Comadrita, Lola here.

Listen, I need to cancel our cafecito. I’m taking some much-needed time off and will go incomunicada for a while. I wish I could tell you I’ll be traveling to the Nile Valley in Egypt, or de fregado Napa Valley, but no.

I’m taking time off to be home. Fully present at home, not just in and out as has become customary. I need to confront the ghosts that haunt me at night.

You know, the ones living in the spare bedroom closets, the kitchen cabinets and drawers and pretty much every other storage space in mi casa. This, my dear, will be a major feat and is something I haven’t done in quite some time.

I won’t even be back at the office until I confront the clutter head on and come out of the state of denial I’ve been living in for the past few years.

You see, I was raised to believe I can do a-n-y-thing I set my mind to. The thing is, because I do believe this to be the case, I’m drowning in a sea of evidence left behind by my “I can do it” attitude.

Exhibit A: 20-plus sticky notes reminding me of things to do throughout the house that have been in place for a while. They’re taped to different surfaces to prevent them from falling off, God forbid. You know, out of sight, out of mind.

This is on top of the reminders I’ve set on my smartphone, plus the family calendar on the fridge, plus the DON’T FORGET sign by the door intended as a final, fool-proof reminder, mostly for my viejo, that is longer than our wedding vows. It says things like:

MONDAY: Drop off stuff @ cleaners. Water play day for Kid A (pack snack, water shoes, swim trunks, towel, water bottle, sun block, cap & glasses) Karate day for Kid B (white karate shirt, shorts, tennis shoes).

TUESDAY: Pick up stuff from cleaners. Movie day for Kid A (wear camp t-shirt; water bottle). Book day for Kid B (take book, plus speech therapist will see her at camp – don’t forget speech folder. Leave at front desk with payment in envelope).

WEDNESDAY: Water play day for Kid B and dance class (pack snack, water shoes, swim trunks, towel, water bottle, sun block, cap & glasses. Take dance bag, dance slippers and tutu).

THURSDAY: Nada.

FRIDAY: Show and share for both kids. Prepare payment for yard service, cleaning lady, pest control guy.

SATURDAY: Swimming lessons for both kids (take goggles, cap, towels, water shoes, sun block and change of clothes).

Exhibit B: The “new” exercise equipment I bought three months ago is still boxed and collecting dust. This, because I haven’t had time to exchange the “new” one-size-too-small workout shoes I bought five months ago.

Exhibit C: The gadgetry and utensils in my kitchen I know I’ll never use. Like the two blenders and two food processors and two tortilla presses, and enough cookie sheets to set up a baked goods shop. The last time I made meatloaf was around Thanksgiving, and that’s all I’ve ever used the food processor for. Plus, even though I’m sure I can make tortillas, I’ve never made them in my life!

Exhibit D: My skinny and my fat wardrobe. I’ll spare you the details.

Wish me luck. And FYI, don’t get me any more Rosie the Riveter memorabilia. I know “I can do it.” Now I need the discipline to say, “If it doesn’t conduce to the greater good or to my personal realization, it doesn’t mean I have to.”

Hasta pronto, I hope.

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I’m not a runner, but like many

Of course, it would be easier to set time aside and work out daily, but sometimes, despite my best efforts, it doesn’t happen. Fed up with my excuses and lack of determination, and wanting to capitalize more on the daily grind, I bought a fitness magazine. 

Flipping through the pages, I saw an ad for Reebok’s EasyTone shoes: for just $100, these puppies purportedly deliver 28 percent more strength and tone in the buttock muscles and 11 percent more of the same in the hamstring and calf muscles, compared to regular running shoes. Woohoo! Adios, Stewart Weitzman stilettos. Who cares if these shoes are ugly if you can get a 28 percent stronger and more toned butt, right? 

Then I saw an ad for another incredible product, the iPant (no relation to the iPad or the iPhone, although the product’s claims are as revolutionary as Steve Job’s gadgets). The iPant is an undergarment with embedded microcapsules containing caffeine to promote the unthinkable: fat des-truc-tion. Just what I needed.  Goodbye fat! 

These chones may look like regular spanks, but release vitamin E to prevent the effects of aging for youthful-looking pompis, and ceramides to restore and maintain the booty’s smoothness, plus Retinol and aloe vera to moisturize and increase the firmness of the skin. Kinda like Oil of Olay for your behind. The savvy shopper and consumer advocate in me knows better, but still, too tempting!

If I already wear underwear all day long, why not give it a try? All I had to do was dish out $60 and wear the undergarment for at least 8 hours a day, 7 days a week, for 28 days; which means I have to buy more than one pair or make time to hand-wash the bloomers every day. (The manufacturer claims the caffeine and other ingredients are still present in the garment after 100 washes. In my naiveté, I’m inclined to believe this as I’ve washed my coffee-stained white dress shirt about 20 times and I can still see the silhouette of the caramel macchiato spill). 

Feeling thinner and more toned simply by picturing myself in the magic chones and the equally brilliant toning shoes, I began adding other items to my holiday stocking-stuffer wish(ful thinking) list.

Alas, I checked the Interweb for product reviews and was confronted with la realidad. Last month, Reebok dished out $25 million to settle a complaint filed by the Federal Trade Commission (FTC) over false and deceptive advertising practices related to the EasyTone shoes. If only the FCT’s policing of truth in advertising practices extended to cosmetic products. 

As for the chones and my time-management skills … there’s still hope.  

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Last month, as I quipped about

Two decades ago, there wasn’t a state in the nation with an obesity rate above 15 percent. That’s no longer the case. In F as in Fat: How Obesity Threatens America’s Future, the Robert Wood Johnson Foundation and the Trust for America’s Health reveal that 38 states have obesity rates of over 25 percent. Twelve states fare even worse with rates above 30 percent. 

¡Jesús, María y José! 

If you are doing the math, only one state did relatively well in the survey. Coloradoans have the distinct privilege of being the leanest in the nation, with a, ahem, mere 19.8 percent obesity rate. 

Despite knowing the facts and the stats on the subject, it wasn’t until a recent trip to Disney World that those figures took shape right before my eyes – literally. Reality hit me as I walked Main Street among a good portion of the 33.8 percent of adults and 17 percent of children in the nation who are obese.

As I stood in line to ride “It’s a Small World,” it became evident the people around me were not small at all. Au contraire. Many fellow visitors to the Happiest Place on Earth were very big, circumference-wise. I suddenly felt like an extra in a sequel of the documentary Super Size Me: A Film of Epidemic Proportions. Although I’m prone to hyperbole, my viejo can back me up on this one. We saw Disney enthusiasts galore holding a smoked turkey leg as big as a mini Chihuahua in one hand and a churro almost as long as Darth Vader’s light saber in the other. De veras.

I’m sure these images made an impression on my hubby, as he has not gotten anywhere near the flour tortillas since we returned from our trip. He even became visibly excited after reading the news about a new breakthrough in the fight against obesity. He’s been so hyped about it, he’s told me about it five times. 

As it turns out, his excitement may be justified. Researchers at the University of Texas MD Anderson Cancer Center in Houston injected “couch potato” rhesus monkeys with a drug that destroys the blood vessels that support fat cells. This strategy of targeting specific cells and annihilating them is known as angiogenesis inhibition and is used in some cancer drugs. 

After 28 days on the drug, the plump monkeys shed 11 percent of their weight and 27 percent of their abdominal fat with no significant side effects. This is exciting because the drug attaches itself only to white fat cells, the kind linked to Type 2 diabetes and heart disease. Also cause for jubilation is the fact that once released into the bloodstream, the fat doesn’t disrupt the metabolism or mess up the arteries. Instead, it’s burned as fuel. Cool, huh? 

The bad news is that the lazy monkeys gained all the weight back just two weeks after they stopped taking the drug. 

Conspiracy theorists would have me believe this is on purpose. A dream come true for big pharma!  

For sure, I’ll keep an eye out on this. If it doesn’t trim my waistline, I’m sure its stock will fatten my skimpy retirement account.

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The headline on the CNN website

I had to put on my reading glasses to make sure I was reading correctly. “That’s y’all’s Indians,” said one Republican colleague, also from Alabama.

“They’re aborigines, but they’re not Indians,” Beason replied.

¡¿Qué, qué?! Seriously?  I had to pause and reread the first paragraph twice. 

This reminded me of a woman who phoned the other day asking to speak with me. I knew she was selling something, as only telemarketers and my mother (when agitated) call me by my full, legal name, which is a mouthful. Before I could utter “I’m sorry, but we are in the Do Not Call Registry,” she proceeded to tell me about a limited-time offer: a five-ounce sample of a new shampoo and conditioner line formulated for ethnic hair. 

“What do you mean, for ethnic hair? I asked, and then added, “Isn’t all hair ethnic?” 

“Um. You know. Uhh … for hair that’s … frizzy. And difficult to … to … tame,” she finally uttered. 

I let out a long “AAAAAAaah!” as if a slow-to-glow incandescent light bulb had turned on in my head. Having sensed the tension, she blurted out, “I’ll, I’ll send you the free sample in the mail … to thank you for your time today,” which had amounted to a full 40 seconds by this point, “and I’ll also include an exclusive promo code for 20 percent off your first online order.” 

At the time, I had quesadillas in the comal and no intention of telling the telemarketer how I truly felt about her exclusive offer and her presupposition that my hair needed some taming. I simply said “Awesome. Thanks,” and hung up.

“It’s not her fault,” opined my viejo when I told him about the call. He speculated she was reading from a script and just trying to make a buck to feed her family; that she wouldn’t be getting her commission because I hung up on her and interrupted her sales pitch. Awww….

But long after that phone call, I kept thinking about the ethnic hair shampoo. I was bothered by the thought of being bothered by it. But then a rapid succession of hair terminology came to mind. Pelo malo, pelo bueno, pelo lacio, pelo chino, pelo grifo, pelo quebrado. It took me years to figure out why some people say pelo quebrado to refer to wavy and not “broken” hair; or pelo chino to refer to curly hair when people from China generally have straight hair.

The answer is fascinating. I won’t bore you with it, but suffice to say, some sociologists believe the term originates with the “china poblana” – you know, the romanticized women from Puebla, Mexico, with the beautiful sequined gowns and the thick braids? From Puebla, not China. And then there’s the deeply and culturally rooted bias that gave birth to the term pelo malo as opposed to pelo bueno. 

Two weeks later, the travel-size, exclusive offer arrived in the mail. And guess what?  The bottle claims it can “turn seriously damaged hair into manageable hair!”  

So the assumption was not only that, given my name, I’m “ethnic,” but that my cabello was seriously damaged and unmanageable. Argh. 

And how does this relate to the senator from Alabama who called blacks in Greene County aborigines? Simple. The genius marketers behind this haircare line, like the senator from Alabama, can be well intended, but their word choices convey ignorance, bias and a sense of superiority. What role racism, political correctness and plain stupidity play in both of these totally unrelated instances, I don’t know.   

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Like Dante Alighieri’s Beatrice, you’ve illuminated the former speaker’s path and inspired his mind, heart and soul. Thanks to you, Newt converted to Catholicism and you have become a touchstone in his political campaign and his Gingrich Productions business venture. Some even suggest that your Catholic choirgirl devotion has helped rewrite his past.

Thanks to you this conservative “family values man,” who has been married three times, is able to tour the nation with a straight face, screening documentaries about your Holiness Pope John Paul II and about “the importance of our Creator to our nation’s founders and their successors.”

Muy inteligente. He has been known to speak truth to power (like when he grilled President Clinton for lying under oath about what he was doing under his desk at the oval office) but I’m not sure he has chosen truth over power (wasn’t he having an “affair” with you at the same time? One that lasted “just” six years?).

Is it true that he served his high school geometry teacher, also his first wife, with divorce papers at the hospital after she was diagnosed with ovarian cancer? A former aid claims Newt thought she wasn’t “young enough or pretty enough to be the president’s wife.” I’ve also read that he proposed to his would-be wife número dos before divorcing his teacher and then, in a cruel twist of fate, left wife No. 2 after she was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis and told her, while cheating on her with you, “I can’t handle a Jaguar right now. All I want is a Chevrolet.” Ouch! Not a very nice thing to say to someone with MS. Plus, Callista the Chevy?! You may be 23 years his junior, but I’m not picturing you as a Chevy.

But as they say, “Más sabe el diablo por viejo que por diablo.” Of his shortcomings and indiscretions, your viejito quips, “I felt compelled to seek God’s forgiveness, not God’s understanding, but God’s forgiveness.”  How do you argue with that? Smart.

And you are very smart, too, and creative. You have an upcoming children’s history book featuring “Ellis the Elephant” American history from an elephant’s perspective. How subtle.

Before I forget, and just in case, here’s a list of influential power players you need to put on speed-dial to help get you through your hubby’s run for the GOP presidential nod.

In this order:

• St. John Chrysostom, patron saint of speakers and preachers (his body was weak but his tongue was powerful)

• St. Bernardine of Siena, patron saint of marketing (long before guerilla marketing existed, he came up with the symbol of a blazing sun with the inscription JHS)

• St. Thomas More, patron saint of politicians  (aka “a man of all seasons,” he taught us that government should be an exercise of virtue)

• St. Monica, patron saint of married women (she was a triple dare:  prudent, patient and persistent)

• St. Eligius, patron saint of jewelers (in the event half a million in Tiffany jewelry is not enough)

And of course, if all else fails, there’s my consentido St. Jude, patron saint of lost causes. But be warned: He doesn’t like it when people cry wolf. Remember, not all is lost until it’s lost, so you can get busy with the others and get to him when you really need him (like in a month or so).

Buena suerte.

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Dear Mrs. Obama:

I’m inspired to perspire and I have you to thank for it.

Well, I have you to thank and the gordis, who go about life seemingly happy and unfazed by the junk in their trunk, although I secretly envy their “no me importa, I’m still wearing a bikini” attitude.

But, as I was saying, I’m inspired by you; by your triceps and your Let’s Move campaign. I recently watched you jump rope on TV. I said to myself, I can do that. But then I tried and I couldn’t. Muy mal.

I reached the tipping point, literally, while getting ready for a social function. I was ready to go, all dolled up, when I realized I had forgotten to clean my high heels. I couldn’t crouch down or lift my leg, because my gown was a bit tight, so I tried bending over instead. Bad idea. I could barely reach the tip of my shoes without bending my knees. I had to sit down in my viejo’s closet chair to get the job done.

I felt self-conscious. But upon arriving to the event I had an out-of-body experience as I found myself in a swarm of middle-aged, flabulous bodies in way-too-revealing, what-were-you-thinking, Forever 21 gowns. Ay dios mío. I started thinking, That can be me next year if I don’t do something rápido.

So, I started researching workout regimes to target specific problem areas. That’s how I learned about body parts I didn’t even know existed. Now that I know there’s a name for each fat deposit imaginable, I can’t pretend I don’t see them in my body. Or anyone else’s for that matter.

Turns out, the flab nomenclature is extensive and evolving. There’s the “duchess” or “buffalo hump” (fat in the upper back) and of course the “wings” (bulges hanging over bra straps).

Then there’s the ubiquitous “muffin top” and the, uh, pronounced muffin top or “mother’s apron.” Other food-inspired terms include the “doughnut,” which refers to the excess fat around the navel, and the “banana fold” (the fat below the buttocks). These are not to be confused with “chubb” (fat around the kneecap), or the commonly known “cankles” (fat between the calf and the ankle). I’m sure you get the picture, and it’s not pretty.

My apologies: I didn’t call just to give you a visual lesson on slang for fat deposits in my anatomy. I am really calling to tell you I signed up for the President’s Challenge, an effort of your hubby’s Council on Fitness, Sports and Nutrition. The nifty, online tool is helping me track my activity level while I find an appropriate fat-busting workout regime. Yesterday, for example, I earned 406 points for two hours of household tasks and 290 points for one hour of home repairs – it took me a whole hour to change a spring in my curling iron; it counts as a home repair, qué no?

I hope soon to earn points for other activities from the President’s Challenge list, like hang gliding, baton twirling, and unicycling.

Who knows, maybe if I get my rope-jumping act together, I’ll be in good enough shape to ride my unicycle to work and put my unemployed banana fold, chubb and cankles to work.

Bueno, cuídese – and keep up the good work, Mrs. Obama.

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I know you have been busy with TV and radio interviews, and rallies and town halls in Cleveland, Texas, talking about injustice, but I have to question your … focus.

I’m talking about an 11-year-old Latina who was gang-raped, allegedly by as many as 28 juveniles and men. At a televised rally, your reaction is, “It was not the young girl that yelled rape. Stop right there – something is wrong, brothers and sisters.” (And the crowd cheers.)

Nineteen men, who happen to be black, have been arrested, and all you can say is, “Do you mean to tell me that there is no other race of men in Cleveland that slept with that child, that the black men are so psychologically and morally depraved, with a loss of a moral sense of shame, that they are the only ones who touched her?” (And the crowd cheers.)

The police reported the attacks were captured on video, and you keep asking, “Where’s the girl’s mother?” “I want to know why nobody has asked, ‘Where is your mother and father?’ It looks like the KKK is leading the investigation.” (And the crowd cheers.)

At one of the televised rallies, you tell the parents of the accused, in a ceremonious tone, “You stand by your child …” (and the crowd cheers) and then you pass a hat to raise funds for their legal defense fund.

For his part, defense attorney James D. Evans III has told the press that the victim “wants to be a porn star,” and that “this is not a case of a child who was enslaved or taken advantage of.” Say again??

You, and the defense, and those who chime in to blame the victim make me sad. Very sad.

Republican Florida state Rep. Kathleen Passidomo takes the cake. While discussing legislation mandating school uniforms, she comes up with this: “There was an article about an 11-year-old girl who was gang-raped in Texas by 18 young men because she was dressed like a 21-year-old prostitute.”

Passidomo then adds, “Her parents let her attend school like that…. I think it’s incumbent upon us to create some areas where students can be safe in school and show up in proper attire so what happened in Texas doesn’t happen to our students.”

Portraying the accused as “victims” of the young girl’s “temptation” or of the system doesn’t address the problem. You, Quanell, for your part, also blame the elders for not watching the “kids.” Some of the accused are 26 and 27, señor.

I’ll give you credit for saying that all “the brothers” who “slept” with the girl must be held accountable. But it seems the emphasis here is in making sure non-black men are charged with the crime as well – instead of accountability. And for the record, it’s called rape.

Here’s the irony: April is Sexual Assault Awareness Month, and the theme for this year’s awareness campaign is “It’s time … to get involved,” a message to engage bystanders in sexual violence prevention.

I’ve not heard you question, “Why didn’t any of ‘the brothers’ speak up?” “Why didn’t any of them stop the rape?” As if the participants were hijacked by their phalli.

Your words, along with those who insist on blaming the victim, speak very loud and clear. You shed new light on what it means to be morally bankrupt.

Qué lástima.

Dear readers, please share this with your hermanos. Learn how you can help prevent sexual assault and protect your hermanas at nsvrc.org/saam, the online National Sexual Violence Resource Center (NSVRC).

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I’ve been thinking about your reaction to the IRS announcement that breast pumps are now tax deductible. I would have assumed that for an educated overachiever like you – a business owner, mother of five and a foster mother to more than 20 kids – the news that breast pumps are now tax deductible would be a good thing; like a “stimulus” for working women who want to breastfeed but for whom a $300 breast pump is out of reach. But, no. I was mistaken.

And now I’m puzzled.

I’m still trying to fully understand your response: “I mean, you want to talk about the nanny state? I think you just got a new definition of the nanny.”

I find the use of the term funny, because just the other day I was talking to some friends about the “other” nanny state. You know, the one that doesn’t allow gay people to have the same rights as straight people; the one that defines for the entire country what a “marriage” ought to be. The same nanny state that makes it illegal for terminally ill people, in full use of their mental faculties, to end their lives in a humane way if they so choose. And then taxes them upon their death, regardless of the cause or manner of death.

I digress. You claim the “hard left” is using the tax code for social-engineering purposes and that the government must stop telling people how to run their lives. As soon as I asked myself, out loud, “But how is making a breast pump tax deductible telling people how to run their lives?” I started getting action alerts from conservative women’s groups. They have come out against the deduction, claiming it favors mothers who “decide” to work out of the home. Complicating it further, they’ve brought up the child-care tax credit, saying it “rewards” women who leave the care of their children to daycare facilities and penalizes women who “do the right thing” and stay home and take care of their kids themselves. ¡Ay, ay, ay!

I’m sure there are childless people out there claiming in this precise moment that they are the ones who should be getting a tax break, because they are not contributing to global warming or overcrowded schools by remaining childless, yet they pay for taxes for schools and the like.

I know you personally want to get rid of the tax code and replace it with something simpler (one reason being it’s seven times longer than the Bible!). The problem here is that if you want to make this a partisan issue, you can’t pick and choose which tax deductions are social engineering. I haven’t heard many tea partiers enraged over the tax break for, say, fees paid to “Christian Science practitioners for medical care.” (Too bad I can’t deduct my curandera, or that my mother isn’t getting paid for the countless hours she prays to San Judas Tadeo for my well-being.) And I haven’t heard your complaints over the tax break for NASCAR, which is expected to cost the treasury north of 40 million dollars. Or how about the “other” tax-deductible pump for men with ED?

The thing is, as a former federal tax litigation attorney and a potential presidential candidate, you know better than to make charged statements and unnecessarily politicize breastfeeding any further.

But, then again, perhaps I’m wrong otra vez and you are even smarter than I think. Are feigning ignorance to mobilize and polarize your base? Perhaps follow in Mama Grizzly’s steps?

Sca-ry.

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¿Aló? Señor George Solomon?

This call is in reference to the same matter, basically to say bravo to ESPN for swiftly dealing with Franklin’s inappropriate, unethical and rude behavior. When I first read the headline, which basically said he was fired for calling a female reporter “sweet baby,” I immediately thought of my viejo, who calls younger women in the office “mija,” shortened vernacular for “mi hija,” Spanish for “my daughter.”  I was thinking this would be a learning moment for him.

But then I read more about the conversation and was appalled to learn that the woman in question was sideline reporter Jeannine Edwards; that the incident took place at a meeting in Atlanta, Georgia, prior to the Chick-fil-A Bowl (ironically enough), and that at the meeting, Edwards was talking to ESPN announcer Rod Gilmore about his wife Marie Gilmore, who was recently elected as mayor of Alameda, California. (Ha, more irony: Mayor Gilmore was the first black woman to serve on the Alameda City Council) AND … that when Ron Franklin joined the conversation, he told Edwards, “Listen to me sweet baby, let me tell you something …”

I thought that was bad enough, but ay, dios mío. When Edwards objected to his tone and word choice, Franklin allegedly responded, “OK, then listen to me, a—hole.”

Is this how you understand the incident? I called Edwards to no avail. And now Franklin is suing ESPN for wrongful termination. If so, please, please promise to share with the big honchos of the Disney-owned enterprise that Lola from Arizona and women from around the world are watching.

I’m sure Mr. Sexist will come up with an explanation as to why he demeaned Jeannine Edwards. Perhaps he’ll feign ignorance or come up with excuses for his use of sexist language in the past as well.

It’s one thing to call someone you love “sweet baby” in a genuinely endearing way, or an a—hole an a—hole, and a totally different thing for a chauvinist to call a female colleague “sweet baby” in a condescending tone AND then an “a—hole” for objecting to being treated like a piece of meat.

Some men claim to be “involuntarily sexist,” but I don’t buy it. As they say, ignorance of the law doesn’t make one any less guilty, no? You see, my hubby thinks of  “mija” as a term of endearment, despite the fact that I’ve told him muchas veces that it’s inappropriate and demeaning to use the term in the workplace and, mind you, especially with women with whom he’s not related. I have yet to meet anyone who wants her boss to call her “my daughter.” C-r-e-e-p-y. In an effort to accommodate me, he’ll sometimes use “sweetie” instead. Not good. Are you following me?

But while my viejo has some work to do in dealing with his deeply, culturally rooted and internalized sexist language, Ron Franklin’s remarks are beyond sexist, and as a media professional, he’s totally out of line. His words were stupid, for sure, but also evidence of the pervasive objectification and sexualization of women, particularly women in the workplace. Not to mention women in sports.

So, thank you, Mr. Solomon, for listening. We have bigger pescados to fry right now here in Arizona, but please know we care. And we’re watching.

1.

2. I will become more engaged in the PTA. I’ll find the courage to tell the president, vice president, treasurer and secretary that there are more efficient ways to raise funds than to have 10 parents selling 25-cent popsicles and pencils before and after school. I’ll also tell them I know the silent auction at the holiday party was rigged. And that sucks.

3. I will be a better neighbor. Instead of sending an e-mail to the HOA to complain about the Martinez’s four pickup trucks parked in their driveway, or the plastic flowers adorning their lawn, I’ll volunteer to help them organize a yard sale to empty their garage and, as a present, I’ll buy them some real plants from the HOA-approved list.

4. I’ll donate more for scholarships. Instead of fuming over an organization giving scholarships to the friends or relatives of its board of directors, I’ll send them my two cents.

5. I’ll be more disciplined about my nest egg, for my kids’ sake. I’ll keep track and quantify all those “unofficial loans” to my tío Pepe, my nephews and my in-laws. I won’t finance luxuries people can’t afford. No exceptions.

6. I will be more assertive. Come September, instead of making excuses not to participate in the office’s hot salsa contest, I’ll suggest we add Chunky Pace Salsa and canned tomato purée to the list of banned ingredients.

7. I’ll be more politically active. I’ll add the links to the Arizona House and the Senate streaming video services to all my e-mails and Facebook page. If I attend a political rally in 2011, I won’t passively walk along the throngs of demonstrators; I’ll make and carry my own sign. And I’ll finally tell my cousin Adela why waving that gigantic Mexican flag of hers at immigration rallies is not a good idea.

8. I’ll be more resourceful. Instead of arguing with nouveau-riche, taxed-enough-already relatives over politics and the Obama administration, I’ll simply send them the bill for their share of what costs the other half of the family to keep tía Conchita off welfare.

9. I’ll keep up with fashion and upkeep my closet. I’ll break out of the habit of freecycling and wearing my friend Monica’s hand-me-downs from four seasons ago. If I must freecycle and purge my closet, I will only give and accept season-appropriate attire. What am I supposed to do with the summer dress she gave me last week? Store it for seven months? Mi casa may be su casa, but it’s not a Goodwill drop-off center.

And last, but not least … suggestions, anyone? Send them to lola@latinopm.com.