Well, I'll tell you.
It is over when the box of milk chocolate turtles you stashed in your nightstand on or about December 17th, which you have been eating for breakfast each day, before you even get up to pee or insert your contact lenses, is empty.
(Is exactly like when you finally pull the tiny felt Jesus-in-the-manger out of the advent calendar on Christmas Eve, except you get more caramel drool on your white pillowcase.)
This event happened today.
I mean, sure, there are still some mini oreos, a couple snickers bars, and some gummy bears left there in the drawer. I'm not going to starve. (I am acting on the assumption that with gestational diabetes testing, no news is good news.)
But the turtles are GONE.
When I wake up tomorrow, after a night of debauchery that (cross my fingers) includes me repeatedly beating Jake at X-box Trivial Pursuit from the comfort of our own bed, under the big down comforter (that can only be used two months of the year because it it so warm. Usually around Valentine's day I wake in the night, drenched in sweat and cursing, and throw it across the room), while each of us drinks from our own bottle of Meier's Sparkling Pink Catawba (Cold Duck will do, as well), a new year will have dawned (or will be dawning, since I still don't have any curtains on the bedroom window, and the sun is a harsh and early alarm clock. The desert sun is unforgiving. I think I might have permanent retinal damage), there will be no turtles to unwrap and scarf.
Which means it is time to pack up the nativity set, and start brushing my hair before noon.
Is anybody with me?
Happy new year.