Crafting a New Year…

New Year, New You? Why? Each year it’s variations on a them: Be a better, kinder person, accomplish more, create something amazing, be successful, make more money. Basically, be a superior you. Be a different you. Can’t I just run away to San Diego?

I’ll take my bitchy, snarky self, and only some of my furniture, to a bungalow on Coronado. Perhaps I’ll live on the same block as L. Frank Baum. Remember? The author of the most terrifying horror stories of all time–The Oz series? Yeah, his house is there. It’s where three books in the series were penned. As you walk up to the front steps, there’s the face of the Wicked Witch. Sickos. No, not that block. Walking at night would be a never do given the flying monkeys.

Perhaps move a little closer to Miguel’s, of Mexican fare fame. Who knows if it’s famous. I just know, you say Miguel’s, my heart skips a beat and the mind wanders to deep fried corn on the cob. Yep. Fried. As amazing as you imagine. What about the diet you gasp. It’s just an appetizer. Bite me. I had to walk here. I may have to run home to escape flying monkeys. Calories will take care of themselves.

When my spirits are low, the Cat Cafe will transcend me to a higher plane. One that includes endless coffee and perhaps a chocolate croissant. Purr me.

My hair does frizz a little with the increased humidity near the sea. I may have to put it in a pony and go full mermaid at The Del. Water babies rejoice. It’s the workout for which we’ve prayed. You do, in fact, put on a mermaid tail and sing a siren song making you feel like the girl in your head, not the woman whose face shocks you in the mirror. WTF? Drinks on the porch above the pool while I read the newspaper gazing at the sea–yep an actual paper or an InStyle or maybe just a trashy romance, legs stretched across the next chair.

“Can I share your paper?” He’s tall and handsome, in that off kilter way only funny men possess. He’s neither too buff nor too tummied, meaning he’ll forgive the topography the chickens left across my stomach. His blue eyes singe–good thing I’m wearing sunglasses, non?

“Please,” say I, dropping my legs from the chair.

“Don’t,” he says, brushing a fingertip across a gam. “I’ll sit here, across from you. Better to get to know you.”

Oh my. The heart flutters. I wonder if he likes Mexican food. Or snorkeling with leopard sharks–you know like you do when you live in San Diego and it’s August and you find yourself bored with life as a best selling author and TV writer and all your dreams have come true.

That, Dolls, is how you craft a New Year. Happy 2019 my Sweet Duchess Dolls.

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