It was the first day of a new decade, yet it began like all others, save the fact that I felt like someone had beat me repeatedly with a tire iron while I wasn't looking. Our house had been commandeered the previous night by a throng of reveling teenagers, leaving my husband and me to ring in the new year sequestered in our room -- one we had redecorated for the occasion with a couple of kitchen chairs positioned opposite the miniature television, circa 1996, in what stagers call a "conversation grouping." Of course, possessing a finely honed attention to detail and being long on preparation, we also remembered to bring in a TV tray to hold the little hot dogs wrapped in doughy stuff. We Bergs sure know how to party! In all honesty, I didn't exactly witness the dawning of the new decade; rather, I was left to rely on hearsay. I fell asleep somewhere during Daughtry's 16th set, long before Dick Clark made his Rockin' New Year's Eve cameo. As for my headache, I blame ...
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