My husband Scott and I were born in 1956 which is the Year of the Monkey.
Like those of our ilk, we were looking forward to celebrating what was also our 60th birthdays.
We thought it would be our good luck charm.
Then Lainey Lui spoiled it all by announcing that being born in a "Year of" Year meant bad luck for 365 days. The only way to possibly buck the trend was to buy everyone dinner on your birthday.
I found this out after we had celebrated Scott's birthday, and son Stef had paid the bill.
Shit, I thought. I should have checked the social media on New Year's Day.
I paid for dinner on my birthday but it was too late. The damage had been done.
By July 1st, I had lost my editing job to a predatory publisher from India, got ear cancer and felt my bones literally melting within. I had moved from a professional job to a retail one, and began to be referred to as "the older lady with the limp".
Then I lost that job due to globalization.
It seems the executives at the Hudson Bay Company had been watching too many Heritage Minutes and went off exploring new lands looking for quality retail space, and needed start-up capital.
Thanks to Facebook, I found out about a million of my friends had died or had become sick during the year, and most of them were younger than me.
In addition, thanks to Facebook, I found out a lot of dogs died, and a few went missing making me sad all the friggin' time.
I spent most of the year trying to lose forty pounds so I could have boob surgery, and despite working in retail, only lost ten pounds, which I gained back over Christmas by looking at a sugar cookie.
I turned to CNN for company only to discover that we were on the edge of nuclear war.
When the hell did that happen?
Oh that's because our clear-eyed American friends elected a reality star with crayon-colored hair and tiny hands, a man whose only qualifications for the job of President of the United States was starting a feud with Rosie O'Donnell and boxing women in the vagina.
There are so many days over this past year I'd hoped he would meet misfortune at the bottom of a box of KFC.
Remember Mama Cass? It can happen.
I am not alone in my melancholy.
Everybody's year sucked the big one.
We can never get back those Olympics, or reanimate all those people run down by truck-wielding terrorists.
We will never find good jobs again. Truly, the only thing a first class education will get you now is a free Happy Meal after your shift.
We can never get back Bev, and Marcie and Jeff or put Ben Mulroney back in the Cracker Jack Box.
We can never unsee the myriad images of our Prime Minister shirtless, popping up like a Where's Waldo cardboard cutout, and fat shaming women in strapless wedding dresses.
And we can never again read a newspaper that is written by humans.
We can't go back, so we must move forward.
We need to kick 2016's ass right out the door, and bring in a new common spirit of love and affection.
Who are we kidding, right?
Ain't gonna happen.
We can no longer kid ourselves that things will be alright if only we could buy the world a Coke.
That shit gives you diabetes and if you drink enough of it, will ensure you will have your
feet amputated by the age of 40. On the plus side, it can get out the worst skid marks in your toilet bowl.
The fake news sites are right.
We need to fill up the water bottles and buy a food de-hydrator.
We need to arm ourselves and build eco-friendly outhouses.
Cause in 2017, shit is getting real.
Our neighbors to the South have elected a quarter-witted narcissistic buffoon who not only can't remember his last sentence, but who's in love with a former KGB agent who poisoned his best friend.
He is surrounded by a King's Court filled with Botoxed Blondes, and generals whose favorite movie is Doctor Strangelove.
Unless he is impeached or chokes on a chicken bone, stat, we are all in peril.
Time to get to the Army/Navy for a gas mask and get inside.
It gives me no comfort to know the only person who can save the world is Michael Moore.
Hmm maybe all those dead celebrities knew something.