I met my friend Delilah (a bona fide New Yorker per her fervant and consistent pursuit of shaved white truffles and Helmut Lang sample sales) for coffee in order to review her personal mission statement for 2009. Her statement consisted of 11 bulleted goals ranging from running a marathon to doubling her numbers in sales. Delilah and I were roommates for several years on the Upper West Side and let me say as a reliable reference, this girl doesn't mess around. I have no doubt in my mind that the .001 % of Americans who actually keep its resolutions is an elite group with one member-- Delilah. When she urged me to compose a personal mission statement for myself, I chose efficiency over responsibility for self and piggybacked my main goal on to her list: Bullet Point #12-- Find ms.eLLe a job in the city. Delilah will get it done. Even as I type she is shooting an email to her J.Crew friend to see if he will have a need for someone to write about pointelle sweaters or monogramming options. I told her to be sure to mention that I can come up with like 30 different words for the color blue in less than 60 seconds. Leaving Las Vegas has nothing to do with securing another teaching job, just another job. My goal is more likely to be met in Delilah's hands rather than my own. As proof of this, consider my I'M NOW THIRTY resolution list, which I simultaneously composed and countered the morning of my birthday while lying in bed staring at the ceiling. Running late for date...I should win an award for getting ready in 5 minutes flat. And, I'm wearing a dress. With a zipper up the back. Perfect for a second or third date except that it is, by design, the kind of dress a woman needs her husband to zip up for her. More later...