Happy New Year. Wanna see half of my boob?

Dave continues to read his Stephen King book and I simply dust around him, and sometimes over him a little . People tend to gather dust after sitting in the same spot for hours and I am not complaining, but I AM an awesome housekeeper - even if I have to do all of it myself.
Yesterday I took the tree and every single last bit of evidence of the holiday down from every single nook and cranny I managed to stuff holiday things into. The tree is now lying stark naked and embarrassed on the driveway. Word on the street says it will magically disappear in a few days but no one is really sure when. Christmas tree recyclers are, unlike Santa, not tied to any particular day or time. You just have to be grateful they show up at all. Well, you don't have to be, but unless you want to end up in a camp, you should be. Somewhere in this town there is a all-powerful wrathful recycle God, but I don't know where or worse - I don't know when he may show up unexpectedly with his stone tablet, thunderbolt and REJECT sticker, so I'm not taking any chances.

We had a thousand bottles bit of champagne on New Years Eve, spent a little time with the neighbors and then I forget what happened after because I was drunk am getting old. I think we fell asleep. This assumption is based loosely on the fact that I woke up the next morning in bed with a headache. Who knows what happened before that. It's one of life's great mysteries, which if I end up remembering, could end up being one of life's big embarrassments. So, let's not dwell on it. Besides, New Year's Eve is usually pretty uneventful now, compared to those good ole days of our youth,  so I'm sure nothing much happened except maybe my mascara was running down my face or my lipstick was smeared. Or my shirt was unbuttoned.

See, I have been having this little problem with wardrobe malfunctions lately, you know just like Janet Jackson, only I don't get paid a dime for this display. In fact I end up owing people money to cover the post traumatic stress therapy. Anyway, for some reason, I regularly go out with either a button on my blouse unbuttoned (and it's always one that opens around my breast area,) my pants unzipped or my skirt tucked up into my tights. The last unfortunate incident happens less frequently and I USUALLY catch it before anyone sees, but that's only because I have actually walked around this way at least once in my lifetime and so I take extra care to make sure this doesn't happen again. Still. It occasionally "almost happens," and that's bad enough. I blame the Chinese clothing and its notoriously shoddy workmanship and the Chinese "designers" who refuse to believe that SOME women in the world have hips and breasts, but to be truthful, it's probably more that I'm blossoming into some strange mutation of my former self. But only some of my parts are. Therefore I am currently a size 6/12/18 Petite and I just walk around with it. Uhhhhhh huh. You know what I'm talkin' bout.

So apparently we are supposed to come up with yet another set of resolutions I have no intention of keeping because I'm sure all you faithful readers remember that I am a QUITTER and I am damned proud of it. But if I were to come up with some resolutions, like if I had to in order to escape the recycle camps (if after the attempts to seduce the guards with my wardrobe malfunctions didn't work) I would offer these for your consideration:

• Drink less wine in ugly glassware. One should strive for elegance even when staggering and talking loudly.
• Fix the bra strap that keeps falling down and stop blaming this on my one larger breast (which I blame for the unbuttoned blouse as well) Love you misfit boob!
• Stop growing a beard. I haven't got enough hair on my chin and upper lip to grow a decent one anyway. Yet.
• Stop swearing. - hahahahahah you didn't believe that one did you? Fuck off.
• Exercise more. Add one more "slow sit down" and one "bed rollover" per day.

Ok, that's enough. And also? Yesterday doesn't count.