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Like many of you, I hate New Year’s Eve. It’s the worst holiday on the books for many reasons, including:
a. The champagne — I can’t abide the stuff. It’s overpriced and underwhelming–not to mention sickening. Even the dry stuff. Nothing will make me ill faster than a glass of White Star. Yet somehow it’s become associated with festive occasions and refinement. It’s not New Year’s Eve without a midnight champagne toast. Blech. I’d rather drink gasoline. Or gin. Same diff.
b. The dress code — You can’t drink sparkling, pretty, festive champagne without being sparkling and pretty yourself. Polish the shoes, press the shirt, find the cufflinks, de-lint the jacket. Shave. Feh. If I’m going to all that trouble, there better be a corpse laid out in a lucite casket when I arrive.
c. The enforced gaiety — All right, here’s the game plan: we’re gonna go out, pay an exorbitant fee for a prix fixe meal, drink our complimentary glass of crap champagne (see above), get hammered by 11:00pm, and scream real loud at midnight while we watch reruns of Dick Clark celebrating in Times Square from an hour before. Sounds like fun, doesn’t it?
Frankly, the only New Year’s Eve events I ever enjoyed were at the home of my friends Trey and Dana. Every December 31st, they’d host a party, and every year, the same twenty of us would show up–twenty people who’d come of age together, yet never seemed to run into one another any more. That one evening was the only time of the year I was sure to see all the folks who’d once meant so much to me.
But Trey and Dana broke up ages ago, and the parties abruptly stopped. So did the fun.
Which is why the boyfriend and I decided to throw our own New Year’s Eve party, which, I’m happy to say, was quite a success. Have a gander, won’t you?
sturtle [dot] com 