Apologies for the 24 hour delay, friends. I spent all of yesterday battling through a return to work that included responding to (roughly!) 23 work emails and (definitely less than!) 4 phone calls, and then made it a priority to attend the redesign party for Boston Magazine. After TK years (eight? thirty?), BoMag totally redesigned itself, and threw a party celebrating that fact, which included samplings of foods from a ton of ridiculously upscale restaurants around Boston -- including a butter soup from No. 9 Park, which satisfied my caloric needs for 2009. Pathetically, that's my excuse.

But enough about my eating habits. January -- an underrated candidate for worst weather'd month of the year in Boston -- is the time when people sit inside and reflect about how they're going to do things differently outside. I have 19 goals for the newest year. Three(ish) involve writing:

1. Finish the d*$% book. We don't need to talk about this. This needs to happen. This needs to happen soon. This needs to happen so my life can progress and not resemble a particularly extensive writing version of Groundhog Day. I think Thomas the Tank Engine said it best when he said, "I think I can, I think I can, I think I can... buuuttt my engine is kind of tired due to my other jobs, and I definitely don't dig getting up early, especially when I'm wearing these cashmere socks."

2. Put a story in a prominent national magazine. WD aside, I have pretty much remained a regional magazine writer for the last five years, content to sit on the beanbag chair of comfort, zoning out with the blinds shut and my iHome (Christmas present!) set to that catchy version of "Devil Town" from the third season of Friday Night Lights. No more. All I ask this year is one story -- one solid story in a national mag. That's all. Just some sort of forward tilt there. Frankly, I don't understand why it hasn't happened yet, especially with all the Sweet Query Letters I've showcased on this blog.

3. Get my a$$ promoted. See how I put those dollar signs in place of the s's? That's because promotions mean mo' money (also, we're vaguely admonished for swearing) and it means you're doing something right. I guess. I wouldn't actually know, seeing how this is my first full year of gainful and traditional(ish) employment, but I think that's the gist of that Rich Dad, Poor Dad book.

That's it. Three simple, yet powerful goals for the year that I will celebrate my tenth reunion with my high school class -- the first actual reunion where people sort of look different, have real jobs, and aren't even embarrassed that they no longer remember which superlative you won.

Anyway, this is not all about me. It's 78% about me. The other 22% needs to be filled with your own writing, personal, work, or pop culture goals for the 20th anniversary of the first time I heard a New Kids on the Block song. Donny D's on the back up, indeed.

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You spoil me.

I was living in,
a Devil Town

Glen Hansard