New Year’s Eve and I aren’t the best of friends.
As I noted in an old blog called New Year’s Heave:
I loved New Year’s Eve when the clock striking midnight was an excuse to snog every bloke within coo-ee. Now, not so much.
It’s too crazy, too fraught with small children, too exhausting … and spewing into a rosebush while staggering along a footpath trying to hail a cab is no longer my idea of a fun night.
Whenever I have ventured out in recent years I’ve found myself getting prim about all the scantily teenagers tottering past, slurring and cackling. Please let that never be any child of mine. But … ohhhhhh god noooooo … it will be, won’t it …
I’ve been a bit curmudgeonly with DD about going to some street with fab views of the fireworks tonight. I mean, I LOVE fireworks, they are awesome. But only when I’m really close to them and they’re exploding above my head like magic.
Fireworks from a distance and the palaver to get a spot don’t really do it for me. Way easier to carry a bottle of champers two blocks to my sister’s spa.
I’m not sure that’s entirely the right attitude to have with a new boyfriend. I think you’re supposed to pretend to be easygoing, but I’m a little rusty in the dating department.
And I don’t have the best track record with saying the right thing to men (or about them) at this time of year. I got into terrible trouble with my ex on New Year’s Day 2012 when I wrote a blog called Venus and Mars that noted:
My New Year’s Eve went something like this …
Cooked bacon sandwiches for Sprogs’ breakfast (to remove temptation from fridge for The Great Famine of 2012); did grocery shopping; bought Husband six-pack of beer for New Year’s Eve party; bought chooks 25kg bag of scratch mix; staggered to car with 25kg bag of scratch mix; washed and hung out two loads of washing; filled recycling bin with empty bottles and cartons; baked eggshells to make grit for chooks; assembled wraps for Husband and Sprogs for lunch; baked banana bread to use up manky banana supplies; baked biscuits with Sprog 2, who doesn’t like banana bread; shut back door 50 times to stop plague of mozzies getting in; shut front door 20 times to stop plague of mozzies getting in; killed lots of mozzies; threw out old magazines and newspapers; put crap away from recent car trip; cleaned chook shit out of chook house; sorted three baskets of clean laundry; unpacked and repacked diswasher; returned to supermarket for forgotten essentials: toilet paper, broccoli, sparklers and last shot of caffeine before The Great Famine of 2012; cooked dinner; washed Sprogs’ hair and painted Sprog 2’s toenails rainbow colours for New Year’s Eve party; copped grief from Husband for painting Sprog 2’s toenails (some sexualisation nonsense); went to New Year’s Eve Party; reluctantly abandoned third glass of French champagne after being reminded of designated driver status; drove Husband and Sprogs home from New Year’s Eve party; took Unisom; collapsed in bed at 11.50pm.
Husband’s New Year’s Eve went something like this …
Made craft turtles with Sprogs; played badminton with Sprogs, assembled worm farm with Sprogs; dug up backyard looking for worms with Sprogs; filled worm farm using cutlery and plastic bowls from kitchen; left back door open 50 times; left front door open 20 times; played badminton with Sprogs; played Battleship with Sprog 1; had a cup of tea; played Battleship with Sprog 1 again; played a little more badminton; ducked upstairs for nap; went to New Year’s Eve party; drank lots of beer; crashed in bed at 11.50pm after hoovering up contents of fridge.
Yep, there was quite a lot of resentment simmering in that relationship …
What are your plans for New Year’s Eve?
Song of the day: Prince “1999” (now THAT was a freaking mind-blown NYE – dancing to the song on the actual night in some sticky Newcastle nightclub)