In which the mere change of the year does nothing for me. And it is, of course, all about ME.

At the awesome combination wedding reception/New Year’s Eve party I attended, someone wished me “a great 2007.” I replied that I was looking forward to 2007 because it certainly couldn’t be any worse to me than 2006 was.

Open mouth, insert foot.

Today is January 4th. This year so far, I have already had the stomach flu and learned that AmmZon’s landlord — who is also her mother — has evicted us, and that we have to be out of this, our cozy little house on 2nd Street, by February 1st.

Four days, people!

I have no idea how much money I have left, because I spent a more than I intended to over the holiday, and because what remains is all in AmmZon’s checking account. [I, you may recall, no longer have an account of my own because it was garnished, a result of the financial difficulty of the last year or so of my marriage.] I had thought that I had four or five weeks of money left, with which to buckle down and find that job I don’t really want…

— But turns out that, after you spend a few months NOT spending a third of your life dragging your ass to some bullshit job where you perform tasks that really have no meaning, you develop a soul-deep revulsion toward the whole idea. Getting a 40-hour-a-week job of any stripe just grates: getting up, dragging one’s ass through the morning routine, into the car, across town, into a building. To a desk. Push pixels. Rinse and repeat.

— Work as we know it is a bad fucking idea, it really is. We spend a lot of time convincing ourselves that we like it, that it’s fulfilling, that we enjoy it, blah blah blah, but the truth is that it sucks and everyone’s happier when they don’t have to do it.

— Actually, I did think of something I want to do, just this morning, while I was reading the back of a bag of pita chips. But I can’t do it because I don’t have any money. (Or experience in the industry.) See, there used to be a restaurant in town called Hykie’s Falafel. (I love falafel.) Later it was sold and became Baba’s Falafel. The last guy to own it — Richard, I think his name was (and damn was he CUTE) — would roll back in to town, open Baba’s and run it for a year or so, then close it suddenly and leave town again. (Cute FLAKE.) He hasn’t been back for awhile, but I bet all the stuff is in storage around here someplace.

— But see, that’s the kind of job I want these days. Roll in around nine or ten, serve lunch, spend the afternoon cooking and running the business. Serve dinner, close up at nine, go home. Hire some cute kids to help me. Find a morning-oriented kid, some Future Manger of America, to open up for me so I don’t really have to show up until lunch rush starts. I could take afternoon naps at whim. It would use all my skill sets — cooking, running a business, hiring, firing, being nice to customers — and plus, I love falafel.

— But I don’t know how to get a food service license, I don’t have the recipes, I don’t have any Middle Eastern food service contacts, and above all I don’t have the money to rent and renovate a store front. And since most of the marriage’s bills were in my name and haven’t been paid since June, well, it’s not like I’ll be getting any loans in the next four years. Oh well. Nix the restauranteur idea. Even though I do have all the skills and I really love falafel.

…Now. What the hell was I saying?

Oh, yeah: I thought I had more than a month left to get a job, and that everything was pretty mellow, that this shiny new ’07 was gonna be my year… how could it not be, after last year? But now I have to get a job immediately and a place to live, and I was just puking the day before yesterday so it all seems rather abrupt and cruel.

Change is good, right?

Right?