The Ball Drops Along With The Penny
Dec. 31st, 2006 03:00 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
merrilyNew Year's Eve, and I've resigned myself to staying home and nursing my headcold.
In fact, I'm inappropriately happy about staying home and nursing my headcold, because my last five New Years Eves' managed to suck in different but equal ways, and this one, at least, will suck privately.
2005: End up at a party where the sex-lives of all the attendees have rather less than six-degrees of separation. Retreat to kitchen with bottle of wine and girls who find the situation funny. Stay until 4. Host proposes running naked across the (closed) highway. I sense that this will end in sex, and decide to demur, instead passing out on the couch. Crush agrees to escapade. Sex ensues in next room. Am not quite unconscious enough. Leave at 7 in the morning, and walk the two hours home.
2004: Ex is in town from Amsterdam, crashes at my place. We end up at a private party in someone's downtown club, where I am underdressed and ex is pointedly ignoring me. Night is crappy. Eventually I call it quits and find a cab to go home alone in, which ex insists--with a little too much relief--on paying for.
2003: Give dinner party. Home-made raspberry-vodka lemonade is a little too stiff, and maritimer-stomach-of-steel friend ends up passing out on couch @ 9PM. Her husband is not amused. I and rest of guests go to club, but on the way I realize I've forgotten both my ID and puffer, and therefore must return home to pick them up. Spend 11PM to 12:30AM on the streetcar, which is not awesome.
2002: Follow boyfriend to seedy club where dance floor is covered in broken glass; spend evening picking shards out of the soles of ill-advised strappy sandels.
2001: Almost die from allergic reaction to peanut sauce, at a dinner party I wasn't invited to, given by the friend of a friend's parents for their 60-year-old medical colleagues, where I was inadvertently the third date of a man who was busy trying to avoid the frowns of the father of the ex-girlfriend whose proposal he turned down. At the end of the evening, high on injected adrenaline, discover transit is closed, which doesn't matter because high on adrenaline, and therefore somehow manage to walk the three miles home. In my stilettos.
So. The prospect of staying home tonight -- cuddled into the ugly souvenir white hoodie that I bought for my grade eight graduation (it was the early nineties! clothes were bad!), eating chocolate, drinking beer, and watching the ball drop -- seems like a step up.
I hope, however, o my flist, that you all have much more interesting evenings.
In fact, I'm inappropriately happy about staying home and nursing my headcold, because my last five New Years Eves' managed to suck in different but equal ways, and this one, at least, will suck privately.
2005: End up at a party where the sex-lives of all the attendees have rather less than six-degrees of separation. Retreat to kitchen with bottle of wine and girls who find the situation funny. Stay until 4. Host proposes running naked across the (closed) highway. I sense that this will end in sex, and decide to demur, instead passing out on the couch. Crush agrees to escapade. Sex ensues in next room. Am not quite unconscious enough. Leave at 7 in the morning, and walk the two hours home.
2004: Ex is in town from Amsterdam, crashes at my place. We end up at a private party in someone's downtown club, where I am underdressed and ex is pointedly ignoring me. Night is crappy. Eventually I call it quits and find a cab to go home alone in, which ex insists--with a little too much relief--on paying for.
2003: Give dinner party. Home-made raspberry-vodka lemonade is a little too stiff, and maritimer-stomach-of-steel friend ends up passing out on couch @ 9PM. Her husband is not amused. I and rest of guests go to club, but on the way I realize I've forgotten both my ID and puffer, and therefore must return home to pick them up. Spend 11PM to 12:30AM on the streetcar, which is not awesome.
2002: Follow boyfriend to seedy club where dance floor is covered in broken glass; spend evening picking shards out of the soles of ill-advised strappy sandels.
2001: Almost die from allergic reaction to peanut sauce, at a dinner party I wasn't invited to, given by the friend of a friend's parents for their 60-year-old medical colleagues, where I was inadvertently the third date of a man who was busy trying to avoid the frowns of the father of the ex-girlfriend whose proposal he turned down. At the end of the evening, high on injected adrenaline, discover transit is closed, which doesn't matter because high on adrenaline, and therefore somehow manage to walk the three miles home. In my stilettos.
So. The prospect of staying home tonight -- cuddled into the ugly souvenir white hoodie that I bought for my grade eight graduation (it was the early nineties! clothes were bad!), eating chocolate, drinking beer, and watching the ball drop -- seems like a step up.
I hope, however, o my flist, that you all have much more interesting evenings.