I think I have a Starbucks problem.

I might have an espresso machine at home, a coffee pot and two half-pound bags of Starbucks brew. But I don’t like brewed coffee, nor am I a barista who knows how to craft an espresso, steam milk and add a bit of foam to make a homemade latte. Plus, I hate reading directions.

When I go to work, I think wouldn’t a morning latte be great?

I think again and realize I want to hold out.

I buckle down and work a few hours until the lull of the late afternoon arrives when there should be a nationally mandated naptime. Again, I start agonizing over the latte.

But I only want to buy one a day and I can make it until after work.

Right?

I sit at the computer, typing up my stories, while in the back of my mind the desire for caffeine stealthily creeps toward the front of my mind. I’m typing and thinking, no! You have to wait!

Sometimes I give in to the wicked caffeine pull, but then I feel guilty.

If I get a second latte after work, that means double the money, or 8 bucks instead of 4 bucks. It also means double the calories.

I’m not a coffee drinker. I’m a hoity toity latte drinker, caramel syrup and light on foam, no whipped cream.

If you were to ask my dad, buying a latte a day is plain crazy.

What my dad doesn’t know is that I go crazy all day waiting until I can have my latte.

Yep, Starbucks has snared me into its logo, the siren that tempts me with the call of wanting to be in a different place, escape the real world and sip at the ever addicting cup of comfort.

†

My dog Zoey, a miniature dachshund not quite two years old, is quite clever. Sheís apparently figured out Zen, or how to live in the moment.

She likes to grab her Big Dog teddy bear by the neck and jump onto my stomach when Iím lying down reading a book. She twists and turns in a half-circle until she finds the right spot to settle into Zen with a teddy bear larger than her foot-long frame.

Zoey reclaims her bite on Big Dog, a white stuffed dog with floppy brown ears, and sighs. She moves her feet back and forth and flutters her eyes, letting out another slow breath.

As I read, I love the feel of her front paws rubbing feathers on my stomach. Itís as if she is recalling pushing at her motherís tits to release the milk, feeding on the memory of the closeness of her siblings. She sinks into me, not awake, not asleep, just her paws moving steadily.

She needs this teddy bear dance, something she does with Big Dog, Lenny the Leopard and Bunny, her other two stuffed animals. If she gets rushed or too busy, she does the dance. She does it before bed, a ritual of relaxation before sleep.

One evening when she and her golden retriever friend Sophie were brought together for a weekend trip, she tried three times to achieve Zen.

Again I was reading, and Zoey wanted to take Big Dog onto my stomach, but Sophie or one of us required her attention, so she jumped back off the couch. Finally, when she could return, I felt her sigh release.

Zoey has figured out the art of being in the now, something I had to read about in philosophy books and repeat to myself before I could incorporate the concept into my life. I got so caught up in trying to achieve. I looked toward the future with plans. I looked at the past with regret, only if I hadnít done this or decided that.

With Zoey, I see that, in some ways, she knows more than me. She has the instinctive ability to lose herself as our bodies are tied together with the love of a girl and her dog. She knows how to be herself in the moment, whereas I had to read books about overcoming shyness, developing social skills and establishing healthy relationships, required it seems after growing up painfully shy and withdrawn. And even then, I am often self conscious, not able to lose myself in the present. That is, until itís Zoey and I, her in her Zen moment and I, lost in my book.

I love getting a new daily planner every January with clean, unmarked pages. I put in my friendsí and familyís birthdays and check what day mine falls on. Until the 1st, I get impatient with my previous yearís marked-up planner wanting my new blank slate.

But this blank slate does not work so well with how I handle New Yearís resolutions.

Every year, I want to lose 10 pounds and exercise more. I plan to start jogging, to eat less and to eat healthier. But I quit my resolution sometime in January, figuring Iíll start in the summer, when the days are longer and seem to create more time for exercise with hot days to curb appetite.

What has happened with my repeat resolution is that Iím actually starting to take it seriously, turning it into more of a goal. Slowly, and I mean very slowly, I have tapered off my consumption of sweets, added in more healthy foods, including an apple or fruit for a snack, and stopped eating at the just-before-feeling-full point.

I guess what has happened to me is Iíve had a New Decade resolution for the 2000s.

Now itís 2011 and another decade, but I canít figure out my resolution for this year or the next 10. I certainly have goals, like publishing one of my novels, going to church every single Sunday, reading the Bible from cover to cover and painting enough paintings for an art show.

But I donít know what kind of resolution to have that would work for 2011, changing my behavior in the span of 12 months. Should I lose 10 pounds on top of the five I have lost? Should I run a mile a day? Should I do volunteer work, something I keep meaning to do?

I guess, though itís Jan. 1, Iíll have to keep thinking on that ñ so much for starting off the year with a bang.

Yes, I do not have a New Yearís resolution except to figure out one to have by the end of the month. All I can say is better late than never.