Wednesday, January 12 . . . A drama in two parts.

    
 The studio is cleaned . . .

My desk has been unearthed . . .

An excavation was necessary, in order to 

uncover a work surface so I could begin a new project.

Unfortunately, I had no one to blame but myself.  And Christmas, of course.  Yes.  We'll blame Christmas!  Which means it must be January . . . and we find ourselves slogging along resolution's dark and lonely lo-cal path. (For which we'll also blame Christmas.)

 

Note: For the record, I neither

baked the cookies 

nor put them in her mouth.

    

(I do not wish to split hairs.  How ever it
happened, we find ourselves here.)

 

It feels like it.  But it's not about looking slim.  It's about fitting in my lucky black show pants by the end of February.  The fact that I have to diet myself back into them every time I do a show SHOULD be a clue that perhaps it would be easier to just buy a new pair of pants.  So far, my results have been less than impressive.

Our mornings chez Hinckley go something like this:

"I lost another three pounds overnight!" 

 

Meanwhile . . . I'm eagerly looking . . . for any sign at all . . .

 

I'm happy for him.  Really.  Men are just wonderful in most ways, but in weight loss they're nothing short of annoying.  I seem to spend half the month re-losing what I gained during the half of the month where my body was hoarding water and craving carbs because Mother Nature thought for some reason it was a good way to organize the universe.   

But it has crossed my mind 

that perhaps I could even things up somehow . . .

Yes . . . perhaps an extra six tablespoons of sugar and half a stick of butter 
in that oatmeal he's so fond of . . . 
that could  do the trick . . . and he'd never suspect a thing. 

 

What kind of wife would possibly 
resort to sabotage, when 
her husband's health 
and well-being are at stake?!



   

     

A January wife.


(Nurse, we need that new "Happy Light", STAT!)





 

Yes, Doctor . . .
Would you like 

guacamole with that?