It's New Year's Eve.
As of this morning, we were going to go out and party, party, party...
But everyone's kids are sick so we're staying away.
And that's when you know you're not single anymore.
The chance of your own kid getting sick strikes fear into your heart and that far outweighs any fun that might be had.
We usually do chicken wings on New Year's Eve, but good grief, have you seen the price of wings?
I'm not even talking about wings that are already cooked and sauced, I'm talking about the raw ones.
Four dollars a pound.
Which means that by the time you get enough wings to make them worth heating up the oil for, you've already spent $20. Then an extra $10 for the sauce (because there's just one kind of sauce out there that's so, so delicious). Then an hour to fry them up.
I could go over to Hooters and get the same amount of wings with a lot less work for less money.
So, we're going to eat sour cream chicken and watch the Chick-Fil-A bowl and pretend we're eating chicken wings and stare at our Christmas tree that's on it's way out tomorrow morning.
I might crochet or something.
And go to bed as soon as the game is over.
Because I'm an old lady.