While my washer and dryer were hard at work and my dishes were in the final rinse cycle, the ball dropped to ring in the New Year.
I had just called my kids in to watch the countdown while simultaneously thanking my lucky stars that J and Ry had missed the pre-New Year’s performance Miley gave, where she awkwardly cradled/fondled a midget, while she donned a pair of upper-vagina-accentuating gold sequin pants that did her bod no justice and oddly reminded me of what Molly Shannon would wear when she kicked and yelled, “I’m fifty,”
After wiping the sweat off my brow, emptying my glass of champagne, and making a mental note to switch the clothes from the washer to the dryer, I blew my hubby (who was sick and spent the night matching me shot for shot with a bottle of Nyquil) a kiss and then shooed our guests out the door before the clock hit 12:01. (PS I just realized I should have saved the parenthetical in the middle of “blew my hubby a kiss” until after I completed the sentence. Poor guy — only gets it in a grammatical error.)
Anyhoo, it dawned on me, New Years used to be a romantic night (see When Harry Met Sally) … so did Birthdays, Anniversaries … Saturdays. Some of those events still are, but most of those would-be enchanted evenings have been replaced with J’s travel baseball, taking Ry to the movies, and trips to an arcade and a gourmet burger joint.
I recently analyzed the not so subtle differences in what I found hot before marriage and after marriage and now it’s time to take a good hard look at the evolution of the date night. Then vs Now:
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As the holidays and New Years roll around, I’m reminded of how insanely crafty and on the ball some moms can be. They make peppermint bark and post things on Pinterest that look professionally done. They make perfectly decorated cookies and design splendorous holiday scenes and dioramas. Really? a diorama???
For better or worse … that’s what we agreed to, right? Who new when we signed up for this by saying “I do,” that our mates would become so annoying?
Everyone loves to tell you how to get rid of stubborn fat, like it’s so easy. “Put down the donut.” “Go to the gym.” “Be less stressed.” “Drink 30 gallons of water each day.” “Get 23 hours of sleep.” “Cut out carbs.” “Do cardio all day, everyday.”
I’m aware that living in South Florida, has its perks. Our kids can play outdoors all year round. Our spring/summer wardrobe can be extensive and therefore chicer than most people’s spring/summer wardrobes, and one could do an outdoor hot yoga class 2/3rds of the year …. 
I have to tell you guys something pretty scary, pretty anxiety inducing, pretty unbelievable … Wait, I have to take a deep breath and say that again without all the cracking in my voice (like the one I hear around the house each day) … My son is officially a tween. Everyone knows, this time in life is a major turning point — a time of self exploration, acclimating to the social mores of tween/teen culture, learning which hair products work best, and feeling like a total loser (whether you have tons of friends or none at all).
I once wrote an 
OK, here goes. I feel like I should take a deep breath and then spew out everything I have to say in one long run-on sentence that would totally impress you if you weren’t reading rather than hearing me do it. Yes, something is lost in the not hearing it part, but just imagine that’s what’s happening so you can be impressed when I’m done ……………………………. (that’s me sucking in air like Ace Ventura – did I lose you on that reference?) …………….. (still going) …………………………………………………………………………………………
Let’s face it, if they gave Anti-Aging 101 in college I probably wouldn’t have taken it, because I would’ve been all, Why the hell would I take that class? I’m a young and I’m quite certain I look super hot in my BCBG body suit, boyish yet overpriced flannel and vintage Levis cut-offs — Eddie Vedder would be impressed. I’ll never look back 10 or 25 years from now and regret not taking that anti-aging class or regret tanning on the tar-top roof of my dorm. Whatever! (Which I would say while making a W with my thumbs and first fingers. (Please, I’m a Gen Xer and it was the 90s. All references are accurate and most of them, embarrassing.)