Woo!

Santa came through this year, and I got a digital camera! Rock! (Or "RAWK!" as my friend Jason would say)

Now I just need a photo editing program and I could show you what Sarah H. Wolf looks like at bedtime. (Answer? Tired and splotchy)

~*~*~*~

New Years resolutions always seem so pointless, so I'm not making any this year. Instead, I'm going to keep doing what I've been doing, which is eat better, take vitamins, moisturize, write, remain active, laugh, race and consume wings on a regular basis.

I don't know that I'm going to drop ten pounds, save money, save my face or be a better person because of it, but what the hell, y'know? Life's too short to be so miserable. I have a good family, good friends, good times. About all I could ask for was a permanent visit from the Boob Fairy, but really, who wants implants at age 74?

I am not going to be that kind of grandma.

Peace, and I'll see you in 2005!

Now that the new manuscript's been out of my hands for ten days, I've reached the critical point where I'm past checking the FedEx tracking number every fifteen minutes (it was delivered at 2:16 last Thursday afternoon) but now must keep from dialing the agent and shrieking, "SO, IS IT ANY GOOD OR WHAT?!"

So far, leaving the mobile uncharged has helped.

The rational adult drones on about the holiday hustle and bustle, busy schedules, vacations and obligations. The child, while not making lists for Santa, is doing the foot-stamp-validate-me-now whine and dance.

I'm going to try to hold out another two weeks. Who knows? Maybe she'll get some reading done over the holidays.

I'm desperately trying to come up with a Wolf Motorsports Development logo before Christmas.

Wolf Motorsprots Development. As in WMD? As in weapons of mass...

...


Ah, nevermind.

WMD —  in this sense — is the term for the garage during Miata swarms. And for months, I've been tinkering around with logo ideas so the guys could have super awesome stickers for their cars. The first idea was WMD with a mushroom cloud, but every mushroom cloud I came up with looked less like a harbinger of the apocolypse and more like a live oak.

Nobody said I was much of an artist.

My new great ideas is to monkey around with the radioactive symbol; see if I can milk that for something cool. Of course, should that become the basis for the logo, we would then have to get a sunshine yellow Miata and do a custom vinyl job because what's a motorsport development outfit without a concept car?

See, that's what I'm saying.

Yesterday was "Woman of the 21st Century Day." Well, at my house at least. Yes, our mothers got to be women of the 80s or the 90s, but honey, we get an entire century.

Anyway, in no particular order, I lazed around the house, made and iced Christmas cookies for my grandmother, started researching an article, cleaned the kitchen, had a breakdown over my hair, sucked it up, went grocery shopping with Adam, got in viewing of both the second-to-last episode of Sex and the City and a random session of What Not to Wear, visited with Ben, visited with my in-laws, called my mother and started thinking about the next book.

Not bad for a lazy Sunday.

Just because I am possibly the Greatest Wife Ever, I treated Adam to a haircut at the really chi-chi (well, chi-chi for the Westside) day spa. See, until 5 p.m. yesterday, he had been rocking a version of the Beckham circa World Cup 2002. Long, unkempt, flowy. Very young F1 star-ish.

Only, we've got a court date in Denver on Friday (nothing serious, just going to contest a speeding ticket) and I thought a judge might take a dim view to the husband's flowing locks. So I took both of us to get our hair trimmed.

As is the case with the really-chi-chi-for-the-Westside day spa, I got the balding man of undescernible sexuality who hates his life, and Adam got the hot chick with the rocking ass. It was truly stunning. Jennifer Lopez would kill to have an ass of this magnitude. It was high and round, like two over-filled helium balloons wrapped in a pair of black trousers. I got a good look at it when my stylist lead me to the washing station, and was impressed enough to bring it up over dinner.

Big mistake. Adam's still talking about that ass. Me: "That ass."

Him: "Man. Legend."

Yeah.

The hair turned out really well, should you think it was all just asses. Adam's now looking like a mod British rocker (it's either early Mick Jagger or post-punk Duran Duran, I can't decide) and I had a good four inches sliced off.

Good times, good times.