But I am, by God, shooting for a sugar-free January.
Last night in our staid N. Berkeley neighborhood, there was actually NOISE on New Year's Eve. The House of Millennials next door (seven banding together to pay the $7000 monthly rent) had a big party, and I could hear them counting down the seconds until midnight, when they let off a bunch of fireworks. Thumping rap music, shouting, and then, around 1 a.m., silence. This morning: the massive the clatter of bottles being dumped in the recycle bin.
We were tucked into bed at midnight, Jerry snoring and me wondering if we were going to have to put in a bomb shelter under our driveway to cope with Trump.
Onward.
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