the May-December flip side....

If you spend anywhere near as much time on celebrity gossip sites as I do most days, you've seen the sudden glut of stories about Sam Taylor-Wood and her man-child baby-daddy fiance, Aaron Johnson.

Yep, I thought, "who is this woman and why do we care?" initially, too. I took that a step further with, "AND if she's gonna get knocked up by a college kid, why'd she pick one that looks so wimpy?" but that's sort of beside the point and falls under that "we love who we love" umbrella that's tough to dispute. So, she's 43, she likes baby-faced boys with perma-smirks, good for her.

The "who is she?" bit reads a little like a description of any of our many Hollywood socialites (writer, director, "conceptual artist" (???????)), but apparently the fact the she lives in London and is good buds with Elton John lends a certain credibility to her otherwise ambiguous career. And Stella McCartney, she's friends with her, too.

And "who's he?" Well, he's a 19 year-old "up-and-coming-actor" according to all gossip site accounts. Meaning he'll probably spend a few years as a huge hit in the UK, then will show up in a period piece with Kiera Knightly OR we'll see him in an ensemble cast Woody Allen endeavor opposite ScarJo for his US debut. That, or he'll date a girl from The Hills if it doesn't work out with Mrs Robinson.

They met during the filming of a flick he's cast in and that she directed.

She's a two-time cancer survivor with a few daughters of her own (daughters who, presumable, like their new Step-Dad-to-Be because he's "hot" and more fun to keep around the house than some "fat bloke" according to this decently sensitive Harper's Bazaar article.

There are two camps on this generational age-gap flip-flop. One camp insists that if it were a 43 year-old MALE director knocking up his 19 year-old FEMALE star no one would bat an eye. The other camp just winces and says "ew, gross."
I'm going with "serious mid-life crisis."

The woman beat cancer.

The woman feels either a little invincible OR a little like she's looked the bucket in the mouth (wait, that's mixing idioms....had her foot poised just behind the bucket?) and the woman wants to make sure she's living life to the fullest in the meantime.

The woman believes she can do anything, including bag that kid her daughters would love to take to prom.

After the cancer treatment and the post-cancer divorce, the woman needs to feel like she "still has it" and the attention from a kid young enough to be her son is just what the oncologist ordered. Er, so to speak. She's testing the "revenge is the best medicine" waters.

HOWEVER: while it's been awhile since I've spent time with any 19 year-old boys, I have spent a little bit of time with 20-something boys and I can vouch for the fact that they're not going to be able to keep up with a 43 year-old woman anywhere outside of, oh, the bedroom, unless there's either a) something stupidly overdeveloped about his sense of domestic responsibility or b) he's looking for a mother figure and she's game to be both mother and grandmother all at once. While caring for a brand new baby.

It just seems biologically, developmentally, sociologically, psychologically and in all other "-lly" ways impossible that any BOY his age would be, in the long run, a compatible husband for a woman her age. Yep, they're getting married. Til death do them part. Baby and all. Maybe this kid is the golden exception to the rule that the gentlemen mature (socially) a more slowly than the ladies. Maybe he's dreamed of proposing to veritable Mom since he was in gradeschool (which was, by the way, an entire 7 years ago). But it just seems doomed.

I don't like doomed.

I'll stay tuned, see how they fare, but I fear even Elton John won't be able to save them from...well, themselves soon enough.

Aw, that's more like it!

John Mayer is back on the gossip sites. Heather can now resume breathing normally.

(Also: this site totally ripped off my Double Down comparison. They just did it with pretty graphics. Guess that makes me a "geekologist." Check it out. And I promise, that's almost the last I'll mention of the chickenwich....)

And back to more important things.

The Mayer.

And his Twitter obsession.

Or, in this case, his Twitter DISDAIN. Oh yes. He spends his nights awake, obsessing over whether or not the site is still a relevant way for him to inflict his self-obsorbed, racist, sexist genius on the rest of us brainless rabble. Oh, and while he's pondering that he still manages to find opportunities to insult Jennifer Aniston. Hmmm - in that regard, he and I have something in common: we both think Jen's sort of vacantly stuck in the past.

Wait.

Back that up.

John Mayer and I have something in common?

Damn. Lo, the apocolypse is nigh. Really nigh. Like, particularly, especially, frighteningly, VERY nigh. And how fun is that word? Underused word of the century: nigh. Used primarily in Christmas Carols and when harkening the arrival of the end of the world as we know it. Times like this, when I realize that both The Mayer and I think Jen is sort of a fading archetype with a shaky grasp of the technology that makes her so overexposed and boring.

But this isn't about Jen. It's about The Mayer.

A "normal person" (meaning, any of us who don't answer to the name John Mayer, for simplicity's sake) would just cancel their account. That's too direct, too low-budget for everyone's favorite musical moron. He makes announcements about THINKING of cancelling his account. Because it's "over." It's "so last month." His time would be better spent making a sandwich.

Yes, actually, that's true. Make that sandwich, EAT that sandwich, when your mouth is full, Mayer, you're less likely to be SPEAKING. And when you don't speak, spring flowers bloom, birds sing in the trees, the clouds part, the rain stops, rainbows appear in the sky......

....uh, yeah.

Shut your mouth, Mayer.

And because we all care, here's the article from ContactMusic where he calls Jen old school and calls Twitter out-dated

John Mayer has revealed he is planning to cancel his account on micro-blogging website twitter because he thinks it is ''over'' as a means of communication.

John Mayer thinks twitter is "over."
The 'Gravity' singer - one of the most high-profile users of the social networking website - admits he is growing tired of micro-blogging and is preparing to cancel his account on the site, unless its owners change its purpose.

He said: "Within in the last couple weeks, every night I think about cancelling my twitter account because I think it's pretty much done.

"I just think twitter as a form of communication, I think it's over to be honest with you.

"I would rather see twitter be a cork board of links to other more important things, because it's really sort of flawed from the beginning. I can't tell you how many times I meet people or I'm having dinner with people who write stuff and they get upset they have haters now, like, `Why do I want to invent more reasons to have haters?'"
The musician - who has previously dated stars including Jennifer Aniston and Jessica Simpson - has come to realise that he could utilise his time better than spending his free moments on the internet.

He added: "I might as well spend that time making a sandwich or building a model ship or something.

"My challenge going forward is to basically disregard the need, the obsessive need for external validation."

It has previously been claimed that the 32-year-old singer's relationship with Jennifer ended because of his obsession with twitter.

A source explained at the time: "John suddenly stopped calling her or returning her emails and when she would finally catch up with him, he'd say, 'I've been so busy with work. I'm sorry I haven't had time to email you back.'

"Jennifer was fuming when she looked at the activity on his page. There he was, telling her he didn't have time for her and yet his page was filled with twitter updates!

"Every few hours, sometimes minutes, he'd update with some stupid line. And in her mind, she was like, 'He has time for all this twittering, but he can't send me a text, an email, make a call?' "

P.S - have we clued into the fact that there's a certain love-hate relationship I have going on with DoubleDouche that's, ironically, more love than hate? He's a fascinating character study into those with no filter. Those who actually say whatever they're thinking with no regard for how it makes them look. Repeatedly. Incessantly. Even when it's in their best interest to keep their mouth shut.

Fascinating. In a completely obnoxious, perilously difficult-to-ignore sort of way.

I'd hate myself for dedicating this much white space to such a moron, but hey - he's entertainment.

My love for this thing continues to grow.

How's this for a beautiful marriage of several things that I love:

NPR's "Wait wait....Don't Blog Me" wit alongside KFC's DOUBLE DOWN alongside angry reader comments. It's like a marriage made in satirical heaven!

I sort of can't get enough of the press surrounding the big, bad chicken-instead-of-bread mess of marketing genius. Obviously. Apparently none of us can. It's the "Snakes on a Plane" of fast food. And while I've yet personally to stumble across someone that's actually eaten one of them, I did love the fact that the "Wait Wait...Don't Tell Me" crew all ate one, then blogged about it. Check it out here.

BUT - of course - what I loved even more were the reader comments.

I suppose I just don't understand "comment psychology" because people continue to confound me when they take to the comment sections of articles and blogs to champion their moral causes with such righteous vehemence. Case in point: after the NPR daredevils documented their adventures in chicken, bacon, and cheese, this comment appeared on the blog:

"I'm dismayed that any of you would eat KFC anything. Haven't you seen the film showing how those chickens are mistreated? KFC workers at the chicken-raising facilities aren't kind people, and in one incident workers were caught, by an infiltrator with a hidden camera, stomping live chickens to death. Shame on all of you!"

Aw. She actually expects public radio journalists to have the same chicken sympathies as she (yes, it was a she. Obviously it was a she).

Ahem.

Just for the sake of calorie comparison (all moral judgements about the treatment of chickens, pigs, cheese, or whatever else sacrified itself for the glory of the drive-thru nothwithstanding), I'll politely remind all of us with our mouths agape over the depths of cardiovascular depravity to which we've sunk that the good ol' Wendy's Baconator Triple packs nearly three times the, um..."energy" as the Bacon Cheese Chickenwich. 1350 calories to the Double Down's 540. Also: it has twice the sodium and three times the fat.

Actually, that got me thinking about other fast food items more dramatically villainous than Chicken-Bacon-Cheese.

Here are the stats on some of modern food technology's more indignant offenders:

Wendy's Baconator Triple:
Calories: 1350
Fat: 90
Sodium: 2780

Burger King's Triple Whopper:
Calories: 1160
Fat: 76
Sodium: 1170

Carl's Jr's Guacamole Bacon Six Dollar Burger
Calories: 1040
Fat: 70
Sodium: 2240

Taco Bell's Volcano Natchos:
Calories: 1000
Fat: 62
Sodium: 1930

Jack-in-the-Box's Bacon Ultimate Cheeseburger:
Calories: 937
Fat: 65
Sodium: 1837

McDonald's Angus Bacon and Cheese
Calories: 790
Fat: 39
Sodium: 2070

In-N-Out's Double Double
Calories: 670
Fat: 71
Sodium: 1440

KFC's Double Down:
Calories: 540
Fat: 32
Sodium: 1380

So, really: not that any of us should make a regular habit out of anything that can be ordered-by-speaker or otherwise referred to by number, BUT - here's my response to the commenter that said:

"I was surprised by my reaction to the Double Down. I found myself very much enjoying this fried chicken/bacon delight while also feeling sad for my poor my arteries. I think I’ve found my new super-secret-fast-food-guilty-pleasure. Should we just start calling it a staple of the "fat-kin" diet?"

Hey, very much enjoy away. You could do much worse.

I like the spirit of the guy that said:

"Bet this is great w/ waffles & maple syrup or a couple fried eggs!"

Here here, sir.

Loosen up a little, America. It only LOOKS weird. Unleash a little hate on those Baconator creations: they're the REAL heart-attack-in-a-bag.

Mmmmm. Which makes me want one. Like, STAT.

Stay tuned for my next foray into pop culture cardiology, a series I'm going to call "Lost Weight." As in - "is it just me, or is this final season of "Lost" several spare tires, love handles, man boobs and beer guts heavier than the previous 5?" Wait for it. I've got picture proof.

Monday's lunch menu: a little KFC with a side of My Own Words.

Since it's ADD Monday, here are a handful of unrelated snippets:

KFC strikes junk food gold. Today, bacon lovers and fried chicken lovers alike can gather at the Colonel's table for the debut of The Double Down, a double-chicken, breadless "sandwich" mostrosity of unabashed deliciousness certain to be fast food's Villain du Jour. Or du Mois? Of the month? I don't know French. I do know there's something about the marketing of this product that has the cholesterol-averse up in arms. I think it's the brazen Absence of Bun. Two slabs of fried chicken plus some bacon between two fluffy little white buns wouldn't seem like such an offense to good nutrition. But there's something about the way the promo photos show this thing looking rather like a set of giant lips made of chicken wagging it's little tongue of bacon at us that seems unapologetically FRIED. Which I love, actually. I mean, if we were to take the Wendy's Triple Baconator and plop it down on a plate without a bun, people would probably take notice of the fact that they're eating THREE BEEF PATTIES plus BACON plus LOTS OF CHEESE. Much more horrifying, actually. About three times the bacon of the Double Down. The difference, I suppose: Wendy's quietly took the Baconator and beefed it up to unecessary proportions. KFC is proudly parading it's rather simple premise of "fried chicken instead of bread" in front of all of us as a sort of Drive-Thru-Dare. Frankly: I think I'll have to give this puppy a try. I'll report back post-food-coma.

Speaking of eating: I'm nibbling on my own words today. A few months ago I went on this self-righteous tirade against the idiots that allowed Kim Kardashian to slap her name on a fragrance line. I was embarassed for anyone that would stoop to buy this. I hated the idea that a "famous for nothing" socialite had enough pop culture pull that it seemed like a good idea to create something that smelled like her. Welllllll - let's just put my good little consumer tail between my legs for the day, because I, um.....I - uh....I sort of....um.....

bought her perfurme.

Because it smells really, really, really good. And apparently I am without any real principals, I'm a spineless, impulse-control-averse hack that will, absolutely, abandon all self-righteous resolve and go "ooh, that smells amazing - I would like to smell like that. I would like my clothes to smell like that. I would like to waft past people in public places and leave that general scent in my wake. I need that cute little purple roller ball for my purse so that I can take that yummy smell with me everywhere. Yes, I will spend $16 on that Kim Kardashian product. Because I am a Good Little Consumer."  There you have it. I'll sit in my car at lunch smelling like Kim Kardashian while munching on my Double Down feeling like I'm precisely who marketing departments depend on - a yuppy with a little disposable income and a boundless desire to smell good and eat bacon.

And, I don't have a good transition for this one, but on the heels of my little "I don't like Jennifer Aniston" remarks, I found this article today that pretty much says, "her overexposure has ruined her career, she's not interesting to us and we can't escape her." Sort of mirrors my sentiments precisely. It also clumped Jennifer Lopez in the same camp and said the fact that they've dated such high-profile men doesn't help. And it blamed the internet, basically, for making information about them so readily available. Which got me thinking: the fact that the webernet gives us instant access to the comings and goings of famous people (which feeds the paparazzi fame-hound machine and makes it very difficult for stars to hide from us OR us from them) means that I really have to give Heidi Montag credit for creating a pretty unique niche forself (a Heidi-shaped cog in the celebrity wheel, if you will) that's actually made the most of the inescapable marriage of flashbulb and gossip site. I mean - is there anyone else that could fill Heidi's, um...Louboutins and inspire as many snickers and as much incredulity as lil Ms Montag? Case in point: here's Barbie herself at some sort of Las Vegas opening for something. Who cares what. We're not supposed to. We're supposed to look at these pictures of her looking sort of stiff and wooden and startled and have SOME sort of reaction. Whether it's disdain, incomprehension, goofy amusement, whatever. And it works. She may be a laughing stock of sorts, but she's certainly made the gossip hounds work for her. And I can't figure out why I don't hate this chick, but I just don't. I find her brainlessness and her host of insecurities endearing. Spooky, huh?

Confession:

I have a handful of secret celebrity crushes that I should be completely embarrassed to admit.

BUT, since it's Friday and there's nothing irritating happening with either Jennifer Aniston or John Mayer for me to whine about I may as well fill up some space with what I shall call my "Ew, you actually think HE'S sexy?!?!?!" list. Don't judge. You totally had a moment 10 years ago when you thought Kevin Spacey was cute, too. Kevin Spacey: not on the list, by the way. Also not on the list: any actor in any way associated with the Twilight franchise. Although I do find all of those guys uncomfortable-looking. But not in a hot way.

Anyway.

I've got my "above ground" celebrity infatuations. The Christopher Meloni. The Bradley Cooper. The Jason Statham. The Sam Worthington. The Aaron Eckhart. The Peter Sarsgaard. Just about any bald action star. Billy Zane once he became bald.

But then there are the OTHERS.

The ones I watch on screen and secretly think, "Yeah, I'd totally be his arm candy," then catch myself and think, "Whoa, did you really just think some, um, impure thoughts about THAT GUY?"

But enough pre-amble. Here's my Super Secret List, in no fancy order:.

Stanley Tucci
So, I like the look of gentleman with hair in all the wrong places. Nothing on top, rug on chest. Apparently. Because in Julie and Julia when he was canoodling The Meryl, he sure looked great. And it's not just the "looks great" part, although this list wouldn't be embarrassing and previously super-secret if I were compiling it based on the virtues of these guys' character or the quality of their artistic pursuits. If it were just "odd-looking men I respect" list, I wouldn't be so surreptitious about revealing them publicly. This is all about "why on earth do I find this guy hot?" Anyway: Stanley Tucci. He's charming. Adorable. Even with a mustache. Here: you can read about his latest theater directorial efforts.

Jeff Bridges

I know, he's historically been a sort of hunky guy - but not for ladies of my generation. He's "The Dude" to most of us. Aha - here's the shocker: The Dude: totally hot. I dunno, I guess the dorky way he pinned his hair back for bowling got me. That little clamp/clip thing that he was startlingly efficient with - cute. He does "unkempt" really well. Mangy beard, awful hair, little bit of a spare tire - but it works. Furthermore: the way he looked back in his more traditional "heartthrob days?" Less hot. A little more forgettable. Once he got the more seasoned lines on his face, he became more interesting. Oh - and in Iron Man? BALD. Yep. That was probably what initially caught my interest. Bald & Bearded. The fact that his hot mess Crazy Heart character was so accidentally charming didn't hurt, either. Here's a little snippet of him from the annual USA Today Oscar Nominee Roundtable.

Ricky Gervais
Let's call this the "rock star" effect. That phenomenon where someone is talented and therefore considered sexy by virtue of artistic savvy...someone who wouldn't necessarily turn your head if they worked in the cubicle next to you, but put them on stage and give them fans and -- bam -- they're sexy. I think that's basically what's going on with Ricky Gervais. He's smart. Endearing. Witty. And, frankly, in these pictures (which may or may not have had something to do with his entire tirade against the homogenization of Hollywood and it's expectations of physical perfection) I think he's looking particularly good. I like the scruffy face. The little bags under his eyes. He's got a great grin, and I, personally, rather like his strange teeth. I have strange teeth myself.

Steve Carell
We're supposed to think this guy is funny, I don't know that we're necessarily supposed to think he's foxy. Hmm. Well, then he shouldn't have made Dan in Real Life where he showed Dane Cook how it's really done. On a feature-by-feature basis he's particularly average. Wonky nose. Unusual ear-to-head ratio. Outdated hair. Droopy eyes. But put it all together and he's strangely compelling to look at. Cute. And have we noticed he's even got a decent chest and a nice set of shoulders? This newsweek editorial made the interesting comment that "Date Night" could have starred the ol' Jennifer Aniston/Gerard Butler duo and everyone would have hated it. But pair Steve with Tina and it's a hit before it's even in theatres - therefore: the guy deserves more respect in Hollywood. Follow Heather's lead: appreciate the Carell magnetism. Dorky can be sexy, too.

So there. I know there are more - drew a little bit of a blank although I was trying to come up with a nice even half dozen....ones that almost made the list: David Eigenberg, Eddie Izzard, Alan Rickman, Terry O'Quinn, John Slattery. But I figured they weren't actually embarrassing enough. Well, Alan Rickman....yeah, I probably shouldn't admit that one too often.....

I simply do not like this woman.

I'm sorry - I know she's like one of those "most beloved" entertainment figures to most all women between the ages of 20 and 54, but really - she's just irritating as all get out.

And I can't escape her.

I'm tired of seeing her caramel highlights all over every magazine and gossip site from here to Malawi.  That stupid Bounty Hunter movie tanked anyway (I think, in fact, it was the only movie preview I've ever been completely bored watching - I mean, even in previews Nights in Rodanthe looked almost interesting - aren't previews supposed to be edited to show you the BEST PARTS of the movie? If they couldn't even come up with 2 minutes of clips that weren't uncomfortable, WHY would I want to go see that flick? Oh - because JEN'S in it. Riiiiight) so let's just move on already.

I'm tired of the worn out Gerard Butler schtick.

I'm tired of her boring dresses and her boring pencil skirts and her weak attempts to spice up her wardrobe by adding PINK. Ooh. Ahh. Jen's in pink.

I'm tired of reading about what she's THINKING about naming her forthcoming "fragrance line." Let's call it "Desperation: by Jennifer Aniston." Mmmmm. I'm thinking top notes of freesia, mandarin and the angst of a woman approaching the end of her child bearing years.

I'm tired of the fact that every single character she plays in every single one of her lame movies is essentially the same. She doesn't act - she gets costumed up to play herself.

Let's face it: she was a trendy ditz with a trendy hair cut on a trendy sitcom fifteen years ago. She's done nothing since then to merit the constant barrage of photos we're slammed with daily. She's made no good movies. She's made plenty of bad movies ("The Break Up," anyone????? Ooh, or how about "Picture Perfect," or "Rumor Has It" or "Love Happens?" Did we see those? Did we want to stab ourselves in the ear with forks the entire time?). She's done NOTHING to secure this "most beloved woman scorned" spot in all of our ever-celebrity-gossip-loving hearts.

Case in point: a stupid article making the rounds suggesting that Jen & Brad (who, by the way, lacked ANY sort of chemistry when they were together, nevermind now that they're apart) were "caught kissing."

And we're supposed to, what, stop everything and pray to the great Chateau Marmont Gods that it's true?

I don't understand.

In other news, it seems Lindsay Lohan made it home without falling down last night. And Misha Barton made an appearance at a party wearing clunky white strappy heels that should probably never have seen the light of day, let alone been paired with a discotastic gold mini dress a good few inches too short.

I feel like I should sort of take dibs on which of those hot mess has-beens will die in a dramatic car accident first. Lindsay seems the obvious guess, but given the rumours about Misha's financial woes and her "tell me she's kidding" outfits (there are no words for this one, no words) I'm left wondering if she isn't just as far gone as Lindsay.....

Either way - I'd rather be inundated with brain-pickling updates on who fell down and who may have coughed their vodka back up into the bushes last night than endure another analysis of Jen's movie premier fashion choices. She's bland. Like wandering into an ice cream shoppe where you've got 364 flavors of vanilla to chose from and they only serve single scoops on wafer cones. Lots of boring.

Not-Quite-Resolutions, one quarter later...

So, back toward the end of the year I came up with a list of "non-resolutions." Because it's frankly too daunting to try to commit to any sort of life-changing undertaking with any real gusto, and easier to toss up a list of completely lame things I figure would be cool to do more often.
So here I am, a quarter of the way through the year.....figured it was a good time to check in with my "hey, I never called it a resolution so it doesn't matter if I totally fail" list:

- Eat more steak

• Welllllll, I'm one steak into "eat more steak." So far on par with last year's single-steak habit. But with 9 more months in the year, if I eat just one more, I'll have met the "more" quota. I'm not going to count those steak fajitas. If it arrived at the table pre-chopped, it doesn't count. Serrated knife required.

- Do a cartwheel or two

• Do headstands count? Because I've done more than one headstand this year, blowing my record for every year since I was, oh -- ten -- completely out of the water. But I realize on "resolution" terms that's sort of like saying "I'll lose 10 pounds" then coming back at the end of the year twenty pounds heavier, but using the "hey, I quit smoking!" excuse. Still a fail on the 10 pounds. And no cartwheels to show for it.

- Spend less money at Target. Really - those lunchtime errands for "essentials" that ALWAYS end up with shopping bags full of scarves, hair care, shoes and lovely-smelling candles aren't helping the credit card balances. You know those "cheap" jeans won't fit properly anyway, so just walk away. And those earrings look suspiciously like 23 other pairs you've got taking up space in the jewelry box.

• Ummmm.....I have no idea. I think this one was destined for failure outta the gate. I've bought plenty of crap this year, plenty of it has come from Target.

- Diversify the music library - how 'bout one new artist per week.

• YES! Win! It had to do with that "I'm totally gonna go to Coachella!" phase - I wanted to make sure I'd at listened to at least 50% of the lineup - I was stupidly dedicated to this one. I've ended up with 20 or so 'new favorite bands.' Lucero particularly won me over. I love that guy's grating, annoying, nasal voice. It's sort of unrivaled in it's irritatingness and I can't get enough.

- More karaoke. This should probably be a national resolution. As Americans, we don't do nearly enough karaoke. Aim small - how about Quarterly Karaoke?

• First quarter karaoke taken care of. "Summer of 69" was an excellent choice. Just ask my fan. That guy that hung out right by the stage and snapped pictures of me with his phone. I'd never seen him before in my life. And he liked my Bryan Adams rendition very well.  

- Shave the legs more often. Not just that quick "eek, my ankles are showing when I cross my legs, better de-fuzz 'em" trick. The real deal. Maybe even some nice yummy-smelling lotion afterward (wow, livin on the edge...heh. this is probably the one on the list I WON'T keep...).

• Proud to say I've kept the fur under control. I'm amazed. It's much easier the more often you do this.....see, I do still have the power to surprise myself.

- Find an IPA that I can get excited about.

• Not so far. The year is young yet.

- Start Pudding Mondays. After discovering how delightfully simple pudding is to make, I think I should make and eat pudding weekly. Weekly pudding from here on out.

• We definitely started the pudding Mondays. Except we did them on Wednesdays. And then we stopped. So, let's get back to the pudding madness. It was a huge Facebook hit. And we've got grand plans to take pudding to the streets. *Shhhhhh!*

- Purge the undies drawer of the old ugly stuff. The panties (lame word, "panties") from college (the cutesy little printed cotton numbers) that haven't been touched in 8 years - just throw 'em away. No use being sentimental about old underwear. Along those lines: GENIUS of Victoria's Secret to go with "One Size Fits All" with those "Lacie" numbers. They really do fit all. Must buy more of those.

• Purged! If it's old, if it came from Costco in a multi-pack, if it has pastel flowers on it and if there was any chance it would cause a panty line, it's completely GONE. In the garbage. All that's left are beautiful, pretty little panties in delightful colors made out of delightful material that make me feel delightfully panty-line free. That still leaves me with something like 72 pairs, so they still require an entire drawer to themselves....BUT, I love each and every one of them. And it means I can get away with doing laundry as seldom as possible.

- Learn the words to that Blues Traveler song "Hook." That one that references Rin Tin Tin and Anne Boleyn. The words in that part of the tune cruise past faster than my brain can really register. See - lofty, life-changing goals.

• Fail. I went through a phase with that song. Phase over. Don't care if I know the words or not. BUT, it is stuck in my head right now. And if I come up with some sort of renewed lyric-learning vigor, I've got the rest of the year to get them straight.

- Run off to Hollywood; marry Benjamin McKenzie. Wait - oh. Hmm.

• I'll give you 3 guesses. One: No, Heather did not run off to Hollywood and marry Ben McKenzie. Two: Yes, she did - where have you been, we've been all over JustJared for the past 3 months, you've totally been neglecting your celebrity gossip. And three: He's madly in love with me, has begged me to make him the happiest man on the planet by doing him the honor of paparazzi-dodging with him for the rest of our long and healthy lives and I've demurely dodged the question and run off to stalk Sam Worthington. You decide.

- Throw more things away. Not in that "Heather, you mean RECYCLE" sort of sense. I mean more trips out to the ol' dumpster. I let it accumulate. Why bother - take it out BEFORE the trash is full and heavy.

• This was too boring to even waste follow-up words on.

- Reduce the amount of crap I haul around in my purse. Downsize the purse. Fewer tubes of "just in case" mascara. Because - Heather, Heather, Heather - when was the last time a mascara emergency REALLY presented itself? Er, but I know the moment I no longer carry a spare with me I'll have one of those once-in-a-lifetime moments where a truck drives by while I'm rolling up my window leaving a fast food drive through and sloshes through an enourmous puddle and splashes a faceful of water into my open window, ruining my hair and causing my mascara to run in rivers down the cheeks. And I'll think "If only I had a spare mascara with me."

• Purse crap is still at critical mass.

- I'm ripping off AJ on this one, but it WOULD be really, really cool to have one of those "Ocean's 13" style conversations where you fill in the blanks in each other's sentences. "Relationships can be..." "Sure." "But they're also..." "That's right." And that odd Facebook exchange from New Year's eve doesn't count. That was last year.

• Negative, captain. Most of my conversations have been completely coherent. And that unfortunate evening back in January where I thought it would be a good idea to chase margaritas with champagne, followed by Jager followed by beer which resulted in a re-inspection of my lunctime Thai curry all over the parking lot AND some particularly incoherent conversations that might have involved references to "Last of the Mohicans?" Well that doesn't count. And that continues to be an embarassing night to remember.

- Eat more. Yes, that's right. Eat more. I'm an emotional non-eater. When "life" picks up and things get emotional (good OR bad) my appetite tanks. I live on handfuls of sour patch kids and the occassional cup of coffee. Horrible way to take care of myself. I'm smarter than that.

• Um, yes, eating more. And wearing it on my hips. Cue expression of consternation. On the flip side, I suppose some of that has distributed itself up top, too. So my cleavage looks a little better.

- Trim the split ends.

• Not so far. Plan is to grow my hair out to my waist. Which means it would make sense to keep the ends healthy. Just can't be bothered to deal with it. Just like I can't be bothered to deal with styling it more than about once a week. A ponytail hides all number of hair sins.

-Take a yoga class. See - that's simple, easy - one yoga class and I'll have fulfilled the resolution. This feels like Resolving for Cheaters, 101. Yes, but I'll be more successful than those people that resolve to lose 25 pounds or learn a foreign language. I'll see your GOOD resolution and raise you 23 stupid, easy ones. I'll feel better about myself for accomplishing more of them.

• Um, nope. But it's only April. Which I keep typing as "Aptril." With a T. Weird. Like, 4 times in a row I've added a T.

- Read a biography. Don't think I've read one since that Mary Lou Retton bit back in grade school (and then only because we had the same hair cut). Would do me good to learn more about the life of, oh, Wayne Gretzky. For instance.

• I have no real desire to read a biography. That was fluff filler for my list. Although Wayne Gretzky would be a cool guy to be bizarrely well-versed about.

- Have a Really. Good. Kiss. There's no way to describe this without succumbing to horrible cliches, but would love to have that sort of kiss that absolutely gives you butterflies in your stomach and shivers on your skin and leaves you grinning for the rest of the day and fundamentally restores your faith in the power of mouth-to-mouth. My Kissing Faith has been somewhat shaken of late. I firmly believe The Kiss is one of those biological imperatives that all of us should fall out of the womb understanding how to do. Sadly: not the case...and this simply should NOT be such a difficult thing for so many people to master. Gold star if said Really. Good. Kiss. also happens to incorporate the subtle use of some teeth (and if I said that Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade actually had some impact on Young Heather's idea about what fun teeth could be when kissing, you wouldn't believe me (particularly because it was sort of ruthlessly administered in the movie)....but it's true. Thanks, Elsa Schneider).

• A lady doesn't kiss and tell. But if I was so inclined: consider my faith fundamentally restored.

- Laugh more.

• Done! Living with my sister has been good for this. She makes me giggle.

- Close my parenthesis more often.

• Nope! Most of the daily emails to my mom include at least one open-ended parenthetical aside. Sigh. This one would actually be "real resolution" worthy. Maybe next year. Maybe this summer. Maybe by the time the leaves fall from the trees I'll close my parenthesis more regularly. Maybe.

- Use fewer parentheses (er, although if that makes the alternative footnotes or asterisks, I absolve myself of all responsibility for that resolution). See how I didn't get even remotely parenthetical there...?

• (Ha).

- Censor myself less. This seems big and bold and life-changing (and contrary to the asinine spirit of my resolutions) HOWEVER, this is simple as saying "You look gorgeous today" rather than just thinking it. Or, "You're cool. Just wanted you to know." or "You definitely lost 5 pounds" or "Has anyone told you today that you're an ABSOLUTE FLIPPING MORON and I'm sorry I answered this particular phone call? No? Ah....first one today, hmm? You're an idiot." That sort of thing.

• This has been difficult. But being cognizant of the desire to censor myself less has led to more than a few candid admissions that I might not have made before. It's strange to think I've never in my life had one of those "D'oh! I should THINK before I SPEAK" moments. It's the other way around for me. I spend time thinking "I should SPEAK before I THINK" more often than not - so allowing myself the space to blurt things out a little more often is a fun exercise in honesty.

- Less abuse of Snooze Button. If I'm not going to get up until 6, don't set the alarm for 5 and put yourself through the same 2 bars of Garth Brooks' "You Move Me" every 10 minutes for an hour. Just don't.

• Wow, this has gotten much worse. It's been a strange few months for my sleep cycles. Harder to get out of bed. At least an hour of snooze-abuse every morning. Rotating song selection (Shaggy's "Boombastic" really is a pretty great way to wake up in the morning). Also great: coordinating 6 different alarms to go off within 5 minutes of each other on a morning we really needed to get up on time. That was a ridiculously good time.

- Take more photos.

• Guess I need to get a camera to make this happen. So, not really. But I've probably pressured sister into taking more pictures. That doesn't quite count, I guess.

- Watch "Casablanca."

• Nope. Crossing this one off the list. I don't care if I watch it this year. Can I replace that with Watch "The Big Lebowski?" Because I've watched that one. And "Being John Malkovich." I've watched that one, too.

- Try watching "Intolerable Cruelty" again. Is it still as un-funny as it was the first time?

• Couldn't tell ya. Haven't tried. And probably won't for a little while longer, since I think I'm still coming down from the movie OD I put myself through ahead of the Oscars. Have I mentioned how much I loved "Crazy Heart?"

- Track down my own copy of Power Rangers: The Movie. I remember that being great fun. And that cute Green Ranger would probably look like a silly child if I watched it today, but - for old time's sake - I should probably own that movie.

• Totally still need to do this. And find a copy of the soundtrack. Great tunes on that soundtrack. And actually, while I'm at it, I should break out my copy of Battletoads for NES and a box of dry Cap'n Crunch and re-eneact all of those afternoons in middle school where we'd all come home and play the Power Rangers soundtrack while trying to beat the Snow Level in Battletoads while scarfing down cereal. Those were the days.

So there we have it. I think I'll revisit this again in another 3 months or so - I have a decent handful of these that I've completely ignored. And the point was actually to accomplish most of these so that I could lord my sense of superiority over everyone else all year long. Smugly.

Tough as nails.

Let's start a few months ago, November 21st.

That's the middle of the story, maybe - months after the depression had set in, months after I'd gone into hiding and dropped out of touch with most friends, months after I'd started escaping from the house several times a day and running out onto the lawn in panicked tears - unsure why I was crying, but certain something was definitely, desperately wrong - months after I'd finally allowed myself to admit to my family that maybe something needed to change, maybe I didn't have to keep living under a heavy black cloud.

So this November 21st was the day I made my decision.

It was a Saturday.

I had the day to myself.

He was off partying somewhere with another set of not-particularly-employed friends, off spending my miserably-earned money on the cheapest beer the cheapest bar had to offer, no doubt regaling those not-particularly-employed friends with more eye-rolling than stomach-turning tales of his mildly deviant bedroom hangups (and he wondered why I wasn't enthusiastic about hopping in the sack with him lately...?). I was driving around aimlessly enjoying a few hours of freedom, thankful I didn't have anyone waiting for me back home. I cling to these moments as my last grasp on some semblance of sanity these days - cling to moments alone where I can feel human again - less emotional, more in control.

I've always championed the human emotional experience, encouraged so many to "feel exactly what they're feeling, when they're feeling it." Now I find myself grateful for an opportunity to dodge any sort of emotions at all....I'm drained.

Tired.

Sick of being angry, or resentful, or sad - or disgusted, even.

There's a lot of disgust I'm feeling these days.

Disgust over the fact that the two of us don't even have real conversations anymore. Actually, maybe we never had real conversations in the first place, it just BOTHERS me more now - bothers me that the only way he can interact with me is to badger me to get naked, bothers me that I'm just a means to his getting-off end, bothers me that he resents me for not wanting him when he doesn't do a damn thing to deserve being wanted. He's a leech - an emotional, financial, physical leech to me these days.

As I'm aimlessly driving a new song on a new CD gives me a jolt - "here comes a release again....for some that's not to play pretend....this doesn't have to be love's end....there's more than you'll ever know."

All of a sudden I could walk away from all of this....

I could walk away from this, stop pretending to be in love, stop pretending I'm not broken and hurting, stop pretending I'm not ashamed of the life I'm living....shake this entire mess off my back and know that YES, I can fall in love again - in a real way; an authentic, honest way - in a way that doesn't require me to force myself to be someone else, play a part, or apologize for the way he is when I'm with my family....I never want to run out of a restaurant in tears because I'm mortified by how childish he's being - mortified that anyone would ever disrespect my family so openly, so unapologetically - I can have a REAL relationship again, someday. A relationship where I don't fall asleep and wake up next to sour whiskey breath (though, these days, there's no falling asleep or waking up together anyway - he stumbles home at 4am and falls asleep on the couch. I get up an hour later, go to work, come home and he's off with some friends)....a relationship where I'm a real, valuable person, not just a warm body in a lonely bed. A relationship where we're partners, soul mates, best friends, passionate, unable to keep our hands off of each other.....precisely what I'd written off for myself inside the ever-shrinking walls of a desperately unhappy household....

And now here's this happy, upbeat, peppy little song suggesting there's freedom in letting go. Letting go is not the end.

To frost the moment with a mild cliche, the hand of God was suddenly in my car's stereo.

The less cliche realization at that instant: God actually had hands.

And those hands actually wanted to be in my car with me.

More than that, those hands wanted to pluck me out of that car seat and set me gently down into a new, more free, more beautiful, more joyful place.

My part: just unbuckle.

I'll call it auto-pilot, the way I drove across town and ended up in the parking lot of a place I hadn't visited in a decade - a place I'd spent years derriding, avoiding, associating with everything I'd come to resent about "the Church these days." Schmucks in suits who spoke a language I didn't understand, a generation of brainless sheep following whatever the Schmucks told them - a mindless army of hypocrites that prayed the big prayers up on the stage, said well-constructed (if somehow meaningless) prayers over groups of eager students just like I'd been, then behaved just like everyone else the second they wandered outside those four walls.

All of a sudden here I was, at the end of the parking lot of that church I hadn't visited in years simply because I knew there were crosses there - beautiful wooden crosses at the end of the parking lot - and I needed to be at the foot of those crosses.

I can't explain how or why I knew I needed to be there - why this church, after all of these years? Why did I physically need the cross?

I unbuckled.

Walked to the foot of those crosses in the dark on a chilly Saturday night.

Got on my knees.

I don't know that I'd ever been on my knees before God - if I had, it had certainly been years ago - 15 years, maybe? Probably at some church camp when "everyone was doing it and so did Heather." Never out of any deep reverence to Whom I knelt before.

It was a really simple conversation, the conversation I had with God that day.

The first conversation I ever really had with God.

The first time I really, truly, utterly believed down to the core of my basically crippled little soul that I was speaking to a real God - a God that loved me - ME! - desperately and had been anxiously waiting for me to show up in that parking lot, on that night, in that November, for just this very moment - waiting for this very moment to show me the full extent of His powerful, merciful love for me.

"Welcome home, sweet girl."

And at that moment I knew I had what it would take to make the most difficult decision in my life. And I spoke back to Him.

"I know that You mean for me to have more than this - to be more than this - to live an amazing, beautiful, vibrant life - that I'm not meant to be trapped inside of this marriage or trapped under the weight of this shame, this disgust, this disappointment and anger and bitterness. I know I'm not strong enough to do it on my own - not tough enough. But I know the two of us together, we're tough enough...and I know the man that hung on that cross had me...even ME...in mind when died....together, we're strong enough to do this. To have this conversation I'm not able to have on my own...through no power of my own I'm tough as the nails that hung You on the cross...tough because of the nails...tough thanks to the nails......and I never really understood that until now......."

And He says to me,

"You're powerful. You're strong. You're beautiful. I made you in My image. And I see you. You think you're in this alone but I see you - and I love you and I ache for you and I hurt with you and I'm here. I've been here. I've been here all along, waiting for you - waiting just for you. And you can do amazing things - things you can't even wrap your mind around right now. You'll see."

And so I made a promise.

I promised I'd come back to this spot one year later and I'd celebrate my anniversary - the anniversary of the day I had my first real conversation with God - I'd come back one year later and I'd be stronger, and more alive, and more free, and more joyful - and this day would be a beautiful day - a day to celebrate everything I'd been missing for my entire life up until this moment, this moment on my knees, this moment spent crying for the amazement of how I'd been scared and terrified and lonely and depressed and then been - in a single instant -transformed into excited and blessed....and tough as nails.

I wasn't in this alone. I wasn't weak, I wasn't afraid, I wasn't discouraged.....

Was the conversation that had to come next easy? No.

To say that it was easy to admit that we were broken and beyond repair would obviously be a lie. To say that it was easy to admit that I deserved better - that I deserved to grow old with a man that wanted to be the father of our babies - would obviously be a lie. To say the next few days and weeks after he moved out weren't difficult and painful as well would obviously be a lie.

But the strange, beautiful truth is that I was supported by the strength of a faithful God that saw me – all of me – in a time I most desperately needed saving and swept in to carry me through that tornado. When I needed strength, He was my strength. When I needed reassurance, He was my reassurance. It wasn't a complicated "religious" thing, it was a simple, loving thing. It was God, plain and simple and present and beyond comprehension. He was there.

He saw me, held me, and transformed me.

Shaped me into a woman comfortable in her own skin again.

Shaped me into a women unafraid of an uncertain future.

Shaped me into a woman proud of who she has and will continue to become through the power of some truly amazing grace.

Shaped me into a woman priviledged to kneel at the foot of the cross and praise the One who saved her because she's now – only by a miracle – as tough as nails.

Happy Easter.

…Praying that all of us have the opportunity to glory in the miracle of simply being alive.