An inauspicious beginning to a new decade

Hey, happy new year/decade!

I started to write this post as if I was addressing 2020 as a real person, but I quickly realized that sounded lame, and although I’m not averse to writing lame stuff, that’s not the best way to kick off a new year/decade. 

Only now I’ve painted myself into a corner, IYKWIM.

Um…

OK, how about this. I inadvertently left a 40% tip on last night’s dinner tab, a not-so-inexpensive one at that. I have an excuse — several of them, actually — and I was tempted to use at least one of them, but then I saw a segment on the national news tonight about the “Shock & Claus” practice wherein folks leave servers exorbitant tips around Christmas. After hearing how the practice has impacted the recipients, I decided that I should just view my “mistake” as an unwitting way to possibly help someone whose situation might well benefit from it. (Full disclosure: it was nowhere near the >$1000 tip in the story linked above.) 

We did “ring in the New Year” — although technically speaking, the only ringing was in my ears as a result of dancing in front of some big honkin’ speakers blaring out an excellent rendition of Garth Brooks’s Friends in Low Places (and you haven’t experienced NYE until you’ve done one in Texas along with several hundred happy patrons ranging in age from 21 to none-of-your-business and most all of whom are dressed in formal wear and most all of whom know all the words to that song and most all of whom are more than happy to assist the very excellent band in performing the very excellent song) — but as my penance for not getting into bed until almost 1:00 a.m. I awoke with a voice that would make Johnny Cash sound like a soprano in the Vienna Boys Choir. Thank you very much, cedar pollen.

The day was gloomy, threatening rain that never managed to appear, but we used the cloudy and cool weather as an excuse to build a fire, watch some of annual Twilight Zone marathon, and feast on a late lunch of ham, black-eye peas, and cornbread. Life could be much, much worse, y’know?

2020, you young rascal, you…even though I know you still won’t gift us with flying cars or a non-tweeting president*, I have high hopes for you. Don’t let me down.

*Don’t get your undies in a bunch. They ALL tweet.