New Year’s Eve

All over the world, except maybe in the Far East, people are getting ready for, well, IT. The Big Bang called New Year’s Eve, where we do solemnly swear, that next year, this time, we WILL, by George, really, truly – do, be. be, do, go, live, love, learn. It’s never too late and you’re not dead yet, right?

Well, at least not until the far side of midnight, and all that wine and champagne has turned into whine and remorse of the “I so did not…” – variety.

Uh – yes. You did. If you haven’t yet, then you very likely will. In this part of the world, people are getting ready for parties everywhere, dressing to the nines to impress friends of friends who will probably hurl down your LBD later, in either a figurative or a literal sense.

I’ve known New Year’s parties that came close to ending in divorce, and even a few that did. I’ve certainly been to a few parties, back in my wilder days, where the hostess was hellbent on showing off her Hostess With The Mostest skills, the kind that involved linen napkins, fondues and four sets of silverware, and that’s just the dinner.

Naturally, a situation like that brought out my loutish post-punk tendencies. A few friends and I gave each other incredulous looks and decided that New Year’s was emphatically not the time to play at being Grown-Up and Civilized. It went quite a bit like this:

Eff off, Elsa Maxwell! We shall be loud and obnoxious and sing ALL the words to Bohemian Rhapsody! Hanging halfway out a fifth-floor window and at the top of our lungs! We shall play air guitar on expensive white wool sofa cushions, and since they’re expensive – and white – then wtf – let them drink Merlot! We shall make X-rated lesbian seduction scenes at midnight, while our boyfriends look on in awe and glee, and the uptight “grown-up” girlie wannabes look on in horror. We shall drink all the host’s single malt Scotch and breathe things like “you know, that wound-up bitch has got to be the lousiest lay on two continents. I’m only two floors below, you know…” into his disbelieving ear.

Precisely how that New Year’s Eve party ended is a little foggy in my memory, Harsh words were exchanged at around 4 AM, I believe. It was a good five years before I was on speaking terms with the hostess again.

That I considered that particular party to be among the best ever in says something, but I’m not sure I like it.

But this year, this time, this one will be different. No more wild New Year’s parties for me. Not with Damien the Sequel around to hit me with Major Remorse tomorrow morning. The following two words shall never be mentioned the same sentence – children and hangovers.

But hey – it’s New Year’s. Time to party like it’s almost 2009. Time to party, because something tells me we’ll soon have a worldwide hangover of epic proportions and several years’ severity on our hands. And since it’s all downhill from here anyway, we might as well have fun while we can.

Tomorrow will be a different world. Tomorrow will be another day. Tomorrow, lest we forget, it will be –

Bloody January again.

Love the ones you’re with, for tomorrow we’ll be dead and not on our feet, because the floor won’t stop moving.

Tomorrow you will find me, wrapped around the street lamp on the corner of Remorse St and Repent Ave. I’ll be the one with confetti in my hair, mascara under my eyes, and Charmin under my heels. I’ll be repenting all that Primitivo, and I’ll be remorseful that I’ll be one year closer to my final curtain, and that means I’ll have one year less to love you all as you deserve.

You may forgive me in a few days, especially if I don’t spill the Primitivo on your white woolen sofa.

Happy New Year’s!