Americans
are driven to do more, do it better, do it faster, make more money at it and go
on to do the next thing better, faster, and more profitably. I don’t know if every
culture is like this. Maybe, even in our current high-tech, high-speed wonderland
world there are still societies in which people wake up relaxed and enjoy the
day, enjoy themselves, enjoy each other. Stop and smell the roses, rather than
just Google the roses and download them to a temporary file to review later. But
Americans are goal oriented, success minded. We are a society of busy people with
places to be and people to see, mountains to climb. We don’t just smell the roses,
we develop better and better varieties of roses, patent them, mass produce them,
and sell them at a profit to the rose sniffers of the world. And each year at
this time we Americans give some thought to our goals for the coming year. We
plan our accomplishments, give ourselves a time frame and resolve to do better
and better and better and to do it faster and more efficiently. I am not immune
to this. I make resolutions every year. And when I make them, I really, really
mean them.
Jan.1, 1963: Grrrgl. Blup. Ookie!
Jan.1,
1964: Nother cookie now please!
Jan.1, 1969: Find a way to
talk sister out of her cookies. Tell her they might be poison and I should test
them for her. For her sake.
Jan.1, 1974: Make Reuben Gamboa love
me forever. Become best friends with Karen Carpenter and sing with her. Join the
FBI and capture all ten of the Most Wanted. Invent glow-in-the-dark food coloring.
Lose sister AND brother. Become cherished only child. Invent magical cookies which
will be soooo famous and everybody will love them and will say, "Oh wow! We thought
you were just a big dork, but you invented these fantastic cookies and now we
wish you were our friend and you are not the least bit dorky!"
Jan.1,
1979: Learn to feather my hair exactly like Tammy Dell. Win a Nobel Peace
Prize by the time I am 25. Meet Ray Bradbury. Make John Rineheld beg me for a
date. Go to New York and become very, very famous in only six months. Have the
figure of a girl who never even heard of cookies.
Jan.1, 1984:
Higher hair, bigger shoulder pads. Never drink champagne and brandy in the same
evening again. Or even in the same lifetime. Ever. Be able to afford cookies.
Jan.1, 1989: Have an adult conversation. Toilet train all pertinent parties.
Have an adult conversation. Did I just say that? Scrape the gummed up cookies
off the sofa. Toilet train . . .
Jan.1, 1994: Get a day shift job.
Get more than three consecutive hours of sleep. Know exactly where my car keys
are at all times. Be home room mother x 3. Never forget to buy cookies. For the
kids.
Jan.1, 1999: Develop a hobby. Never be late for anything.
Keep track of the kids at all times. No cookies this year, period!
Jan.1,
2004: Consider going back to school. Do not nag anybody about anything anymore,
let them sink or swim on their own. Avoid all thoughts of cookies. Exercise so
that butt will not look like a big wad of snicker doodle dough.
Jan.1,
2014: Day dream about retiring and traveling – maybe to New York? Day dream
about cookies, but only buy them for Mike. Try not to help Mike finish cookies
before they get stale. Recognize that this is a lame excuse.
Jan.1,
2034: Always have home-baked cookies available for grandchildren. Accept Pulitzer
Prize in size 6 gown. Find bigger apartment in New York. Look like I am forty-five.
Jan.1, 2044: Eat all the cookies I ever wanted. Eat nothing but cookies,
if that’s what I want to do. Encourage great grandchildren to eat all the cookies
they want. Life is short.
Jan.1, 2054: Grrrgl. Blup. Ookie!
A girl’s got to have goals, doncha think? Pass me those cookies. |
