2007 all about pears, stares

I’m sitting here at work writing the first column of the New Year and fighting for the space between me and the computer desk with my “buddha,” which took on a life of its own after too many deep-fried appetizers and truffle chocolates over the holidays.
I realized my predicament was a growing concern when, a few days before New Year’s Eve, I bent down to tie my winter boots and got suspended five inches above my laces by the “buddha” barricade.
Feigning a need for chivalry, I asked Pete if he would tie them for me and happily he agreed—bending at the knee with ease and none the wiser to my sudden panic to go shopping for a body girdle.
But not until Jan. 3, the day when the real world and resolutions come back to life in my neck of the woods.
No sooner had he laced my boots up did I grab the chip bowl and sour cream, two magazines, and a vodka cooler and headed down to the bonfire in the backyard for some more holiday R&R.
Yet perhaps my beloved knew more about the upsurge in my girth than he let on. At least that’s the way I interpreted it later that evening when a certain conversation about his desire to shop for sexy lingerie for me came up again after he skimmed through a Victoria’s Secret catalogue.
As I have told him more than once, I believe the women who model skimpy underwear aren’t real and are made of wax, and—if he did go shopping for lingerie for me, he would pick the wrong size and make matters worse by it.
“They make them big, too,” he said, realizing almost immediately he’d be written up—retraction or not.
Lucky for Pete, my brother and sister-in-law also were sitting at the kitchen table and while helping to scrape my jaw up off the floor (and as they roared in laughter at his “foot-in-mouth” blunder, blocked the flurry of lightning bolts flying from my eyes in his direction).
Of course, I knew Pete’s remark was in defence of his true lingerie shopping ability and that his attraction to me went beyond the boxes of chocolates I’d been eating since Dec. 20.
Yet I reiterated, even though history proves the pear-shaped women of the world were highly sought after by artists and kings, this piece of fruit isn’t flaunting it in skimp-wear.
Meanwhile, 2006 was capped off New Year’s Eve with friends and family around a roaring bonfire at our house, as I’m sure was done at other settlements along the country stretch of Frog Creek.
We burned scads of wood pallets, dead branches, an ancient pile of lumber and logs, and—too late in the drinking game—tried to recite the poem “The Cremation of Sam McGee” by Robert Service while transfixed by the fire and its throwback to our caveman days.
In between reminiscing about the year’s toils, troubles, and tribulations, we made our necks sore staring up at the strange ring around the moon and praying to Mother Nature not to snow on our ice rink, on which lay six inches of melted water from global warming.
“Cohort #1” produced firecrackers just shy of midnight—the first of which he didn’t announce until it cracked the night sky and nearly sent one member of the family to an early grave by the surprise, and the rest of us into laughing fits.
Then when I asked if anybody had a New Year’s resolution ready for the launch into 2007, I got a flat stare and a math test.
With a combined age of more than 300 years standing around the bonfire that night, I suspected the majority had travelled past the need for self-inflicted denial and analysis (at least until the next morning when the headaches were pounding “never again”).
Personally, when it comes to New Year’s resolutions, I’m not very good at keeping them in the long-term and I don’t imagine getting older will change that.
But I love trying anyway.
I’ve got a million things I want to do and improve on, such as trading a pear for an hourglass, lifting weights, writing a book, and sailing the Caribbean seas.
Pete, no doubt, will just re-set his engines on cruise control and keep his 2007 resolutions in the basics, as revealed during an evening of wine and chat in the farmhouse during the holidays.
“I’m trying to sort my life out,” he reasoned, leading me to believe an epiphany was about to be born.
That was quickly dashed, though, when he added, “I’m looking around the living room and thinking ‘Where can I put in a three-pronger so that I can plug in my guitar amp,” he said.
If there’s one resolution I vow to perfect this year, it’s the flat stare.

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