I've decided that my kids, the dog, and my husband for that matter, need some direction in making their New Year's Resolutions.
First on the list? Asher and Aidan. Boys, in 2012 you will learn to pee INTO the toilet rather than ONTO it. I swear on my laptop I will let that bathroom morph into the hazardous material dumping ground it teeters on the edge of becoming on every day except the days I take it upon myself to don a gas mask and go in with no regard for my own well-being. Next time I see this?
I will... You will... It will be... Just don't piss all over the toilet anymore, okay?
Now, Dear, I actually had to look for something to create a resolution for you about because, well, you get off pretty easy here on the ol' blog and frankly it's your turn. Also, you're darn near perfect. So, sweetie, in 2012 I resolve for you to clear your mind of the delusion that the space between your bedside table and the wall is a closet. It also is not a clothes hamper.
And no, I do to wish to discuss the various places in which my randomly discarded clothing ends up. This is neither the time nor the place for that nonsense.
And finally, Brody. Oh Brody. I could understand if you believed yourself to be a Chihuahua based on how you try to crawl up into the laps of little old ladies and small children. I could even understand if you were under the impression that you were a human considering how you flop your big, black ass on the couch like you own this joint. What I am confused by is where you got the idea that you were a cat. Why do I think that you might think that you are a cat? Well, it's the only reason I can come up with as to why you try to cover up your shit with grass and two inches of soil from the yard. The yard that we pay a service an uncomfortable fee to keep looking respectable. Covering up your shit is a cat thing. I would think being a cat would be the very thing a dog would not want to be. So stop being a cat, will ya?