National Clean Off Your Desk Day
No, really. That’s a thing and it happens each year on the second Monday of January. Problem is, I don’t technically HAVE a desk at the new Sun Journal digs so what was I supposed to do in order to observe this important event? I’ll tell you what I did: I thoroughly cleaned somebody ELSE’S desk, but did I get any gratitude back for it? Nossir, I did not. All I got was “Where the hell are my files? What happened to my credit cards, tax documents and photos of my family? What kind of lunatic ARE you, anyway?” I tell you, that guy totally ruined the holiday for me.

National Static Electricity Day
This one was celebrated Jan. 9. To participate this time, I went around the house dragging my stocking feet on the carpet before sneaking up behind my cats to give them a little jolt. All in good fun, right? Turns out cats celebrate a different holiday on Jan. 9. It’s called “Claw Some Fool’s Face Bloody And Then Refuse To Use The Litter Box For A Week Day.” I celebrated the affair mainly with peroxide, band-aids and a mop.

Mr. Drew and His Animals, Too
Turns out this critter keeper is looking for new digs because he has so many things that slither, slink and slime now that he needs more space. It occurs to me that Mr. Drew can have any space he wants, including my own house because if he comes over here with all those tarantulas, scorpions and other horrors, I’m going to vacate the premises pretty fast. Enjoy my bed and big screen TV, you weirdo. I’ll be at the Motel 6.

Storm Stud
A lot of people have been yucking it up in my general direction lately because they’ve seen my byline on so many of the ice storm weather stories from back in the day. “Haw haw,” they snort. “Looks like you had to write weather stories every day, loser! Haw haw!” But you must understand that I didn’t mind writing about the ice storm very much because it was a bona fide weather event, with real chaos and everything. When we get around to publishing a series titled “The Mildly Inconvenient Two-Inch Dusting of ’01” or “The Perfectly Ordinary Summertime Heat Saga of ’08,” THEN I’ll get offended.

My shame is great
Remember that time I confessed to watching “Blossom” and all the fun you had calling me little girl names for the rest of the month? Good times. I regret nothing. But I recently started watching a more modern show that is so horrifically bad and so embarrassingly corny, that this time I won’t publicly admit to it. I mean, this show is such an abomination, if I told you the title, you’d end up calling me Brooke or Peyton for the rest of the year. Who needs it?

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