It’s 11:50 pm, December 30.

It’s entirely possible that 24 hours from now, I’ll be fast asleep. New Year’s tends to be that way. More than ever this year, I’ve heard friends complain bitterly about how much they hate the holidays (namely: Christmas), which makes me incredibly sad. I wonder if anyone would ache to hear how much I hate New Year’s?

Nah. No one likes New Year’s. It’s a holiday hung with unrealistic expectations, that’s the real hangover. And then there’s the next day, full of promises. The other day, I watched Sophie play with the new magnifying glass someone gave us for Christmas (after she stamped her nose red with her new teacher kit and started calling herself Rudolph) and considered the life examined. What a crappy time of the year for that — after all the overindulgences. Atop my inevitable list of soon to be broken promises: 

Stop starting sentences with “it’s”. Organize the house. Straighten up my office. Keep the car clean. Teach the girls the value of organizing, straightening and cleaning. Get my eyes checked. Put all the laundry away. Figure out a way to be nice but firm with Sophie so she respects me in public and so the public respects me — and so she still wants to be my BFF. Spend more quality time with both girls and Ray. Ditto for the dog. Stop buying stuff. Read all the books I’ve bought but haven’t read. Stop wasting time on Facebook. Figure out a way to eat healthy and exercise simultaneously. Be nicer. Garden. Learn how to size photos and put up links. Get Sophie all the help she needs in school, but not too much. Wear my grandmother’s jewelry. Find and buy silver clogs. Work less. Work more. Put makeup on once in a while. Stop being so vain.

Never make another resolution.