Life Lesson #41: Auld Lang Syne: When New Year's Eve Was Fun!

There are certain times when expectation far exceeds reality. And there are those moments that no matter how many times we are presented with the same set of circumstances, our hopes and impending disappointment are the same.

I’d like to throw New Year’s Eve into this bag of heartache.

I used to love this holiday. Probably because Grandpa Al set the bar way too high.

My first midnight-madness memory goes back to before my little brother was born. I had to be around four or five years old. My grandparents had been given babysitting duties of my older brother and me. Our fun little fiesta also included my Great Grandmother Marie, who had just come over from Italy to have hip replacement surgery.

Earlier that day, as we often did with Grandpa Al, we put on a play. He was The Detective, my brother The Burglar, and I, The Damsel in Distress. Because I was The Damsel, Grandma would paint my eyelids the most beautiful shade of blue I had ever seen, my cheeks an almost fluorescent pink, and my lips the brightest red imaginable. Because it was a special day, Grandma promised me I could keep my makeup on ‘til I went to bed. Hours later, as midnight approached, I still felt gorgeous. I probably looked more like a little white girl that had been sold into the sex slave industry.

I remember wearing a hot pink cone-shaped party hat with glitter all over it and hopping around with a long piece of silver streamer. Grandpa Al was wearing a complementary hat in green and dancing along to some band Dick Clark had just introduced. Grandma was passed out on the couch, her head bouncing up every few minutes, only to nod back down again.

I was too young to understand what the whole shebang was about, but that didn’t stop me from having a grand old time. I found great enjoyment in wrapping my Great Grandmother up in the giant silver streamer; running ‘round and ‘round her wheelchair as she clapped and blew on her noise maker. My brother was making snow angels on the rug, singing a ditty we wrote especially for her:

Noni Marie from Ital-y!

That’s pretty much the only line, come to think of it. But we were young. And its four more words than Paris ever wrote, and she’s on the radio! So whatever, we liked it.

When midnight passed and Grandpa Al made giant banana-split Sundays for us, I figured this was standard NYE tradition. My mom must have been diving into a giant scoop of strawberry ice cream covered in hot fudge too, as well as little boys and girls and everyone else all over the world.

I don’t really remember the next few years, but middle school and early high school meant spending my (then) favorite holiday with my ‘family’. I was not, in fact, related to these people. Instead, my fake ‘aunts’ and ‘uncles’, aka faunts and funcles, consisting of my parents’ friends from high school and college. My fousins were their children, although closer in age and relationship to me than any of my real ones.

My godparents often threw these parties, and it was perfect. All the parents would hang out to eat and drink for hours in the dining room. We kids would basically do whatever the hell we wanted. Which included such memorable moments as:

1. Getting one fousin to eat all my godfather’s live goldfish.

2. Watching What About Bob? three times in one night.

3. Stealing a bottle of champagne and not being able to do anything with it since no one knew how the hell to open the damn thing.

4. Getting my dad to do an impression of Rick James.

The next great - and probably last - New Year’s Eve was spent in a bunch of hotel suites in White Plains. It was also the big 99 to 00 switch. No one knew what to do, and last minute, a bunch of us decided to just get some hotel rooms. It was freshman year of college, and since we were all used to enjoying the generally unsupervised high life on our parents’ dollar for the past four months, having to worry about house parties or not getting into bars seemed ridiculous. This was the next best thing.

We were all there; Madonna, Westchester, H.F.T., The One, Mico and Flower, as well as thirty or so other friends from high school. Other kids had the same idea, and the place was basically transformed into a dorm for the night. If the world was going to come to an end, at least I’d be going down with people who knew me best.

I think that was kind of the high point. The next few years are relatively unmemorable. Then just plain bad.

First year out of college, my boyfriend at the time passed out before midnight. I was so pissed I almost broke up with him right then and there.

By the next year we were broken up, and being it was a relatively fresh wound, I spent it hysterical and not nearly intoxicated enough.

Last year, a huge party led to a possible roofies incident, a massive couple’s fight, and several falls on the cold marble floor of a giant church that was rented out for the night. I put myself to bed by 1 am.

Which brings us to this year. And the inevitable, oh my god, what are we going to do, it’s going to be soooo fun has turned into, seriously, what couch can I park myself on, drink straight from the bottle, and wear my favorite sweatpants?. And it’s not just me having these sentiments. It seems to be pretty much everyone has had one too many NYE let downs and wants to just throw in the towel.

Life Lesson #41: I used to love New Year’s Eve. Because it was impromptu, silly, no unnecessary need to make sure everything turned out awesome. Huge plans weren’t made and massive parties were not orchestrated. It was just people getting together to have a good time, enjoy each other’s company, and maybe pull some pranks on one another.

So this year, I think I’m going to join Liberace at a low key party. No expectations for a brilliant evening or the best night of the year. What I might do, however, is put on a hot pink cone-shaped party hat with glitter all over it and tie Liberace up in a long piece of silver streamer. That just might ensure a successful evening.