Not that there weren't some good times 2009, but honestly? We're not going to miss you all that much.
We almost learned to use the remote control, but lost interest in the first 15 minutes of everything that wasn't figure skating, Clive Owen or Californication.
Not that we were immune from all of pop culture's charms. We jostled outside a theater in New York to throw ourselves at a handsome English actor, shared a moment backstage with a handsome English rock star and celebrated the 445th birthday of an English playwright who, as it turns out, was a bit of man candy himself.
April in South Beach was pretty close to perfect despite the invisibility a B-cup imposes in that part of the world. We had to climb over the woodwork to fetch our own napkins at the tiki bar while bartenders carved fresh fruit into zoo animals for the Suburban Executive's drinks.
The summer brought us planeload after planeload of middle schoolers who left wrappers, dirty socks and half-eaten pizza in every room of the house, but who reminded us of what is really important: being able to send our children off to their parents.
We answered some of the big questions like who buys 64 ounces of ketchup?
We brought you epicurean delights like Peeps martinis, tried to trick our husband into buying us a vacuum cleaner for Mother's Day and shared the kind of parenting advice for which actual results may vary.
With your support and comments, our efforts to be funny were often completely derailed. Your digressions carried us far from shore, sunk the paddles and disabled the satellite navigation system.
But you are still here, and for that we are vowing even greater
security measures things in 2010.
Happy New Year,