There’s lame and then there’s New Year’s Eve lame. I’m almost certain I hold the record for the lamest, consecutive New Year’s Eves in the history of modern mankind (and by that I mean starting in the mid 1970’s when Dick Clark began hosting his New Year’s Rockin’ Eve).
Even as a teenager my New Year’s Eves were less than awesome. I didn’t spend it at a party or making out with some guy in his car at the stroke of midnight. No, I spent it at home wearing my flannel Lanz of Salzburg nightgown, spritzed with Love’s Baby Soft cologne, eating what was left of the, now somewhat stale, Christmas cookies, watching my parents and Dick Clark show off their math skills as they counted down from ten.
It didn’t get any better in college. Yes, I was sort of an adult and at that time the drinking age was 18, but I was still home for the holidays and that meant I had to abide by my parent’s house rule which was I had to be home by 10 p.m. because, according to my mother, everyone knows the drunks take over the roads at precisely 10:01 Central Standard Time.
After I became a fully formed grown up I got the grand and glorious idea of throwing my own amazing New Year’s Eve party. Why hadn’t I thought of this sooner? If I couldn’t find a great party to go I should create my own.
It was the early 1990’s and Martha Stewart’s Living magazine had just come out. Using Martha as my muse I was hellbent on creating an elegant New Year’s Eve for friends.
I had a signature cocktail, an hors d’oeuvres station and a dessert table all set up in my less than 1,000 square feet home. (This meant my hors d’oeuvres station was the kitchen counter and my dessert station was an ottoman, but still I know Martha would have been proud.)
Everything went great. I was the hostess with the mostess until 10 p.m. That’s when not one guest was left at my house. Yep, two hours before the new year everyone had bailed on my party. Unbeknownst to me, there was a “cooler” party with tequila shots, and a hot tub happening.
My “friends” had done the old “we’ll swing by this shindig first, get it out-of-the-way and then go to the real party” switcheroo. I rang in the New Year with tears and eating what was left of the Martha Stewart goat cheese with pink peppercorns appetizer.
Thank God for babies because after getting married and having kids no one expects you to do anything on New Year’s Eve until your children are old enough to sleep through the night. (So, in my case it meant when my son turned five.)
It took an exciting New Year’s Eve full of surprises to make me grateful for all those years of lameness. I was flying from Dallas to Reno with my then three-year-old daughter and seven-year-old son. We were going to meet my husband who was already in Nevada working at his new job.
Mid travel sojourn a snowstorm of biblical proportions began pounding the Sierra Nevada’s and thus the plane, after what felt like hours of circling, was forced to land at the San Jose, California airport at 2 a.m.
We were on the last plane to land and were quickly told that all the hotel rooms, rental cars, you name it, had already been gobbled up by other stranded passengers. This meant we’d be camping out at the airport, but not in the nice part, the part where you wait for your plane. Oh no, we had to spend the night in baggage claim.
I was on the floor with my daughter sleeping in my lap and my son using my thighs as a pillow. I had taken the straps of my purse and used them to tie my kids to my body because I was afraid I might fall asleep and someone could try to steal my children. (Yep, there’s no paranoia like mother paranoia)
I never closed my eyes. I’d like to think it was because I was a good parent assuming a sentry like position over my kids to keep them safe. But to be truthful I know it was the automated, never-ending loop of “do not leave your bags unattended” that kept me from nodding off.
Finally, at noon the next day we made it to Reno. When I got off the plane I said a prayer hoping for all my New Year’s Eve to be lame. Lame isn’t bad. In fact, it gets a bad rap. Sure it can mean boring, but boring usually means you’re okay. All is well. Is there any better way to start a new year than that? I don’t think so.
Snarky in the Suburbs 