In hindsight, coming home smelling like fish would probably suck. Oh, and sorry about all the bags and asses

I have a nasty case of the post-holiday blues. Apparently they’re pretty common, seeing how the world is ending in 2012 (why, John Cusack, why?) and it’s no longer good enough to overhaul just certain aspects of your life, like your snaggly cuticles or inability to stand up to your boss. No, now you must change everything:



Talk about pressure. I like how the Yankee magazine people added “for the better!” Just in case you weren’t sure. Just in case you thought this was an article on how to royally fuck up everything.

EVERYTHING.

The year 2010 is particularly traumatic for me because I am turning 35 on January 4. I had assumed that self-reflection would help smooth my descent into 2010 and close-to-middle-age-dom. You know, a few days of Who am I and how did my ass get so big? But after Googling “dying inside after Christmas” I stumbled upon an article that said not to peer inward.

According to Susan Battley, PsyD, PhD, a leadership psychologist and clinical associate professor at State University of New York at Stony Brook: “If you keep looking back at the old year—especially last year—you will get into a downward spiral.”

(I'm curious what the "old year" might be if it's not "last year." 1982 maybe?)

Battley believes in something she calls Three BAGs Full. A BAG is a Big Audacious Goal. She says that three is the absolute maximum and that one might be more realistic. I like the idea of only having one to three goals, but I absolutely detest the word audacious; why not Big Ass Goal?

Alas, the BAG acronym is her brainchild, not mine.

The perky Battley is nice enough to provide suggestions for people’s BAGs. I was nice enough to provide my responses:

• Learn a second language. No. I don’t feel like it.

• Volunteer. I already do; every night I volunteer that night’s culinary disaster to the garbage can.

• Make more money. Bite me.

• Join a dating service. Ok, but I’ll have to check with Chuck first.

• Change careers.

Aahhhhh, change careers. Now there’s something I can dig my teeth into. Why, just yesterday as Junior and I were watching the sea lion show at Mystic Aquarium, I was thinking that exact thing. I marveled at how active the sea lion trainers were; how their jobs were so hands-on and varied. Then I thought about my own job and how I spend 35 hours a week sitting on my ass.

Why? Why did I choose such a sedentary career? Why, when the high school guidance counselor separated us into groups of those who’d like to sit for a living and those who’d like to stand, did I pick the sitters? If I’d played my cards differently, I could be tossing raw fish into the mouth of a 600-pound sea creature and paying my bills all at the same time! Just me, my perky butt and fish.

Heavenly.

So, that’s one of my BAGs. In 2010 I’m going to change careers. At the top of my list are: belly dancing instructor, Mulletville investigative reporter and professional dart-ist (don’t laugh: the average salary for professional dart player is $73,000). Wouldn’t that be sweet poetic justice?

My second BAG is to learn how to stuff stuff into stuff. Like these:



and these:



Yep, that about does it. The new me: a belly dancing, food stuffing dart thrower. Aim high, Mrs. Mullet, aim high.

(Admit it. You want me—even in my 35-year-old faded glory. You do!)

Do they make Nicorette for your ears?

My eardrum has been vibrating for the last few days. It's been driving me nuts. At first I worried that a beetle or other winged creature was flying around in there (before you get grossed out and poo poo my overactive imagination, let me tell you that a beetle took up residence in my friend’s ear in sixth grade and I will never, ever forget it).

Alas, nothing has flown out of my head.

So I made an appointment with a local ear, nose and throat doctor.

The office was located in a brittle house with creaky, tilted floors. When I got there, there were two nuns sitting in the waiting room. Whenever I see nuns I feel compelled to make some kind of statement to let them know I am an upstanding individual. So while I waited, I had this running through my head:

“God bless, sisters. No, no, don’t say that. How about, ‘Lovely mass on Sunday. Praise Jesus.’ No, that’s stupid…”

Thankfully, the receptionist called me in.

Let me tell you something, the newspapers have it all wrong. Walter Breuning is not the oldest living man in the United States. ENT Doc Crochety of Mulletville is. He was wearing one of these:



(From what I can tell, they’re used to reflect light towards the patient and fell out of fashion when flashlights were invented.)

While the doc lifted the sagging flesh from his inner thighs so he could sit down and cross his legs, I told him about my vibration problem. He sloooooooowly grabbed his ear looker thinger and stuck it in my ear. Then he shouted, “Jesus Christ, it’s like the Sahara in there!”

I have to admit, I was intrigued at the thought of a desert ecosystem existing between my eyeballs. It certainly explains the sand I’ve been finding on my pillow.

“How many Q-tips do you use?” he barked.

“None,” I lied. “But I chew a lot of gum.” (I have no idea why I said this, but you know what? He wasn't listening to me one bit.)

“Are you a secretary?”

“I was until my Dictaphone broke.”

“I’m going to whisper in your ear while I flutter a stack of post-it notes in your other ear. Ready? Whisperwhisperwhisperwhisper.”

“What?”

“Whisperonewhisperninetywhisperninewhisperwhisperwhisper.”

“You’re one-hundred and ninety-nine?”

He took a metal hook with a cap and stuck it into my nostril.

“Your nose tissue is inflamed.”

“Is that because of the camels?”

He told me to say “ah” then hit the back of my throat with what looked like a golf club he’d stolen from a doll house. Then he sat back and shook his head.

“I’m prescribing you drops. Ask your fellow to help you. When you bathe, let some water into your ear. And lay off the Goddamn Q-tips.”

“I’m just curious. Do you blaspheme like this in front of the nuns?”

“Call in two weeks if you’re still having problems. Irene will ring you out.”

As Irene the receptionist took my co-pay, I said a little prayer that the desert nomads would take well to the drops because I really, really don’t want to go back to Doc Crochety (he's obviously in cahoots with Dental Dick). I looked at the nuns for a sign that they were receiving my telepathic cry for mercy, but they were too busy reading about Salma Hayek's second wedding in Italy.

I don't know if I can kick my Q-tip habit, but I'm sure as hell going to try.