If you have been checking the dates, it may appear that I have been slacking on my blogging. I wrote an entry a couple of weeks ago about an incident at work, but I removed it after some of my colleagues found out that I have a blog. A blog is a great creative outlet and all, but it is no substitute for a paycheck.

I am so not a morning person. In some cereal commercial, a woman turns her water hose on the paperboy and closes the elevator doors on a co-worker because she is not sociable until mid-afternoon. I understand her position completely.

I’m not sure when my inability to get out of bed developed. My mother has always said that it was difficult to wake me. I believe her exact words were, “Damn, you and your brother are like some crazy people in the morning.” And she is no Ms. Sunshine herself, especially if she hasn’t had a cup of coffee. So perhaps my condition is genetic.

My affairs with sunrise have been short-lived. I took a 7:30 a.m. aerobics class in college until I overslept one day and realized how much nicer it was to stay in bed. And for a few weeks in 1999, I woke up every morning at 5:30 to work out at the gym. One day, I forgot my change of clothes and had to go to work in sweats. I decided that my mental health and my fashion sense were much better served by me catching the extra Zs.

Despite my forays and failures into early rising, I have remained curious. There is a happiness to morning people that I do not understand. By the time they get to work, they are all smiles. They converse in the elevator while sipping mocha lattes. They walk into the office and immediately get to work. I need a big glass of water and 15 minutes of silence before I am able to speak to anyone.

My curiosity and the desire to be a bit more effective during the day fueled my New Year’s resolution to wake up early. The first week was a complete bust. I faithfully set the alarm for 6 a.m. every night, but I slept through the buzzer each time.

A friend suggested that I take it slow. She told me to try 6:45 for a couple of while and then move my awakening time back 15 minutes each week until I hit my goal.

My success rate has been a mixed bag, so I’ve decided to take this opportunity to examine my progress. This also helps me to fulfill another one of my other resolutions. I believe that it’s been just about two weeks since my last blog entry.

Monday, 6:45 a.m.
I barely have the will to rise. After arguing with myself about how much longer I should stay in bed, I realize that I’ve wasted 15 minutes. I force myself out of bed and turn on the TV. Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood is on PBS. I’m not sure what year this episode was filmed, but I’m certain that I was Elyse’s age when it was.

I get dressed, and then I fix a peanut-butter sandwich for breakfast. I go to get my daughter, who has been giggling in her crib for the past half hour. It takes forever, it seems, to comb her hair, but finally by 8:00, we are ready to go.

Tuesday, 7:15 a.m.
I hit a second-day set-back. As I jump out of bed, I hear Mister Rogers singing about grandparents. A few minutes later, the puppets in his make-believe town start to plan an opera.

I somehow find the time to make another peanut butter sandwich. Elyse and I leave the house at 8:15, just as Cookie Monster is agonizing over eating the letter-of-the-day cookie. When I get to work at 8:45, I find that I don’t snarl at the receptionist when she says hello.

Wednesday, 6:35 a.m.
I wake up 10 minutes before the alarm goes off, so I pull out the yoga mat and do a few stretches. The grogginess starts to clear, and I am in a pleasant mood when I tune into Mister Rogers at 7:30. By this point, he is a welcome addition to my morning routine. He focus is still grandparents, and on this day, he is sharing photos of his family. Grandfather and Grandmother Rogers look a little stuffy. His mother’s parents, Bee-bop and Nana, seem much more interesting.

As I step onto the elevator at work, I return the good-morning greetings that I receive from the other passengers instead of groaning as I usually would. By 9:00, I am surprised that I have completed several of the smaller items on my to-do list.

Thursday, 6:30 a.m.
I’m on a roll now. I’m dressed and smiling by 7:15. The puppets in Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood are looking for a composer to help with their grandparents opera.

An hour later, I’m sitting at a stoplight on my way to work. A teenager in a red Chevy Cavalier slams into my rear-end. She didn’t me hard enough to do any damage to my car, but the impact was hard enough to give me a headache.

My good mood was long gone by the time I got to work at 8:30. It took two Advils and an offsite assignment to get me back into the swing of things.

Friday, 6:45 a.m.
I am supposed to go to breakfast with some colleagues, and this late start may ruin that. It’s interesting to note that five days ago I would not have thought of 6:45 as a late start.

I left the house at 7:15, so I didn’t get to see Mister Rogers and the puppets perform the grandparents opera. Traffic seals my fate. I arrive downtown at 8:15, just as everyone is leaving the diner. Determined to have a good day, I order my breakfast to go.

I doubt that I will become a uber-chipper morning person, but now I better appreciate what a few extra minutes in the morning can do. I don’t feel as harried by the time I get to work, and I can also take advantage of the quiet time in the office before the phones start ringing at 9:00. It’s also nice to have a bit to eat, even if it is only a peanut-butter sandwich.

So, we see how long the affair lasts this time. I’m definitely trying to beat my two-week record.

The year 2005 is a done deal, and it’s time to focus on the year ahead. As I have done in years past, I picked up a pen to half-heartedly scribble down my goals for 2006.

I’ve always thought of New Year’s resolutions as a seasonal tradition, like kissing someone under the mistletoe around Christmas or eating black-eyed peas on New Year’s Day. And like those other customs, my resolutions have faded with the end of the holiday season.

My list of unfulfilled goals is probably twenty times as long as the number of years that I’ve been on this planet. There have been financial goals that would have made me a millionaire by now, fitness goals that would have given me a physique to rival any professional body builder’s, and career goals that would have made me a high-profile corporate dynamo. What were my resolutions for 2005? Beats me. And I can’t find the old envelope that I used in 2004 to write them down. Or perhaps that was the year that I resolved not to resolve anything.
I considered going that route again. If I am going to be so half-ass about the whole thing, then why bother?

But then my pastor posed a question during his Sunday morning sermon that made me rethink my position. “Will 2006 be another year or a new year?”

If this is just another year, then no resolutions are necessary. I can go on as if the calendar still says 2005. I’ll make no effort to change my life in any way, all the while complaining about things that I don’t like.

Or I can accept the onset of 2006 for what it is – a symbol for a new start. I’ve got another 365 days to shake things up a bit.

After looking at it that way, I decided to take another shot at making resolutions. My life is good, but there is always room for a little improvement.

So, here goes. I am sharing my 2006 resolutions for a couple of reasons. If I publish my them, those who know me will hold me accountable. Plus, this blog is a much better place to store my goals than on the back of an old envelope.

Diva’s 2006 Resolutions

• Wake up every weekday at 6 a.m. by February 1. Most days, it’s a struggle for me to get up by 7:30. This is problem if you have to be at work by 8:30. And, I’ve often heard the saying that the early bird gets the worm. I’d like to see if it is true.
• Develop and maintain a reasonable workout schedule. Before Elyse was born, I made it to the gym from time to time. Nowadays, putting Elyse in her snowsuit is about all of the workout I get. Don’t get me wrong. It’s a challenge to hold onto a one-year-old for a couple of minutes, but it is a far cry from a legitimate workout routine.
• Post a new entry to my blog every two weeks. I’ve been a little sparse with my entries since I started this space. Writing’s a good outlet for me, and it seems that I have plenty to subjects to cover.

That’s it. I hope you weren’t expecting a two-page list. I know the new year is an open door for change and all, but I have to take it one year at a time.

Happy New Year!

I was too much of a nerd to be there. Or maybe I was just too uppity. The longer I stayed there, the more I realized that it was both.

It was 11 p.m. on a Saturday night, and I was sitting in the middle of a small club in North County. I was watching my hairstylist and her friends chicken-head and nina-pop to a song that I recognized but could not name. A woman in dark glasses and a Rick James-esque curly ‘do was running in circles and screaming into the DJ’s cordless mic: “Throw your hands up! Throw your hands up, dammit! It’s my girl Lisa’s birthday!”

Lisa followed her friend to the mic with her remix to another rap that was familiar to me but unnameable: “Cause I’m popping Moet, and I can’t be stopped …”

Yes, indeedy. This was not the place for me.

Lisa had invited me to her mid-thirty-something birthday party earlier that day. She told me that it was downtown, but her sister said that it had been relocated (as a surprise) to a smaller club nearby. The birthday girl was scheduled to arrive between 8:30 and 9:00.

I was thankful for the change in venue. The new spot was five minutes from my house, sparing me a 25-minute drive. Lisa is notorious for being late, so I planned on getting there after 10.

I turned onto the parking lot at 10:45, and I could make out the lyrics to “In Da Club” as I walked toward the door. That was a bad sign. If a place is crowded, you can only hear the thump of the bass line.

The guy at the door who checked my ID was wearing black sweats and a disinterested look. “Enjoy yourself,” he mumbled as he handed my license to me.

“Thanks,” I replied.

One of Lisa’s friends stopped me as I headed toward the corner that her guests had staked out. “What are you drinking?” he asked. “I’m good, thanks,” I responded. He didn’t call me a nerd, but the look he gave me said plenty.

Now don’t get me wrong. I enjoy a good time. Kettle One and Cranberry are friends of mine. But this party was a combination of all of the things that I hated about the club scene. So, for your reading pleasure, here is my list of pet peeves. Or better yet, let’s call them The Diva’s Club Rules.

Dress your age. Most of the people at this party were in their mid-thirties (or older), and at first glance, you would have thought that it was a group of 20-year-olds. I had seen a version of most of these outfits on 106th and Park.

It is okay to be trendy. It is not okay to look like you are wearing your daughter’s clothes. It doesn’t make you look younger; it makes you look sad. Oh, and make sure that the clothes fit, too. The only thing worse than wearing clothes that are too young for you is wearing clothes that are too young for you and too little.

Keep up with your own stuff. One of Lisa’s friends proclaimed herself “The Paparazzi” and took pictures of everything. Whenever she was ready to dance, she left her camera with whoever was willing to hold it for her.

Even if you are kicking it with a wallflower, give her a little respect. Do not ask her to watch your purse, your coat, or your drink. What if someone asks her to dance? Carry a purse with a shoulder strap, or put your money in your bra. If you can’t kick it on the dance floor with your new Louis Vuitton, then Louis needs to stay at home.

Keep a close, but unnoticeable, eye on the jerks. Lisa’s brother has met me a thousand times, but somehow, number 1001 was different. I don’t know if it was the freshly done hair or the dainty walk that I had to adopt to navigate in my stiletto boots. Whatever the cause, Tre didn’t take his eyes off of me.

His stare gave me the creeps. It was the “I didn’t notice you before, but now that I have, when can we sleep together?” look.

If you get this stare, and you suspect that the person giving it to you is a jerk, you don’t have to humor him. Run. Hide. Do whatever you have to do to steer clear of this person. Unfortunately, these types usually don’t take no for an answer, so it’s best to not give them the opportunity to ask.

Drink (or don’t drink) whatever you want. Grey Goose and Bailey’s was the drink of the evening. I don’t know who started that trend, but cough syrup sounded like a better drink to me. I saw a few people with one, but I didn’t see anyone finish it.

This is a lesson in basic economics. Top shelf liquor is too expensive for you not to drink something you like. Experiment with the cheap stuff.

Don’t drink (get drunk) and drive. I know it sounds like a public service announcement, but we are way too old for that mess.

After an hour of chit-chat and a obligatory spin on the dance floor, I went home. I doubt that anyone other than Tre noticed that I was gone. I checked on my daughter, put on a pair of PJs, and went to bed. The partygoers stayed out until the wee hours, I’m told.

I was glad that I went to wish Lisa a happy birthday, even though I didn’t really enjoy the party. This was one time that I was more than happy to be a nerd.

The Christmas list is my family’s time-honored tradition. The late-October arrival of the JC Penny Christmas catalog signals the start of the holiday shopping season. As kids, my brother and I would take turns eyeballing every page so that we could craft a well-rounded collection of wishes.

My mother always asked me to have my list ready by the beginning of the month so that she could use it to choose my birthday present. My brother and I were able to amend our lists throughout the month, but Momma did not accept any requests after Dec. 1.

Our lists were pages long, mostly filled with things that we had no chance of getting. I remember the year that my brother asked for gold bricks.

Our lists became more reasonable as we got older. And thanks to the advances of technology, we now e-mail our lists to one another.

Friends tell me that we’ve turned gift giving into too much of a science and that by doing so, we have zapped the fun right out of the whole process. I would argue the opposite. I enjoy writing the list, and I enjoy opening a present that I know I want. My shopping is a breeze because all guesswork is eliminated. So, everybody’s happy.

Twenty some-odd years of list writing has made me a professional. I can write a lengthy wish list and divvy it up among Mike, my parents, and my best friend Erika.

At least I thought I was a pro. Erika called me on Monday. “I need a birthday and Christmas list,” she said.

“Huh?” I asked. Then I realized that it was mid-November and I hadn’t even thought about it.

“Yes, your list,” she said. “Besides, once I see yours, it will probably give me some ideas for mine.” (Over the years I had spread the gospel of the list so much that others had caught on.)

With my birthday fast approaching, I decided that I better get cracking. I stared at a blank piece of paper for a while, and then I put it away. How could I, Queen List, be experiencing writers’ block?

Then a few ideas came. An activity table. A push and play walker. A baby doll.

This is the first year that my daughter will be able to crawl around the tree and cover my floor with torn wrapping paper. I thought about how much fun it will be to watch her discover her new things. I’m looking more forward to that than anything that I would get.

Motherhood has caught me off guard again. I’m still surprised at how Elyse changed me. There are the obvious adjustments like fewer nights on the town or more trips to the grocery store. But it’s the little things that show me how my priorities have changed and how cool it is to be a mom.

As I continued to think of gifts for Elyse, I decided that I could stand to open a present or two on my birthday. So I gave the list another shot.

Eight-quart stockpot. Steam cleaner. Daniel Green house shoes.

My list is shaping up to be drier than burnt toast. Maybe I passed all of my list-writing skills to Elyse. I’ll have to wait a few more years to see if she has the chutzpa to ask for gold bricks.