You know it’s been a long time since you’ve posted when you have to log in to your host site.  But here I am!  How the hell are you guys?  How’s 2013 treatin’ y’all so far?

I had grand plans for the new year.  But, then again, I always have grand plans for the new year.  I love a new year and its brand spankin’ new freshness.  I love the annual chance to start over, to reinvent the parts of your life that are bummin’ you out. Plus, December is so very crazy.  It’s cathartic to pack up all the Christmas stuff and metaphorically pack up the year, too.  While figuratively and literally packing, I come up with wonderful resolutions, get excited about them and line them up on my counter like bright, shiny little resolution dolls.  I love my little resolution dolls.  I like to brush their hair, change their outfits and give them names like, “Buy Only Organic Food,” or “Read At Least 30 Minutes A Day,” or “Exercise Three Times a Week.”  My little dolls and I thoroughly enjoy each other for about two weeks.  Then, inevitably, one of the dolls falls out of the grocery cart when I reach for a bag of Cheetoes and is left behind.  Another gets pushed underneath the chair cushion when I plop down and decide to watch Downton Abbey instead.  Still another gets caught up in a lycra-ed web of sports bras, smelly shorts and lies I tell myself and kicked under the bed.

Sometimes I’ll fish out one of the dolls around mid-March, dust her off, and set her back up on the counter.  But most often the dolls stay lost.  And, the thing is, it doesn’t really doesn’t bother me.  Perhaps it should.  But I try not to get caught up in shoulds.  After all, a new year is always on its way, and then I’ll get all new dolls.

Wow.  That metaphor went on for a really long time.

So.  Anyway.  Here’s some things:

1.  Hillary Clinton testified before the Senate this week about the mess in Benghazi.  Her hair looked like shit, but she was incredible.  Something pissed me off, though.  When introducing his network’s segment on the hearing, an anchorperson described Clinton as “holding her own” before the Senate.  Well, what the flippity-flip does that mean?  Does it mean that she didn’t dissolve into a quivering, blubbering pile of hormones, boobies and runny eyeliner when she had to speak before those big, scary men?  I’m pretty sure that’s what that means.  And I’m pretty sure the same anchorperson didn’t give John Kerry a nice little verbal pat on the bottom for “holding his own” when he also appeared this week.  What a condescending poophead.  And what a moron.  It’s Hillary Clinton, moron.  I’m sorry, no matter what your political affiliation, you must admit that this lady has had more than enough experience in Washington to afford her the ability to “hold her own” all up and down that mother.

(I realize some may think me a hypocrite for pointing out the shittiness of Hillary’s hair during her testimony.  Some may think I wouldn’t make it a point to comment on a man’s hair, which I vehemently deny.  Kerry’s hair looked like shit, too.)

2.  I want to live inside an episode of Downton Abbey.  I just can’t decide if I would live upstairs or downstairs.  Each episode leaves me in a frustrating state of ambivalence (which is something I would say in a British accent if I lived inside an episode of Downton Abbey).  If I lived upstairs, I would never disappoint Pa Pa like Sybil has.  That poor man deserves a medal and a glass of port the size of his head for putting up with that nonsense.  Also, a cigar made from Bryson’s dried and shredded remains.  Ungrateful little Irish fartknocker.  And I would get down on my knees every morning to thank the heavens above that my mother is Lady Grantham, if only because I get to see her give that awesome pursed-lipped, saucer-eyed tip of her perfectly coiffed head to me at least once a day.  I would never snot off or get all eye-rolley like Mary does, who is another ungrateful fartknocker. I guess I would just spend my days being quiet at dinner, being respectful to my Ma Ma and Granny and wandering the grounds of the Abbey, looking pointedly off into the distance.  And…I guess that makes me Edith.

3.  Gill and I have two social events coming up in the next month or so.  One is a Hawaiian luau-themed birthday party, and the other is a charity benefit for the local food bank.  I’m borrowing some Hawaiian attire from my friend, Jodi, who took the opportunity to make fun of me for living in Florida and not owning any of my own.  I suppose we should go ahead and buy some Hawaiian crap.  It is so prevalent here.  In Florida.  Which is not Hawaii.  But you can’t tell anybody that.  Because being a Floridian and owning a decent collection of Hawaiian attire makes sense in the way that things sometimes do when they don’t make sense so much that they come around and make sense again.  Y’all know.

The charity event is called the “Blue Jean Ball,” and all attendees are asked to wear…wait for it…blue jeans.  Upon receiving the invitation, I told Gill I’d have to go shopping for some new “nice” blue jeans.  Y’all see where this is going.  Gill looked at me in genuine puzzlement.  What did I mean, “‘nice’ blue jeans?”  Blue jeans are blue jeans.  They’re casual attire, meant for casualness.  Comfort.  They’re blue jeans!  Due to their very nature, there are no “nice” blue jeans.  Sorta like pizza or Mexican food.  There is no “good” pizza or Mexican food.  It’s just pizza and Mexican food.  Their mediocrity, their inability to be elevated beyond simply filling up the space in our universe’s “Pizza” slot and “Mexican food” slot and “Blue jeans” slot, their very non-niceness defines them (please reference the previous section’s mention of Downton Abbey’s “Edith”).

Gill didn’t actually present this argument to me in all its glory, but I could see it coming together in his big ol’ brain.  I didn’t have the heart to tell him how much a high end pair of this average garment could actually cost.  I also decided not to tell him about the “nice” jeans I saw last week at Nordstrom’s.  We’ll just keep that between us.