Keep Your Christmas Tree Going: Keep it Glowing

My New Year's resolution is to shave every other day. It's going to be impossible to pull that off. I hate shaving. It's not even that bad, but I hate it. Something tells me I am already off to a bad start with this New Year's resolution. At least I have a resolution this year. Last year I had nothing.

My Christmas tree still looks twinkly and luminescent. I'm thinking it's good for another 2, 2 and 1/2 weeks of post-holiday cheer. Considering I rode home, for 25 minutes, from Home Depot, on my bike, with the tree gripped precariously under my right arm, I'm going to sap that thing for all the cheer it's worth.

My girlfriend and I received some nice gifts for Christmas, and they are arrayed beneath the tree. They are plentiful. Gifts aplenty. One of my favorite gifts is this bag that I got, which is awesome. I won't describe it, because that would be boring, but you should know that it is a really dynamite bag. I'm going to wear that bag to work tomorrow. No chance I will be walking across Bruckner Boulevard and get nailed by a customized van (see above), sending the bag, and my body, cartwheeling into space, like a rag doll. That would never happen to me.

If you are wearing a smart new bag, and something really bad happens to you, the fact that the bag is so smart no longer really matters. If you are wearing a nice new suit, and then you get beaten up in the suit, you'll feel pretty stupid in the suit, afterwards.

If you join the UFC, the chances of you getting beaten up, while wearing a new suit, are much lower, because you'll be tougher than the average person, and possibly have cauliflower ear, which will be a clue to possible attackers that you are not to be trifled with.

Also, if you join the UFC, I want your autograph.

PGA Tour Rugs

I take a lot of pride in vacuuming my bathroom rugs. I won't be satisfied until I step out of the shower and feel like I'm playing the links at Pebble Beach. Look at that double cross-hatch pattern! You don't get that in most restrooms. "Hey Will! Is that your bathroom, or the Greater Hartford Open?" Good question. It's hard to tell, isn't it?

Eau de toilette. That's what I'm talkin' about.

It's amazing what artisanal feats can be achieved with a dustbuster. It just takes focus and a fully-charged, cordless Shark--with the pet hair attachment--and you can bring miracles to your toilet area.

Greg Norman would feel at home in my bathroom.

Greg Norman. Arnold Palmer. All the big names would be impressed by what I have done.

I'm an artist.

Food Driven

They didn't plow my road. They don't really plow in New York, I guess. Weird. I kind of like it. I don't drive, so it doesn't really make a difference to me whether or not they plow. It just seems like they might have felt obliged to plow.

My dog doesn't like rock salt. It gets in his paws and makes him very uncomfortable. I suppose I have no choice but to get him little dog booties. How embarrassing.

I fed my dog a couple of Belgian waffles this morning. He liked them, but I think he found them a little dry, because he drank a few gulps of water, afterward. Then he helped himself to a waffle nap. I got this great new waffle iron for Christmas. It rotates and makes two one-inch-deep waffles at a time. In the future, I see my dog and I enjoying many a waffle together. He loves that sort of thing. He loves anything involving food. In his mouth. He can't get enough of the food in his mouth. He'll just keep eating, really. If you put the food in front of him, he'll dispose of it, summarily. I respect that.

In case you were wondering what it sounds like when large pieces of plastic are blown around on the side of a building, just visit the construction site behind my apartment. It's a somber, inauspicious flapping, and it doesn't stop.

Iron(ic) Gym

I impulse-bought the "Iron Gym" (as seen on TV!) at the drug store. It was incredibly easy to assemble. It still has a little play in the middle socket joint, though. No matter how much I tightened the screws, I couldn't get rid of that play. It's probably fine. There is no chance the "Iron Gym" will collapse while I'm trusting it to safely facilitate my doorway pull-ups. There's no way the molding will rip off the wall, causing me to plummet, knees-first, into my kitchen's marble threshold. I couldn't possibly get into the best shape of my life, only to cripple myself in an embarrassing home accident.

My goal with the "Iron Gym," besides getting ripped beyond recognition, is to use it regularly, forever, until it falls apart, while I'm using it. All too often, people impulse-buy these gimmicky fitness devices, use them for a month, and then forget about them, letting them turn into clutter. It's sad, really. And it won't happen to me. The "Iron Gym" will be a part of my life, in perpetuity. I already tested it out. It has an endearing wobble. I even used the "dips" function. The experience almost moved me to tears.

The "Iron Gym" is great, because it's like going to the gym, except you don't have to be around a bunch of H-phobes. I look at the "Iron Gym" dangling securely in my doorway, and I see the promise of a new me, a ripped, shredded me, using my newfound upper body strength to deftly control my wheelchair.