the leaking showers, fixing the roof, propping up the sinking front porch, re-stuccoing the outside walls or replacing the forty-year-old stinky carpeting, this would—wait. Why am I worried about this again?

Worry Number Three: My career will take off after I die. The day my ashes get buried in the Pescadero Cemetery, finally, all my books will sell, I’ll get awarded a freakin’ Pulitzer and my estate will be showered with millions of dollars in cash. That would make me mad enough to rise from the grave. Why do they give Pulitzers posthumously, anyway? The person who cares the most is dead. Dead. Dead people don’t care about sales and awards, they want to be recognized in their lifetime or the achievement doesn’t count. The only people benefiting from a dead person’s success are the publishers and the dead author’s relatives, people who probably sent the person to their grave in the first place. Oh. Money. Duh. Of course. I am so naïve sometimes. I just figured this out (see Worry Number Five). They give awards to dead people to pump up their sales. Added benefit of having dead winners, competing live authors can’t bitch publicly that they were cheated without seeming like total idiots. Still, I don’t want this happening to me. I want all my accolades now. All that money now. Course, what if this is my peak? What if this is as far as my writing career goes? Which brings me to Worry Number Four.

Worry Number Four: My novels won’t sell to a big publisher. After twenty years and twenty-six unsold novels, this isn’t really a worry. This is a condition. This is a state of being. While I win contests and I get glowing rejection letters from publishers, The Big Contract still hasn’t happened for me. Yet I still work diligently forty hours a week, delusional in my optimism. I figure if I go to my grave without selling a book, at least I’ll leave behind a hundred plus unsold novels—wait. Now I’m right back to Worry Number Three…

Worry Number Five: I’m stupid. I mean, really stupid. You know that movie, Waiting for Guffman? It took me three years and four months to get that the title was a play on words of the theatrical production, Waiting For Godot. And I’m a theatre major. Who saw the play about three times. And the movie about the same number of times. Did you know that awards are given to dead authors as a marketing tool to drive sales? I could name twenty other jokes I didn’t get for a year or two and situations I didn’t understand until way after the fact. There are some synapses in my head that work at a glacial pace. Of course, at three in the morning, these lapses all add up to a case of Terminal Stupidity. Thankfully, the only person who’s around when I make these embarrassing realizations is Frank. Oh. And now you people. And I just put proof of my stupidity in writing. Doh!

Worry Number Six: They’ll Change The Formula of Cocoa Puffs. Again. I know this doesn’t really compare to the other worries, but nonetheless it is a valid concern. They’ve changed Trix and Lucky Charms and countless other childhood comfort cereals, I just got used to Cocoa Puffs again and I really like them. Which means they’ll change the formula. Like what they did to Cracker Jacks. Freakin’ criminal.

Worry Number Seven: My cat will starve if I don’t offer him wet food eight times a day. Give or take a few times. Even though I always leave a big bowl of dry food out for him and a huge bowl of fresh water, he’s old. I worry about him not eating enough. Because I am an obsessive cat parent. And he is not obese and I’ve always had obese cats… Oh. Wow. Two huge realizations in the span of one column. Which brings me back to Worry Number Five.

Worry Number Eight: The Christian Right will take over America and I will be killed to silence my big mouth. In every cultural revolution, the first people who get rounded up and executed are the intellectuals. Especially the loud females. Wait. All I have to do is to produce this column and show them Worry Number Five. Whew. Dodged that bullet.

Worry Number Nine: I spend too much time worrying about stupid crap that never comes to pass. Yeah? And your point?

©2009, Janet Periat

With the advent of the aging population, more and more people are finding themselves caring for elderly parents. Anyone in this situation knows it’s an uphill battle to get the oldsters to admit their limitations. And once they let us help them, they never leave us alone. Here are some solutions that should help us all with this growing problem.

Problem: Lonely, retired parents who inundate their busy, working children with phone calls.

Solution Number One: My new invention, the Answer-O-Matic™. This amazing phone system fools parents into thinking they are actually talking to their kids, when in fact, they are talking to a pre-recording! All the child does is simply record some questions into the Answer-O-Matic. For Dad: Dad, tell me that story about when you were in the Army or I’ve forgotten how to use a saw, could you outline the basics? For Mom: Mom, could you give me a recap on the last three Dr. Phil shows? Or the question that’s always good for an hour-long monologue: how’s your health?

Then the user simply records a few basic prompts in the Answer-O-Matic such as: Uh-huh. Really? Wow, things sure used to be better in the old days. I had no idea. I’m sorry, the cat was meowing, could you repeat that last part? Tell me again about that colonoscopy.

When the Answer-O-Matic runs through its entire program, it simply ends the call with: Oh, there’s my other line. It’s probably my boss. I’ll call you back later. Love you! Bye!

Solution Number Two: Outsourcing your parents’ calls to India. This is trickier and requires some pre-planning. Here’s how it works: When you next visit your parents or talk to them on the phone, start using a slight Indian lilt to your voice. Address them as “Mrs. Jane Doe” (it’s important to use their full name). Such as, “I am very happy to be speaking with you today, Mrs. Jane Doe.” Accustom them to oblique questions such as: “How are you my most honored father?” “Tell me about your Army days, please, sir.” Tell your parents you prefer to be called by your new nickname. Try Sanjeet or Raj. This will aid your overseas workers in being able to imitate you more accurately. Supply your new workers with your parents favorite topics, their favorite stories. Include some basic information about yourself, your approximate age, the names of your children and their approximate ages. It is not necessary to supply your workers with extensive personal information since most parents are calling to talk about themselves.

By using my Answer-O-Matic or outsourcing calls, soon your parents will be convinced they have the most devoted children on the planet! Their loneliness will vanish and so will your headache! A win-win situation for all!

Problem: Vain, mobility-challenged parents who refuse to use a walker.

Solution: My new inventions, the Floor Lamp Walker™ and the Coffee Table Walker™. My new devices disguise walkers as ordinary pieces of furniture. This way the elder will appear to be leaning on a piece of furniture, rather than relying on the dreaded walker. For trips outdoors, the elder can use the Trash Can Walker™ or the Mailbox Walker™. This way the old folks can send this message to the outside world: Hey, I’m not old, I’m just takin’ out the trash. Or: I’m not disabled, I’m just mailing a letter.

Just think how easy it will be to sell your parents on the Trash Can Walker when you can assure them that no one will be able to determine their age nor their physical condition. “Hey, Mom, everyone will go, what’s that twenty-year-old doing? Oh, they’re just taking out the trash!” An added feature: The Trash Can Walker also serves as a handy storage device for doing local neighborhood shopping. The Mail Box Walker also has plenty of storage, perfect for transporting Mom’s favorite Pekinese.

Problem: Sight-challenged parents who insist upon driving.

Solution: My new product, the Sim-U-Drive™. This handy device is an actual junked car that has been turned into a virtual reality driving experience. Simply replace your parents’ car with the Sim-U-Drive. When Dad goes out in the morning to wreak havoc on the local neighborhood, he gets in the Sim-U-Drive and starts up “the engine”. Instead of a windshield, Dad has no idea he’s looking at a plasma screen TV! Embedded motors provide simulated driving motion and vibrations. Speakers mounted around the driver’s head provide background traffic noise. The plasma screen displays his normal routes to the store or coffee shop and back. The Sim-U-Drive will fool any sight-challenged parent into believing they just drove to the store and back again! With no harm to either themselves or the local community! No lawsuits! No damage to the car! No road kill!

Problem: Hearing-challenged parents who refuse to wear a hearing aid.

Solution: My new invention, the iHear™. Disguised as an iPod, the iHear looks just like the latest hip music device but in actuality, it is a hearing aid! Tell your parents everyone will be mistaking them for teeny-boppers when they groove to this trendy beat.

If they aren’t keen on the iPod disguise, then try my other hearing product the Cell-U-Ear™. This hearing aid is disguised as a wireless cellphone headset. Tell your folks everyone will think they are important corporate executives when they proudly wear this new device around the shopping mall. It will also cover up the tendency old folks have to talk loudly to themselves, everyone will just think they’re having an important conversation with someone on the end of the line!

Tell your folks that by using one of these devices, not only will they appear years younger, they will be able to keep up the illusion of youth by actually hearing what is being spoken around them. Tell them that no longer will they have conversations like this: Phyllis called, she’s in the hospital. Who? What? Phyliss called! She’s in the hospital! Who called? Phyllis! Phyliss! Phyliss? Phyliss has syphilis?!

Stay tuned. We are on the precipice of more elder denial than ever with the Baby Boomers set to retire. You think it’s bad now, just wait until the Beatles generation starts moving into their retirement communes. My next products include “re-training” wheels for Harley-Davidson choppers, extra strength hearing aids for rock concert veterans, fake ponytails for balding hippies and large print issues of Rolling Stone magazine.

©2006, Janet Periat

AUTHOR’S NOTE: Since this article came out a few years ago, someone STOLE my idea for the iHear™. Just saw an ad for it in VIA magazine or somewhere like that. Hey, it’s a hearing aid disguised as a Bluetooth! THIEVES!!! Proves I’m not the only twisted mind in the universe…

ANOTHER AUTHOR’S NOTE: The above column can be found in my book Confessions of a Pink-Haired Lunatic.

Barbie and I both turn 50 this year. Other than our birthdays, gender and skin color (along with one other shared characteristic I will reveal later), this is where our similarities end. Yet Barbie and I have had a very complex and enduring relationship. It started off as unabashed hatred and slowly changed to adoration. In light of our shared semicentennial birthday, I have decided to chronicle our difficult and complicated journey together.

I became aware of Barbie around the age of six. Her atomic breasts are the first thing I remember noticing. They intimidated me. Appearing to me to be roughly the size of a nose cone on a Boeing 747, I remember thinking how alien she was. She represented a sexually active adult roughly the same age of the people who attended my parents’ cocktail parties. While her rock hard, nipple-less breasts were somewhat titillating (pun intended), she represented a future in which I had no interest.

Thankfully, shortly thereafter, Mattel released a Skipper doll. With her flat chest and innocent eyes, this was a doll I could relate to. Problem was, Skipper played second fiddle to Barbie. Barbie was the big woman. The boss doll. Skipper didn’t go on dates with Ken, she didn’t get married, she didn’t work at the Barbie Store. And she didn’t get a Dream House. For all her hard work, Skipper lived in the shadow of Barbie’s formidable breasts. Skipper was powerless. Skipper was inferior. Since I identified with Skipper, I began to feel inferior to Barbie. Which probably fueled my growing contempt for the buxom doll.

My hatred of Barbie culminated one afternoon at my friend Nancy’s house. Nancy had equal disgust for the synthetic brazen hussy. Instead of playing house with the doll, we stripped Barbie naked and stuffed her in an abandoned birdcage in Nancy’s garage. Basically, we created our own Guantanamo and tortured the doll. Short of waterboarding, that Barbie had a very bad day. This is my fondest childhood memory of playing with Barbie. And the last.

After that precious afternoon, I eschewed all contact with Barbie. My attachments to all life-like dolls (not that she was very life-like) was limited. Basically, I hated them. I had no interest in pretending to be a mother. Consequently, as an adult, I have chosen not to procreate. Considering the fate of Caged Barbie, this was probably a good move on my part. Instead, I preferred to play with troll dolls. For reasons I probably need to take up with my therapist, I related more to the malformed, hideous, and less human-like creatures. I didn’t reconnect with Barbie until my early twenties. As before, the contact was fueled by a deep-seated loathing.

When I went punk in 1982, I indulged in punk art, a punk haircut, punk music, punk clothing and a totally punk attitude. Part of this attitude was to reject the societal construct. To this end, Barbie helped me tremendously. Well, parts of her.

During my punk years, Barbie came to represent to me the imprisonment of women. The perfect icon for all that was wrong with the stereotypical women’s role. I blamed Barbie for the oppression of women and the reason the Equal Rights Amendment didn’t get ratified. Barbie was the enemy. And what better way to show my contempt than to attack this heinous symbol of female subjugation and servitude.

My first punk sculpture was Barbie Massacre: a bloody killing scene representing all my anger and feelings of powerlessness at the hands of The Man. After a trip to the local thrift store for materials, I took He-Man and set him up on a plastic tray I’d pulled out of a defunct refrigerator. I chopped up several Barbies: decapitating them, severing limbs and torsos. After gluing He-Man to the plastic tray, I glued Barbie’s various body parts beneath him, then added liberal amounts of stage blood. Voila! Art in Action. Fought the dominant paradigm, worried my new roommate and added a bit of pizzazz to our living room. Three worthy causes all in one shot.

After Barbie Massacre, however, I realized I wasn’t reaching the audience I needed with my grand show of contempt. So I made a collection of jewelry with mutilated Barbie parts. I made earrings out of her severed feet, pins out of her decapitated head and dismembered arms and wore them proudly around the neighborhood. Gilroy has never been the same.

As my punk rage at society became slowly replaced by the realization I needed to actually grow up and take care of myself, I created the last Barbie piece of my punk years: Barbies Under Glass. A twisted combo of nude, de-limbed Barbies tied up with wires with a scattering of miniature skulls for posterity—all stuffed into my grandmother’s bell jar. Received many compliments (and culled many people from my herd) with that artwork.

However, as time passed, a strange thing happened to my pathological hatred of all things Barbie. Somehow, through all this contact with the plastic icon, I ended up falling in love with her. Barbie now reminds me of all those fun, formative, angsty punk years.

As my attitude changed, I began to feel a deeper kinship with the doll. After all, we were born in the same year. I still have Barbies Under Glass displayed in my house. I decided to pay homage to my favorite plastic girl. I also wanted to achieve my dream of looking like an action figure naked (clearly another topic to discuss with my therapist). The only way I could attain these goals without radical plastic surgery was to get the Mattel logo tattooed on my butt. (Costs three beers to see it.) And thus my love/hate relationship with the beloved icon came full circle.

So, Happy Birthday, Barbie. And I mean that. From the bottom of my bottom.

©2009, Janet Periat

Okay, so I know I’m not supposed to watch TV while eating dinner. I’m supposed to have a sparkling exchange of dialogue with my husband. But we both work at home and are around each other 24/7 and by nightfall, we’re all out of conversation, sparkling or otherwise. We normally watch the local news, followed by Jeopardy. I think the only other people with this routine are over 100. I came to this conclusion by the type of commercials I see nightly. You’d think they’d be running tantalizing ads for pizzas and food, since this is the dinner hour. Nope. It’s all about men’s equipment failure. If I hear the words “urine stream” or “decrease in semen” one more time, I’m throwing out my TV. But what really repulses me? The ubiquitous Viagra™, Cialis™ and Levitra™ ads.

Let me tell you something, dinner is not the time I want to think about Grandpa’s Four Hour Erection. In fact, there isn’t a time I want to think about Grandpa’s Four Hour Erection. Sorry, but this thought disgusts me. I think even when I’m eighty, I won’t want to be thinking about some bald, bespeckled, saggy-bodied oldster with a raging hard on. I’ll be picturing George Clooney at forty with six-pack abs and a stiffy—not freakin’ Sean Connery with unstoppable wood. Yet, inevitably, as I’m chopping zucchini or some other appropriately shaped vegetable, I hear these same words at least six or seven times: If you have an erection lasting four or more hours, please consult your physician…

I wonder about that warning. At what point does Mr. Wood call the doctor? At four hours exactly? Or is it at four hours and one minute? Five hours? So erections lasting three hours and forty-five minutes are okay? I picture Grandpa lying there, his missile propping up the bedsheets like a Boy Scout tent, staring at the clock. “Edna, has it been four hours yet?” “Oh, stop bragging, old man.” And with our current medical system, is there a doctor waiting to answer Mr. Wood’s call? I assume most seniors would prefer to have sex after dark. Which means they are dealing with this hyper-tumescence problem at around, say midnight or one o’clock in the morning. I don’t know any doctors save emergency room doctors that are up that late. Nor am I aware of any Erection Hotlines. So, this ninety-year-old guy is supposed to drive himself to the emergency room at one in the morning and sit there in the waiting room with his lightning rod sprouting proudly upwards—next to drunks, accident victims and sick babies—hoping someone will be able to tame his anaconda. “Daddy, why’s that old man holding an umbrella in his lap?”

I can’t imagine any male doing this. I can’t imagine any male being upset with having a lasting erection. Especially not an eighty-year-old. I would imagine they’d be delighted the thing still worked. And what better example of virility for an old guy than a permanent erection? Sure, makes it a bit hard to button the trousers, fit into the shower, lie on their stomach. But think of the uses! No longer would the guy have to worry about where to hang his coat. Where to keep his keys. For people with memory problems, this would be a great side benefit. Honey? Where’s the leash for the dog? Why, right here in my pants! The keys to the shed? In my pants! Just think how handy it would be when he helped his wife with the shopping. Turn around honey, I need to hang up my purse. Guys could carry extra groceries—look, ma, no hands! In a retirement community, think of the possibilities for new activities. Men could bring all new meaning to cock fighting. Forget the swords, we have our four-hour-erections!

Of course, we never see real-life examples of Viagra use in those commercials. The ads feature buff guys who look forty with a bit of gray at their temples and this happy, smiling woman (also fortyish) by their side. They’re on some lanai overlooking the ocean, watching a sunset, sipping wine and snuggling in their clean, trendy, pressed and starched clothes. Right.

If Viagra commercials were depictions of reality they would show the overweight and bald eighty-five-year-old Chet wearing his seersucker 70’s pants (Hey, they’re still good!) up over his waist, his comb-over stuck up off his head like a shark fin from his earlier nap, chasing Edna in her gray bubble do, support hose and lime green pantsuit around the retirement home. “Hey baby, I got a somethin’ for ya! Somethin’ you haven’t seen in a while! Heh-heh-heh!” They’d show Edna, finally sick of the old coot pestering her with his four-hour-wood, packing her bags and moving in with her sister in Poughkeepsie. They’d show Chet, alone in his apartment with a rolling pin in his pants, contemplating faking a heart attack so he could get an ambulance ride to the hospital without anyone discovering the truth.

I say, let’s interject some reality into the advertisements. I want to see the Viagra Casualties. I want to see Edna’s horrified expression when she realizes that her lovely twenty-year-sex hiatus is over. I want to see the old guys clamoring for help in emergency rooms, frustrated because they can’t reach the nurse’s desk due to the poles in their pants. I want to see the doctors trying to appear concerned about their patient’s ceaseless wood while snickering behind their hands. I want to see what they do to guys who actually make it to the emergency room. Do they hose them down? Show them naked pictures of Newt Gingrich? Show them the latest stock report?

But mainly, I want the bloody advertisers to stop mentioning Grandpa’s Four Hour Erection during dinner. I don’t ever want to hear the words “urine stream” again while I’m cooking. Yes, a hard man is good to find. But I still don’t want to think about Bob Dole with a log in his pants while I’m trying to eat.

Of course, the ensuing nausea might help with my new diet.

©2009, Janet Periat

I know I’m supposed to revere my morning newspaper since its days are numbered. I realize that by the end of my life, I will not have one waiting for me at the end of my driveway. In some ways, it will be good riddance.

Number One Pet Peeve: Half Pages. What stupid marketing genius came up with this ridiculous freakin’ idea? You can’t turn the page with them attached. They flap all over, you can’t read what’s under them. Is this Marketing By Annoyance? Like they figure you’ll be so pissed off, you’ll wrestle with the thing for a good long time, hopefully enough to imprint some of the advertising on your cerebral cortex. Did some marketing scientist discover that the angry brain retains more information? Or is this some cheap out cost-cutting measure implemented by a bean counter? Whoever came up with the idea needs to be beaten. Hopefully by a stack of half pages.

Number Two: Columns That Are Passed Down To Offspring—Dear Abby. While the original Abby was an old stick-in-the-mud, she normally nailed her advice. Now that her daughter is writing the column, it is clear the advice gene did not get passed on. I am amazed at how stupid this woman is. Especially with regards to advising teenagers. A girl was being blackmailed by her stepsister because she found the girl’s birth control. Abby’s advice? Go to your parents and tell them. WHAT??? Did she smoke some crack? If the kid is hiding her birth control from her “blended” parents and her stepsister is a freakin’ creep, it means the household is a war zone. I think “Abby” is stuck in a time warp, doling out preachy, Victorian-esque prudish PAP. I hope someone invents a time machine, because I want to send her back.

Number Three: Comic Strips That Are Passed Down To Offspring—Family Circus. I hoped that once Bil Keane retired, we’d be rid of that stupid, saccharine crap. Why won’t these freakin’ developmentally disabled brats grow up and move the hell out? PJ is the oldest baby in the universe. By now, his drool could fill up Lake Michigan. I say, let’s move on! Here’s my dream Family Circus cartoon: Jeffy at thirty is on anti-depressants wearing a Mohawk, living in the garage and playing video games 24/7. Dolly works as a Dominatrix and lives with the Fusco Brothers. Billy becomes an interior designer and lives with his partner and their two Labradoodles in San Francisco. PJ, still behind bars, has traded his playpen for the NY State Pen, for selling Dolly to the Fusco Brothers. But alas, I’m afraid my dream will never come true. My only hope is that Jeff Keane will not produce any offspring interested in cartooning. I realize this is sacrilege to some people, but as far as I’m concerned, in regards to Family Circus, Barfy is not just the name of the dog.

Number Four: Garfield. I was a huge fan of this strip when it first came out in June of 1978. It was funny for the first three years. That means it’s been unfunny for 28 years. If you look at the percentages, Garfield has been funny ten percent of the time. Meaning 9 out of 10 strips have not been funny. This is a not a good record. What really pisses me off is when I get a chuckle out of it. Then I know it’s going to be a bad day.

Number Four: Pictures of Dead Bodies. I do my best to avoid these constant reminders of the “Horror of War”, yet they are in every edition. I think the editors have a Dead Body Picture Wheel numbered from one to eight. The editor gets up at the beginning of the morning meeting and spins the wheel. “Okay, put the dead body on page five today.” “But boss, that’s where we’re putting the second half of that heartwarming story about the dog rescue.” “Okay, so got any pictures of dead dogs? That’ll really get ‘em. Put it right next to the rescued dog. People need to wake up and realize it’s not all hearts and flowers out there. Besides, dead bodies sell.” Today my dead body came complete with an ad for cabinets. Right next to it. I suppose for the Jeffery Dahmers of the world, this is helpful. Here’s your dead body and here’s a handy place to keep it. Informative and entertaining. As for me, I hold the paper in one hand and block the picture with the other. If nothing else, I’m getting more coordinated.

Number Five: Horoscopes. For some stupid reason, I sometimes look to these tidbits of advice for a lift. You know, you get up, you stumble into the kitchen, your first cup of coffee hasn’t hit you, you had bad dreams. You hope your horoscope says something other than: You should have stayed in bed. But even in a half asleep-brain dead fog, I can’t buy this BS any longer. The advice is so vague, it could apply to my cat. I’ve found more prescient counsel in fortune cookies. But mainly I find horoscopes to be incomprehensible. Here was mine from this morning: At first it looks like you’re being handed the short end of the stick, but first impressions can be deceiving. Be patient and you’ll see it grow. This sounds like advice given to a girl going on a first date with a guy with impotency problems. Or an ad for Viagra. Hey, maybe I’m onto something here. Perhaps horoscopes are underwritten by pharmaceutical companies. Certainly anyone who pays close attention to this nonsense should be given massive doses of anti-depressants.

When I’m in my late eighties, I’ll get up in the morning and turn on my virtual computer by mind control to get the daily news bites, by then reduced to some form of Haiku. I’ll flick through the screens and there will be Garfield, waiting for me. At this point, I’ll remember the good ol’ days and long for the pictures of dead bodies.

©2009, Janet Periat

AUTHOR’s NOTE: Wrote this a couple years ago, think you’ll like it. Hugs for the New Year from me to all of you!

The first thing I was going to do this morning was go work out at the gym. Then I noticed the date. January 2. I quickly abandoned my plans. The second of January is the biggest gym day ever. This is the day when hundreds of thousands of people wake up and realize that they are fat. They realize that January 2 is the first official day of their New Year’s Resolution when they aren’t too hungover to do something about it. So they grab the phone book, look up the address for their local fitness club and head off towards their future of buff skinniness. Poor deluded fools.

I, for one, hate New Year’s and all the dumb resolutions that go along with it. I think it’s appropriate that we call them New Year’s Resolutions because they don’t last past New Year’s Day. All those tubby repenters will be at my gym today and today only. The very dedicated will be there until about January 15. That’s when most people forget about all their resolutions and go back to normal. It’s also when Krispy Kreme feels free to ramp up their production schedule.

I am hereby calling for the revoking of the New Year’s Resolution. Let’s abolish this sucker. Because it’s really the New Year’s Lie. All we’re doing is setting ourselves up for failure. When we’re at a party with a lampshade on our heads—making out with some guy who looks just like Antonio Banderas—it’s easy to make a bunch of fantastical plans. We promise ourselves that in the New Year we’ll lose weight, work out, quit smoking, drink less, see our parents more. Because in that moment, it’s not the next year. It’s the moment when you’re throwing caution to the wind. Your last hurrah before the cold light of January dawns. You’re shoving finger foods in your mouth, having a grand old time with Antonio, drinking magnums upon magnums of champagne, and in that moment, sure, losing weight sounds easy. Antonio might even stick around after New Year’s if you’re skinnier. Then comes January 1. You wake up and try to move your head, but it weighs a hundred pounds. You try to speak but your tongue feels like a huge wad of sandpaper. You try to move off the bed, but it’s spinning so fast you feel like you’re on a merry-go-round. Then you realize that you’re not alone. You vaguely remember sleeping with Antonio Banderas the night before. You finally manage to move your head to see if Tony is still there. You scream. Somehow during the night, Antonio transformed into Pauly Shore. On the way home, you remember your resolution. You also realize that you need to add “giving up champagne and New Year’s altogether” to your other resolutions. And then you kick yourself for making the stupid promise in the first place. Then on January 2nd, you wake up guilt-ridden and drag yourself to the gym with the secret hope that the real Antonio will leave Melanie for you if you lose that fat pad around your tummy.

I think what we need to do is get rid of the entire holiday season. It’s Christmas that prompts this whole resolution cycle of sinning and repenting. We pig out on Grandma’s fudge, Mom’s cookies and Dad’s turkey stuffing because we’re so stressed out about the holidays, food is our only source of pleasure. We consume massive amounts of alcohol to combat the urges to strangle nasty family members that we’re forced to visit. We spend money we don’t have buying stuff for people that they don’t need. Then for all our hard work, we reward ourselves by overindulging yet again on New Year’s Eve. Five, four, three, two, one—all the top buttons of our collective pants burst at once. And then, on January 2, we dutifully file to the gym and sign up for a whole year—when in actuality we’ll be done with this gym nonsense before the membership fees show up on our credit card bill. It’s amazing what effect tight clothes and a couple bottles of booze has on the human brain.

I have to say, however, that its very entertaining watching the unbridled enthusiasm of the fledgling gym attendees on their first (and usually last) day at the gym. They arrive in their new workout clothes feeling great about themselves. They already feel thinner because they’ve put on track pants which have elastic waistbands. Then with all this wonderful motivation, they set about their workout. They are so excited that they’ve finally forced themselves to a gym that they’re going to make up for an entire year of sitting on the couch and stuffing their faces with Big Macs. All at once. They attack all the new machines; the Pec Deck, the Thigh Killer, the Ab Murderer, the Butt Terminator. They sweat and grunt and by the end of their two-hour workout, they are feeling omnipotent. They walk out of the gym feeling invincible. They are the new Superpeople. The next morning the Superpeople wake up feeling like they overdosed on Kryptonite. First, they can’t get out of bed unassisted. They discover muscles they didn’t even know they had. And all of them hurt. None of them will be able to lift their arms high enough to grab their latte off the counter at Starbucks. Walking will be agony, sitting even worse. Finally, they give up moving entirely and settle in on the couch. Because they’re stuck on the couch, they have to order out for food. Because they started working out, they feel entitled to eating a bit more, so they order Domino’s special two-for-one deal on large pepperoni pizzas. And thus the cycle of sinning and repentance continues.

What we all seem to forget is that last year’s New Year is this year’s Old Year. We all made and promptly abandoned the same stupid resolutions last year. So, here’s my advice: Skip the gym. If you want to feel thinner, keep the workout clothes. Not only will you feel thin, you will present the image of someone athletic. And if you continue to gain weight, you won’t notice and neither will anyone else—track pants have become the new muu-muu. If you’re serious about losing weight and exercising, don’t wait until you’re drunk and desperate to make the decision. Drunk desperation is best left to more important decisions, like at which party you have the best chance of meeting Antonio Banderas.

©2006, Janet Periat

I deal with Christmas the same way most people deal with death. I go through the same five stages. Firstly comes Denial. I can’t believe Christmas is here again. Then Anger. Stupid Christmas, why do the holidays have to exist? Then comes the Bargaining stage. Well, maybe I can skip parts of it and cheap out on gifts. Then Depression. It’s inevitable. There’s no way out. Bummer. Then the final stage, Acceptance. Well, I do like the reruns of Rudolph and The Grinch, maybe it won’t be so bad.

But it is. It’s always both good and bad. The holidays are always a double edged sword with me. The good? Seeing relatives I rarely see throughout the year, the fresh baked cookies, the endless Christmas parties. The bad? Seeing relatives I rarely see throughout the year, the fresh baked cookies and the endless Christmas parties.

It’s a vicious cycle. I love eating rich foods, I hate gaining weight. I love trimming the tree, I hate taking it down. I love buying gifts for people, I hate what it does to my budget. I love the holiday cheer, I hate the weather. I love people in my house, I hate cleaning. It’s always a mixed bag.

When I was a kid, I had no such mixed feelings, the holidays were spectacular. Period. Mom and Dad went through special effort to make sure our Christmases were glorious. Presents were plentiful, our morning routine had just the right amount of suspense and anticipation. We were not allowed into the living room in the morning until we had all eaten breakfast (read: choked down some toast in three seconds flat). Then we were made to line up according to age (me first—one of the only benefits I could see to being the youngest). Then once we were all lined up, Mom let us into the living room. And there the tree would be, lit up and surrounded by a cornucopia of incredible gifts. Some were left unwrapped, some wrapped, our living room always looked like a Christmas display in a store window. Absolutely magical.

Now I have to buy the gifts, wrap them, fix the food, and make everyone else in the family happy. Used to be I only had to focus on myself. So? Do I want a return to those days? No. I love thinking up special gifts for everyone, wrapping them and anticipating how much they will enjoy them when Christmas day arrives. I love baking cookies. I love helping out and making Christmas run smoothly. But it’s still a job. A big job. A big ol’ honkin’ job that I start dreading around late July when Hallmark first puts out their annoying Christmas ornaments.

So, every year around August, my husband and I start making elaborate escape plans. Hawaii? Yosemite? New Mexico? We soon realize that we don’t want to travel around the holidays, so we start thinking of other ways to relieve the stress. Mainly the monetary stress. I have a big family, one that has repeatedly rejected the name drawing method of reducing the gift giving burden. So, we start planning on only giving wine and candy. But then of course, my sister doesn’t have a significant other or kids, so she needs an extra gift. And so does my aunt, can’t compromise on hers. Or my mother’s gift. How many more Christmases will she be here? I want to get her something really nice. Oh, yeah and my niece just got married, she needs a new cappuccino maker. You see where this is going. We just can’t seem to find our way out.

Which brings me to the Depression/Acceptance part of my holiday cycle. I know what’s going to happen. It happens every year. But that doesn’t stop my husband and I from planning like mad to avoid the stress and the financial impact of the holiday season. Will we be able to achieve our goals this year?

I just hope Visa will have that special interest rate this January.

©2000, Janet Periat