Any visions of sugar plums dancing in my head in the weeks leading up to Christmas are long gone.

H-i-s-t-o-r-y.

All I’m seeing now are sightings of sharp cheddar cheeseballs in varying stages of eateness (is that even a word?), wondering what’s to become of them.

Better Half’s one wish for 2022 is that I resolve to clean out the refrigerator, surrendering to the trash any evidence of cheeseballs or cream cheese or all the other cheeses sliced and shredded and blocks of that I drag into the house in mass quantities during the holiday season.

He honestly wonders that if I’d ever do more genealogy research, if there’d be proof of mice in my family tree.

Refrigerator status such as it is, I have now officially entered the January zone, that murky place sandwiched between the most wonderful time of the year and now what’s there to look forward to?

W-2 forms in the mail?

I generally hate myself most this time of year because I’m one extreme or the other, which I attribute to being under the spell of Christmas carb and sweets overload.

Honestly, one more Christmas cookie and I can’t be accountable for my actions.

Incredibly lazy or annoyingly project-oriented is how I am this time of year.

Or wanting to be.

Or thinking I should be.

True to the arrival of a new year, I am tugged by two masters — one says get busy, Janice, get going. Chop, chop.

The other says better test that couch, Mrs. Dagwood. Give it another quality control check with that new red blanket throw you got for Christmas, that incredibly soft pretty red velvety one with the fluffy white trim that could double as a Mrs. Claus cape or serve its intended purpose well and get high marks in the nap-accessory category.

Either scenario — do something or do nothing — frightens my long-suffering Better Half, who dons his protective anti-Janice armor when the calendar flips from December to January.

He is ready to do battle with this person and her fluctuating new-year mood swings, especially when it comes to undecorating.

There’s something about five trees of varying sizes up and adorned in a house and that effort expended to do so that makes me yawn just a little more than usual when I contemplate the thought of taking all that stuff down and stashing it away in some semblance of order, if that’s even humanly possible.

I tend to get a wee bit post-ho-ho-ho crabby.

My resolutions, meanwhile, are more like threats I make to myself than goals.

Alright, Janice. No sugar. No bread. No Steubenville Bakery drive-bys with your nose out the window, inhaling whiffs of flatbread.

“Do you hear me?” the head conversation goes as I give myself a cross between a scolding and a pep talk.

I have a pretty poor track record when it comes to making and keeping resolutions so I offer to make them on behalf of other people. I do like to be helpful.

Not to mention any names of people in my household, but one person who is faithful to remove a full trash bag from the garbage has a poor follow-through when it comes to replacing it with a new trashbag.

It’s a bad discovery to make after you tossed coffee grounds.

Nag, nag, nag.

Some things I’m glad about in January — “retiring” all my holiday outfits from my snowman skirts and Santa leggings to jingle bell earrings and light-up necklaces.

This time of year I keep what I call my “fat black pants” at the ready in my winter wardrobe until I can get back down to my boxing weight. That starts with finding all that cheese a new home.

Have a happy productive, lazy new year.