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Ahem. I feel as though I have things to say, but I couldn't tell you what they are if you chased me through the village with torches and a pitchfork.

It was Christmas. Whatever. It was actually a lot less bad than previous years (thank you, one-gift-only rule! I am such a genius for coming up with that one.) Husband and I had a long talk on Christmas Eve, wherein we decided that we are both unhappy, but not really sure what to do to fix it. I have finally figured out that he is unhappy because when we got married, he expected me to stay fun, carefree, spontaneous, interesting Jane. I, however, courtesy of two babies in 18 months, morphed into sensible, practical, harried, mostly depressed Jane. He's not liking that one so much. That girl is gone. Dead. Buried. He needs to learn to love me as I am right now, instead of wishing I was still some previous incarnation of myself.

Long talk on Christmas Eve was followed by a Christmas Day of puke. A particularly virulent gastrointestinal something has ravaged my entire family - first my dad, then me, then Husband, and now my mother. Only my 88-year-old grandmother and the girls were spared, thank goodness. Oh, the carnage. I haven't been that sick in ages - I would rather eat my own toenails than vomit. Seriously. I'd rather eat someone else's toenails than vomit. We're just now starting to recover.

The children have been fairly well-behaved, or as well as can be expected when the only adult supervision comes from the couch in the form of vague groaning. I miss Husband, who left mid-day on the 25th (I think - I was lying in bed in the fetal position at the time) but was struck down before he even got home. He's back at work today, but it's hard to communicate when we're in different states. I wish I could call, but my cell phone doesn't get reception here (damn you, Sprint PCS!) and I never know when he's working or not. I want to be able to talk to him - I want to see him. We've got a lot to talk about - I want to get started already!

I'm making a New Year's resolution, which I never ever do. Mostly because they suck. Also because I can never keep them. And they suck. But.

2008 is The Year Of No More Soda. Period. It is also supposed to be The Year Of Losing 35 Pounds, The Year Of Good Hair, The Year Of Moving, The Year Of Falling In Love Again, The Year Of Renewing Vows, The Year of Financial Planning, The Year Of No More Debt... you get the picture. But that's seriously a lot of shit, which is why I never make resolutions. So, 2008 - no soda for you! Not one single drop of those fizzy lifting drinks. No more Dr. Pepper, much as it pains me. I will not drink it from a can - I do not need it, Sam I Am! (A little too much time with my children, perhaps?)

It's also going to be The Year Of Me. I'm not quite sure what that means, but I feel like if I can focus a little more on the things that make me happy (whatever those are), then the people that I love will be happier, too. Or not. But it sounds like a good plan to me.

Did you know that Dr. Seuss is filled with vulgar language? We received a copy of Mr. Brown Can Moo. Can You? in the Tank's stocking. In it, we are told that a rooster says cock-a-doodle-doo. In the last 72 hours, this has come out as so many variations on cock, caca, doodie, dookie, etc. that I am having a hard time not laughing. Because then, Mommy, why are you laughing? Do you think it's funny when I call my sister a "doodie-cock"? Well, let me do it again! And again! Ad nauseum, ad infinitum. Stupid fucking Dr. Seuss, always acting so child-friendly. I see right through you, you old lecher.

You're a doodie-cock.