I feel I should make up a story of romance and adventure, seduction and sorrow for my New Year's Eve to add some interest to this blog. For instance, I could say that as I was browsing the champagne selection at the local booze hut, a stranger, in a stocking cap and a slashing scar across his eyebrow, approached me. He had a gravelly whisper and eyes that peered into my very soul. He murmured, too low for the clerk picking his fingernails with a switchblade to hear, "Tonight is the night. The red duck scampers across the cerulean lawn."
And with that, he touched my face and decamped swiftly. I was left changed, knowing this coming year would, indeed, be the time the red duck scampers....
Except what really happened (because I couldn't get myself together enough to figure out what I wanted to do)? I had a yummy dinner with the family, got a truly upsetting email, spent oodles of time on the phone discussing said email, harassed my mother and sister until midnight, then harassed the rest of the family (including the animals) while drinking scuppernong wine (no one finishes the champagne in our family before the fizzies go, and we don't cook with it). Then went to bed.
It's like Bum and I are old ladies. And not terribly interesting old ladies at that.
Or accountants in Afghanistan.