12.30.02
’02, don't let the door hit you on the way out.
................

This, this was some year.

If it's all the same to you, I'll pass on a do-over. The ups and downs, I swear, '02 made a girl clutch the airsick bag.

I fretted about my job. White vans. My ever-increasing ability to sit through a marathon of "Real World"s I've already seen. Oh, and I planned a wedding, aka, the time I told Martha exactly where she could shove her Good Things. Two words: E. Lope. Look, it was only after I scaled an art gallery's fire escape — in my Vera Wang gown and heels, no less — that I became the Mrs. to my Mr. 'Twas a night that ended with ping pong, PB&J and sweet, sweet relief.

A few weeks later, I got laid off. And a few days after that, the honeymoon, drastically revised to reflect the no-money thang. Spent the 8-hour flight next to a brash, oversexed Irish woman packing duty-free whiskey and a penchant for the 3 a.m. feature, "Ice Age." Did I mention that my boy was sick? And that I couldn't stop crying? Yeah. Good times.

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