Ushering out 365

I just saw my postings for December...a grand total of three. It's shameful. All that I can say is that Christmas ate me. Whole.

Glad that's over with, aren't you? I wish I were kidding, but I do look forward to the weeeee hours of December 26. That thought is usually the only thing that keeps me from losing my mind the week prior (I will not even mention last Christmas). Just sitting back mowing on leftovers, picking up stray bits of wrapping paper, smiling that you don't have to endure this sh*t show again until next year.

The lights are pretty, though. I always appreciate the lights.

So, everything is tucked neatly under the belt; Thanksgiving, Christmas, the first blizzard. But, I'm not out of the woods yet. New Year's Eve, which is usually the drunken denouement of the holidays, a night I look forward to because of its calming, celebratory role, has recently become something to fret over. And, of course, it is my own fault. I don't know how to say "no."

While you all are going skating, enjoying cheese plates, maybe even in your pajamas, I will be at a "private" party of god knows how many guests, dressed in a goddamn bustier and who knows what kind of make-up, reading poetry that I wrote in the darkest hours of my obsession and depression, while OTHER POETS WHOM I DEEPLY RESPECT wait their turn to read. Published, well-known Manhattanite people who, I am guessing, have never wiped baby puke off of their turtlenecks or scrounged in their car looking for enough change to buy a roll of toilet paper.

I can only take comfort in the knowledge that most people are afraid of street dogs. And even more afraid of funny women who carry pocket knives and giant cameras.

God help me.

Did I mention that Oprah's network will be filming the event?

I really feel a New Year's resolution coming on...