Dear Snarky – Why Can’t I Keep a New Year’s Resolution?

10689449_1584183268459927_2100437477738605046_nDear Snarky,
Every year I make New Year’s resolutions and then by Valentine’s Day I’ve pretty much forgotten what they even were.  Do you have any advice for making 2015 the year I finally follow through with the promises I have made to myself.
Signed, Resolution Slacker


Dear Slacker,

My advice is simple. Just say no to any and all New Year’s Resolutions. They’re self-esteem busters.

Seriously, think about it. Who wants to start off a brand new year feeling bad about themselves? Umm, no one. And if you feel you must make a resolution let me help you out here. I’ve got a skill, well really more of a gift, for turning any almost any resolution into an achievable goal. I’m like a New Year’s Resolution Whisperer.

For instance, the whole lose weight thing. Well, what that really means is that you plan to practice loving yourself more and therefore not turning to food for comfort. See, the goal is you accepting your greatness not giving up Oreos.

And I don’t know a mother out there who doesn’t make the resolution to be more patient with her kids. This breaks down to mandating that you need more dedicated, scheduled “alone time” so your kids won’t seem so annoying.

Or how about the most irksome of resolutions, you know the one I’m talking about. Yep, the whole exercise more decree. This one is simple. It’s less about you entering into a long-term relationship with your Fitbit and more about laying down the law that your family picks up some of the slack (chores, cooking etc) so you have a smidgen of time to devote to your health.

It’s all about the Resolution Math. Here’s my winning formula. You are already amazing + Other people being shamed into doing the right thing = You being more amazing.

This friend is how you pull off your New Year’s resolutions.

If you have a question for Dear Snarky email me at or private message me on my Snarky Facebook Page.


In 2014 I Vow to Continue . . .

recite-10802-1759195985-1d1rrweNew Year’s resolutions are an act of self-flagellation. In my case it doesn’t matter what I resolve to do it will inevitably end up with me gaining at least 15 pounds. The math goes something like this: Resolution to try to be a more patient mother results in me adding on seven pounds due to suppressing my impatience by shoveling snack size Snickers bars in my mouth to keep it shut. The resolution to be more fun adds at least five pounds as I interpret fun to mean me eating more cupcakes. The one thing guaranteed to blow up the scale is, of course, to vow to lose weight. Go ahead and loosen the drawstring in my track pants because I’m going to need some extra room. This is why I urge all of you to right now abandon any resolution you may have made and join me in my anti self-improvement campaign. Instead of trying to change I think we should all celebrate what we did right last year and pledge to carry on that greatness in 2014. Here’s my list of things I plan to continue with vigor in this New Year.

Pursuing a partnership with the National Institute of Health. Some inroads have been made and by that I mean letters of concern have been sent to the NIH. I believe I have discovered the reason for declining fertility rates in suburban American woman. Yoga pants. Think about it. The current trend of women wearing overly tight, compressive, four-way stretch Lycra 24/7 is not doing any favors to their hoo ha. Scientific data supports my theory that the lady parts need to breathe. Now, add in the over Spanxing of this demographic and you’ve got a big problem. Women are suffocating their fertility. This is why last year I began on my mission to alert the medical profession to the potential health hazard of yoga pants and the mental disorder that is inflicting a large portion of the suburban female population. I call it Yogasssion. An obsession bordering on a phobia in the General Anxiety Disorder category with leanings into the Obsessive Compulsive family where one believes they can no longer master a button and/or zipper and must wear yoga pants at all times. These women also suffer from an addiction to Lycra that is so severe and crippling I strongly believe it should being added as a 12-step program. Right now I’m working on a grant to continue my research and will keep you posted throughout the year on my findings.

Making How to Use a 2 Lane Drive Thru Part of the DMV Driver’s Test. I’m in talks with various Department of Motor Vehicles throughout the United States to add drive thru etiquette as part of the licensing process. Although more and more Americans are eating fast food less than half know how to correctly navigate the perilous world of the 2-lane drive thru. The problems are two-fold. 1) A large portion of licensed drivers lack the mental dexterity to handle the conundrum of going from one lane to two or God forbid three. 2) The hostility issues related to the fool who aggressively thrusts their front bumper inches from your car in an attempt to cut in front of you to get that McRib seconds sooner. I believe that by requiring this skill to be part of the driver’s test states will be able to screen for idiots who have no business being behind the wheel of a two ton instrument of doom and it will also serve as an indicator of someone’s mental health. Anyone who is so hyped up about getting a McRib that they would knowingly cause harm to another person’s car does not need to be on the road and should be receiving, at the very least, some sort of intensive outpatient therapy.

PSA Campaign Aimed at Stopping People From Clipping Their Nails in Public. You may think it’s gross but it’s also a growing health hazard. Finger and toenail clippings going airborne are one of the great sanitation issues of our time. The human hand is a disease magnet and the fingernail is like a bacteria locker storing all the fifth that your hand has collected. If you’re not gagging yet then let’s move on to the toe nail that when covered by a sock and shoe marinates in your body’s secretions and when exposed in the open via flip-flop or sandal serves as a free range spatula scrapping up E coli and assorted deadly pathogens off the ground with the vengeance of a Kitchen Aid mixer whipping up egg whites. This is why I started a petition in 2013 for the television networks to begin a national PSA campaign to educate and shame the growing number of idiots who persist in clipping their nails in public. I’m also suggesting a follow-up PSA on enlightening the stooges who believe it’s okay to get out the callous remover paddle and go to town on their heels at a baseball game or the local swimming pool. So far, no networks or even local television stations have expressed an interest but I will not back down and pledge to be even more valiant in my efforts to get these PSA’s launched.

I hope my list has inspired you to embrace the goodness in your life and to continue on with all the things that you’re already doing right. Happy 2014.

***For all things wonderfully Snarky go to where you can find the new winter Snarky line of clothing and accessories. (Flannel Snarky P.J.’s anyone?) Plus, there’s my book – Snarky in the Suburbs Back to School. (Click here for purchase information.) Here’s a little ditty about it: The Spring Creek Elementary School PTA board (a coven of Mean Moms dressed in Uggs, yoga pants, and dermal filler) is up to no good.  Wynn Butler (middle-aged, uncool, and not bringing sexy back) is determined to find out what’s going on. With help from her two kids, a Roomba vacuum turned mobile surveillance drone, and a few good friends, Wynn launches a covert investigation that leads to the “mother of all revenge capers” at the school’s annual Fall Festival.  If you’ve ever fantasized about smoke bombing the idiot parent who has yet to master the fine art of the school drop-off lane, or standing up and shouting, “Liar, liar, Botox on fire” during a PTA meeting, then this delicious tale of payback is for you. To stay up-to-date on new posts and take part in my not so deep thoughts click on this Facebook link – (That’s the abbreviated link to my FB page) or I twitter @snarkynsuburbs.

My Crappy Old Year

New Year’s Resolutions are for suckers.  I try to never make any because about six days after I’ve committed myself to a life changing agenda I’m already abandoning ship on the U.S.S. Pledge to a Better Me.  2010 was different.  Last year I was all about the New Year’s Resolution.  I wrote out a long list of things that I was going to change about my life.  In my earnest bravado I called it The 2010 Manifesto.  I can shamefully share with you that I didn’t achieve one of my “promises for change.”  There were the usual suspects on my list, weight loss, exercise, be more patient with my children, nicer to my husband, even try a new recipe once a week.  The recipe one really kills me.  If you had told me 20 years ago when I thought I was all that and a super size bag of chips that I would be vowing to try a new recipe once a week as a New Year’s resolution I would have thrown myself off a cliff made up of discounted Coach Outlet handbags.  Even now, I’m pondering thoughts of freeing the earth from my carbon foot print. The only things that are stopping me is knowing that if I was no longer breathing my dog would never get walked again and the fact that it would open up the possibility for my husband to date 25 year olds and I can’t let the man grasp that kind of happiness – ever.

To cheer up I started going over the last year in my head trying to find some positive things I had accomplished. After much deliberation I managed to remember a couple of things that, while not life shattering, were, I believe contributions to a better tomorrow.

The Tow Job

In 2010 I was plagued by a woman in the super size SUV.  Every morning at my daughter’s elementary school she parked her tank in the drop off zone effectively blocking traffic.  Oh, she did do a lame attempt at pulling her army combat vehicle partially up on the curb as a “Oops, sorry, but look I’ve attempted to get out-of-the-way.”  The problem was her ride was so gianormous not only could you not pull around it, but it created an epic blind spot so if you tried to escape it’s girth you risked being rammed by another car or God forbid hitting a child.  Two months into the new school year I had enough.  People had talked to Mrs. Super Size SUV, notices had been posted in the school newsletter, notes had been left on her windshield, but mesmerized by her own self-importance she refused to alter her parking routine.  The time had come for me to take matters into my own hands.

One morning in late October I set my plan in motion.  It was Wednesday.  Many moms were at school getting ready for the monthly morning P.T.A. meeting.  The big topic – giftwrap sales. I knew the school office would be empty for about five minutes as the school secretary helped the P.T.A. president set up the microphone and podium in the cafeteria.  This was when I made my move.  I clandestinely went into the office to use the school phone while no one could see me.  My call was to the tow truck service the school district had a contract with.  Two days early I had used my son for intel.  He was charged with asking at the high school who the district uses to tow vehicles.  I told him to say it was for a story he was working on for his school newspaper.  Not totally a lie.  He was taking a journalism class, after all.  Armed with that information I used the school phone for authenticity, in case the number showed up on the tow company’s caller i.d.  When I got the tow service I stressed that is was a critical a.s.a.p. tow job because the vehicle in question was blocking an emergency exit.  Once I was assured that the tow truck was en-route I covertly exited the office and went in search of Mrs. Super Size SUV.  I had to delay her exit from the school to give the tow truck time to arrive and haul off her Big Boy mobile.  I found her talking to some other moms and inserted myself into the group by asking who was going to the P.T.A. meeting?  Most of the moms were and I made sure Mrs. Super Size SUV was guilted into attending.  That job done I sprinted into the cafeteria and closed the blinds on the windows, saying to the P.T.A. president, “Wow, that morning sun is brutal. No one will be able to see the Smart Board if we don’t close these.” I then speed walked outside to await the tow truck.  I got giddy when it arrived and had to restrain myself from jumping up and down and shouting yippee!  I was amazed how quickly they could hitch a car of that size up.

When it looked like they were almost ready to leave I eagerly bolted into the P.T.A. meeting and announced while opening the blinds on the bank of cafeteria windows,  “Pardon the interruption, but, Mrs. Super Size I think you car is getting towed.”   She screeched and then started swearing as everyone ran to windows to eye-witness her three-ton vehicle rolling behind the tow trunk.  It was a perfect moment in time.  Her cursing and using not just the everyday swear words, but the ones saved for special occasions.  The principal telling her to “calm herself and to stop with her offensive jargon or he would have to ask her to leave the school.”  The P.T.A. president trying to resume control of the meeting, and me who started clapping. I  was joined at first by just a small cluster of P.T.A. moms and soon it seemed as if the whole room was joining in. The applause was reverberating off the cafeteria walls.  Mrs. Super Size shrieked that we were all “jealous bitches” and ran from the school.  Her hot pink Juicy Couture printed butt was the last thing we saw as she began chasing the tow truck.  Ah, life was good that day – very good.

The Make Out Manny

I have a neighbor who annoys the hell out of me and there are times, I’m not ashamed to admit, I live to mess with her.  (For more insight into this neighbor read the Suburban Warfare post.)  One summer morning I decided to give her an eyeful.  I felt justified in what I was about to do because she had been on her Yard Nazi Rampage since May. Her newest lawn obsession was the length of grass blades. She felt everyone should mow their lawn to the exact same height –  2.5 inches.  I and the rest of the neighborhood were ready to attack her with our weed whackers. To distract her from her grass-blade frenzy I hatched a plan.

Mrs. Perfect walks every morning at 6:45 a.m.  It’s during these walks that she does her daily neighborhood assessment which means she lingers and snoops at people’s houses, measuring the grass, etc. One morning I was ready to give her something brand new to fixate on.   I had borrowed a CPR/swimming rescue dummy from where I do some volunteer work, dressed it up in my husband’s clothes, stuck a blonde wig (leftover from Halloween) on it to identify it as definitely not my dark brown hair husband and finished it off with a baseball hat.  I then traded in my standard p.j.’s of choice – XL bottoms and an man’s large t-shirt for a Boobs-R-Us negligee.  Just before she passed by house I went out on my front porch and started making out with the mannequin.  I positioned myself so I was covering up most of the mannequin making it harder to tell that I was going to second base with a CPR dummy.  Mrs. Perfect came up on our house, stopped in her tracks, moaned “Oh my God, you’re one of Satan’s sinners.”  She watched me french kiss with the dummy for what I thought was a voyeuristic amount of time.  I’m talking so long that the mannequin was rounding the corner to third base.  Finally, she ran home.

Later in the day, as predicted, she came knocking on my front door to talk about my “affair.”  I suggested we visit outside so my kids wouldn’t hear and then told her it wasn’t an affair. I explained I was a little short on funds and was entertaining gentleman callers when my husband was out-of-town.  Mrs. Perfect turned white and whispered to me, “You’re, running a brothel in our neighborhood?”  (The fact that this woman believed that any man not legally blind and/or with more than double-digit brain cells would pay me for sex proves that she is indeed cuckoo.)  “Well, that’s one way to look at it, I guess,”  I then added, that we were living in a recession and one does what one’s gotta do for hearth and home. She told me that the police were going to be contacted about all of this and I mentioned that she would need something called proof or no one would take her claim seriously.  Just as I had planned my prostitution ring usurped her grass-blade height preoccupation and she spent the rest of the summer camped out in her kitchen watching my house from her picture window.  That mercifully meant she left all of us alone about our lawns.  The neighbors all wondered aloud what had happened to get Mrs. Perfect off her landscape reign of terror.  I sweetly smile and responded, “I don’t know, but it had to be something major, like hookers in the neighborhood.”  That got a big laugh.  “Yeah, right” my cute young neighbor down the street side, “Like that would ever happen.”

F.B.I. Wanna Be

I believe I share many qualities with Super Man. While I can not leap tall buildings in a single bound, nor am I faster than a locomotive. I do believe in truth, justice and the American Way.  Just last month I was able to demonstrate my love for justice by pretending to be a F.B.I. agent.  I, as a mild-mannered middle-aged wife and mother, entered my favorite convenience store one cold December evening to purchase a 32 ounce caffeine free Diet Coke from the soda fountain.  I’m a diet coke sommelier.  Some people have a nose for wine.  I, have a palate for diet coke.  I can tell the carbonation to sugar syrup ratio by taking a mere sip.   When I find a store that sells a premium mix of Diet Coke I become a very loyal customer.  My convenience store of choice is run by family who’s country of origin is not America.  Due to my daily visitations I’ve gotten to know this family well.  That evening while I was topping off my 32 ouncer a man walked in to buy a carton of cigarettes.  Upon finding out that they cost well over $30 for the carton he went all crazy pants.  He began by yelling at the cashier, then spewing hate speech based on her family tree.  I was super ticked off.  It’s one thing to get a little emotionally unhinged about the high price of killing yourself these days, but slow down there buddy if you think you’re going drop the F bomb, terrorist, and N word cocktail, on my watch, to a young woman, no less.  I walked over and told the dude in my best no-nonsense voice to “back off and exit the premises.”  He proceeded to tell me to F off.  Really, like someone hasn’t screamed in my face to F off before – amateur.  That’s when I had to go all F.B.I. on him.  I raised my voice and said, “Listen up, I’m F.B.I. and I’m going kick your ass if you don’t get out of this store.”  He laughed and said, “You don’t look F.B.I. bitch”  “Exactly, I said, I’m undercover, but I can call this in right now or you can leave.”  I had on a ski jacket that had an upper pocket where my cell phone was zipped in.  I reached in and started to slide out my phone.  The crazy pants thought I was taking out a gun.  He ran out of the store yelling don’t shoot, don’t shoot and jumped in his car and took off.  I was a little shaken, but couldn’t help laughing.  The young woman in the store said she was okay, but I stayed with her until her brothers came.  My reasoning was two-fold.  I didn’t want to leave the store in case crazy pants came right back or was out there watching the store.  I’m pretty sure when I walked out into the parking lot and got in my mom mobile with my dog hanging her head out the window he would figure out I was no F.B.I. agent.  The good news I got free Diet Cokes for a week.  The bad news the convenience store owners got a little confused and really thought I was a F.B.I. agent.  I tried to explain that I was pretending to be with the F.B.I., but I’m not so sure they get it.  They keep on calling me “Mrs. F.B.I.”  Truth be told I kind of like it.

Hmm, in retrospect maybe 2010 wasn’t so bad after all.

*Thanks for reading Snarky.  To stay up-to-date on new postings you can join Snarky on Facebook (That’s the abbreviated link to my FB page.) or I twitter @snarkynsuburbs.