Couldn’t help myself, I needed to show you guys this picture that was actually in a CVS bathroom. I felt it set the mood for a festive New Years Eve.
I have always had this fantasy on what New Years Eve should look like. I think the Love Boat, Days of Our Lives or Gossip Girl put this unrealistic expectation in my head. First, it should be a ball. Not a “let’s have a ball” but literally a party with ball gowns, tuxedos and snooty waiters walking around with hors d’oeuvres and champagne. By the way, can anyone spell hors d’oeuvres without googling it? I never can.
Alas, my dream New Year Eves came true in 2000. I was an Assistant Manager at one of the 3 Express stores in the city. One of our seasonal hires was what one would call today a “real housewife”. She didn’t need a job, she just did it on a whim because she was bored. We had gotten along very well and she worked hard during her shifts. The Thursday before New Years Eve she handed me a large envelope.
“My boyfriend and his 2 friends host a party at the Hyatt every year. It’s only $20 to get in per couple and $89 for a room. Hope you guys can make it!”
I opened the invitation like Ralphie getting his little Orphan Annie pin. Oh my God, it was an invite to my dreams! The last 2 words on the invitation made my heart skip a beat: Dressy Attire. I stood there with my eyes to the sky thanking God over and over. Looking back down at the invite, I turned the back over to discover a letter and a word at the bottom. It read in the smallest of print: B GROUP. ‘Well,’ I thought, ‘like college, I am going to get the same diploma when graduating that the A students are getting, this works’.
That was the one and only “ball” I have attended for New Years Eve. It was everything I had dreamed of and more. I never saw the housewife again nor an A, B or C invite again.
I have 2 kids and you can’t (nor shouldn’t) party like a rock star. This year, we are going to my friend’s NG’s house. I’ve asked NC if her and her family want to share an Uber to and from. Unfortunately, I don’t think they make Ubers large enough for 7. Hell, I’m struggling with booking an Uber at this point. Yesterday, I sent NG the following text:
Since I live in the suburbs and have my own car, my extent of Ubering is my sister booking it for us. With my luck, I’m sure I’ll book a white molester van with tinted windows. When Ron (our driver), with his thinning, greasy comb over and wire-rimmed glasses open the sliding door for our families, I will have a gut feeling we should run the other way. This feeling is only validated when I see there are no seats and duct tape and vaseline, sitting in the corner.