So New Year’s.

It’s why you’re all here.

But before we get to the penultimate moment, there was a shitload that occurred before the clock struck midnight.

The day that will forever live in infamy began at 9 am as I arose and went by the house to check on things (as I do periodically until it is sold) and pick up a few last things from the garage.  I should’ve stayed in bed.

The moment I opened the front door, my senses were assaulted with the smell of gas.  As I moved throughout the house, it quickly became clear that the only place the odor was strong was right by the front door.  The kitchen smelled fresh as a daisy, which made me think that perhaps it was some sort of residual smell from the carpeting I had been ripping up all week  but being the worrisome faggot that I am I immediately called the gas company and asked for a representative to come and check things out.

Less than a half an hour later, the swarthy buck arrived.

Less than 2 minutes after entering the house, he informed me that the copper who-see-whatzits on the stove had come undone and would need to be replaced.

Less than 30 seconds later, he informed me that the $4.95 a month insurance for gas leaks and the like did not cover the copper who-see-whatzits on the stove coming undone and needing to be replaced but he could go under the house and do a temporary fix until I could get in touch with a contractor.

And then — just when I thought things couldn’t get any worse — they did.   Swarthy gas rep  informed me that he would not be able to go under the house and fix the aforementioned copper who-see-whatzits after all because when he opened the crawlspace to go under the house, he had discovered it was standing in 5 inches of water.

Wonder-fucking-ful.

Okay. Not the end of the world.  Just call a contractor, get an estimate, and get the ball rolling, right?  Not on New Year’s Eve.

At this point it was 11am, so I figured I would take my daily Y&R break and let my problems pale in comparison to those of my friends in Genoa City.

Wrong.

The show had barely kicked off its feeble offering for the day when my phone rang.

It was Carly, telling me that she was back in the hospital with excruciating back and stomach pain and the doctors were preparing to do a series of biopsies on some spots they’d discovered in a CAT scan the day before.

And so despite having invited The Fella over for a  homemade dinner (which I had yet to start) and a movie (which I had yet to rent), I turned on the VCR to tape my show, donned my shoes, and trotted my sorry ass off to the hospital to do what friends do.

Not even noon and things were already halfway in the shitter…