Every year at around this time the inevitable happens: a New Year. Everyone gets excited, their expectations high, their mood buoyant. Then as the hour nears and reality sets in, they realize that there is no way they can face the New Year without more alcohol. Luckily there is plenty of champagne-related beverage available. It flows as fast as the staff can pour it into a plastic two-piece champagne-related-beverage-holding devices. And as with breasts, the saying also holds true for champagne: more than a champagne glass-ful is wasted.
Every one is dressed to the nines, the judges rarely awarding a perfect ten. They have had their nails done, even their toenails, although with a single-digit wind chill factor, no one is likely to see them. A brave few are willing to show that the toenail color matches the fingernail color, and even braver if they show that it matches the color of their panties. They have had their hair done. Someone with a one-word fake French name where you’re not sure if it’s their fake first name or fake last name charged $150 to color it, highlight it, curl it then straighten it. They use lots of product, but will not say which product they used. And that is just for the guys.
The girls look resplendent in an 800 dollar dress, with a .04 cent paper hat. Even less if it is the wrong year.
There is a lot of glitter. There will be glitter for weeks on end coming out of places that really could use a little sprucing up anyway.
But first there will be dinner. Shall we go Chinese? NO! Not upscale enough. What about Italian? NO! Too family-oriented. Mexican? Please. French! Ooh-la-la that’s perfect! We will finally go to that place that sounds like a poodle. We will take out another mortgage on our home, even though it is underwater. Soon we will be elbowing hermit crabs out of the way to live in a seashell. But it is New Years! Live a little for god’s sake. “Tonight we have Prixe fixie menu monsieur! Everything is included, even the mortgage application!” That sounds deLIGHTful, even though we will never finish it. A leaking doggie bag is the perfect accessory to an 800 dollar dress.
“Honey,” she muses, “what is your New Year’s Resolution?” Usually I try to have something ready for my New Year’s Resolution that will be meaningful and point me toward the future. Like getting involved with an illegal substance that will require me to resolve to get into rehab NEXT New Years. This year I said to myself (since everyone else has stopped listening to me), “Why should the New Year’s Resolution always be about me? Why shouldn’t it be about others?” And so this year My New Year’s Resolution is for others to be nicer to me.
And then we have to watch the Australians crow about how they are the very first to celebrate the New Year. Did they happen to go, “Check us out Down Under! The Real Estate bubble burst HERE FIRST!” They did not.
This year they let Dick Clark do the countdown, and I won’t make any jokes about the stroke of midnight, or anything like that, no matter how clever it would be. Suffice it to say that the last time I did a countdown like that, immediately afterward a doctor stuck a camera up my ass. And the time before that when I did a countdown like that, immediately afterward I was arrested for DWI. So obviously no good can come of it.
New Year’s Day, I am busy ringing in the New Year. Then I realize that the ringing is in my ear, and goes with a ballbuster of a hangover. When I go to the gym, there are about 40 fat people that I have never seen before. They wander around in an officious manner, with clipboards and pens, wearing brand new jogging outfits. After two or three weeks, the clipboards are gone, the jogging outfits are gone, and even the people are gone. I assume the fat is the one thing that remains. This could be due to hastily conceived New Year’s Resolutions that are lacking fine print. Peoples’ expectations are once again too high. Start low like this: “My New Year’s Resolution is to cut 50% of the fat out of my husband’s diet.” Stuff like that….
Incidentally, every New Year’s Eve a ball drops in Times Square signifying the passage of another year. The same thing also happens to me. The first ball dropped in 1907, but that was probably by accident. This year the ball is made of Waterford Crystal, and thanks to Dick Clark’s countdown, almost broke into a zillion pieces.
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