If we'd had any sense, we'd have set our calendars to begin and end the year on an actual planetary/solar event, such as the equinox or the solstice. The new month would start then, the new ear would make sense, and, quite frankly, I'd do exactly the same amount of reveling. Which is to say, none at all.
But for those of you who are recovering from last night's escapades, I will, nonetheless wish you a happy New Year, and hope you are not subjected to the indignity of Hoppin' John as wrought by most cooks (no matter how tasty the recipe looks, no mater how simple and yummy the author claims it is, the stuff is not fit for human consumption).
I have made, and continue to make, no resolutions for the upcoming year. Planning is not my strong point, and my follow-through, weaker still. If you have made any, though, I wish you success with them, and with any other endeavors you may plan for this year – so long as they do not involve doing anybody else harm (although, if it involves publicly humiliating and/or removing from office a select group of politicians, I may have to ask for an invitation to come along and assist). Diet, exercise, spending more time with family… all nice options, and I'm sure somebody out there has come up with even more useful ideas for how to improve himself, and thus improve his life. For me, it's still WYSIWYG. Crazy, often grumpy, covered in cat hair and flour, I'll never get by on my looks or my charm, but at least I'm loved. That is, I am if biting my ear, shredding my furniture, and coughing up hairballs count as signs of affection.
The new year is supposed to be a time of reflection, of revelation, and of hope.
Good luck with that.
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