Do you want to be known as . . . the host who hovers, vulturelike, with a garbage bag, waiting for the right moment to snag the crumpled pieces of Christmas wrapping? A garbage bag -- which, when you think about it, is not so far from a body bag -- that telegraphs the end of the party, the end of the holidays, the years rushing past, fading health, death, decomposition?

Sounds like somebody forgot to take their Cymbalta.