Hello, I'm the Frazzled Mom, and I'm a Slacker

Hello, I’m the Frazzled Mom, and I’m a Slacker

I stopped making New Year’s Resolutions because I always end up breaking them.  I really need some self-discipline, but that means I’d get a reputation for efficiency and the Snarky Housewives of the PTA would put me on the fund-raising committee when I’m busy not going to all the meetings.

Here are a few of last year’s resolutions for which I showed little restraint and broke within a few days.

To those braggy chicks on Facebook who post, “OMG, I can’t fit into anything because my waist is so tiny since I started working out.  Life is so unfair!”  I’ll stop responding, “I know what you mean.  Bobbi Jean needed lunch money today, and I couldn’t give her any because all I had were hundreds.  I feel so guilty!”

I will once again try to stop drunk dialing Stephen Colbert and telling his assistant I’m Ann Coulter researching a story about GSA spending and I really need to talk to him about going with me to Las Vegas to prove if it’s actually possible to blow $800,000 partying in one night.

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I vow to stop taking pictures of my Elf on the Shelf engaged in inappropriate activities, sending them to Will Farrell and signing Nancy Pelosi’s name, adding, “Buddy, I LOVE you.  Don’t go back to the North Pole.  Come live with me in MY Fantasyland.”  I see now that my actions were unacceptable and will comply with the court’s decision to revoke my Instagram.

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         I resolve to stop feeding my kids cans of french fried onions and take them to get a REAL dinner straight from the toaster oven ladies at Costco.

Stop writing letters to Fox News bashing Gretchen Carlson for saying years ago that 23-year-old Michael Phelps should be stripped of all his endorsements for smoking pot.   Gretch, pleeeeze.  You were Miss America in 1989.  Beauty queens in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones.  You can’t tell me you don’t have some nudie pics out there somewhere.

I will stop trying to beerboard the Homeowner’s Association president by taking her to Appleby’s, getting her drunk and extracting information about who that skank, Tiff, left with from the Neighborhood Scotch, I mean, Watch party.

I will stop my strategy to make ladies quit hogging the elliptical machines at the gym by telling them, “That guy by the mirror in the swim trunks and combat boots is on his way over here because he thinks you’re ‘purdy.’ “ 

After I drop the kids off at school for sports practice at 5:30, I resolve not to drive away yelling out the window, “Woo, it’s wine-thirty!”

God grant me the serenity to accept the things about myself I cannot change.  Maybe I should create a 12-Step Program for Slackers.