Tonight is New Year's Eve. Who cares. I really don't care much for celebrations that require downing an extraordinary amount of alcohol till the wee hours of the morning and ruining a full next day by throwing oneself onto the toilet seat of some stranger who you met in a crowded bar. I have never had a New Year's date. Well, I can't say never. It just has been a very long time. Last year I spent my New Years watching the BRAVO channel, live with that deliciously funny host Andy Cohen and the dysfunctional yet glaringly rich Housewives. Oh what a treat that was. This year I am saddened that there is no Andy Cohen, there is no Housewives, except for reruns and there is no Jay Leno. I don't care for Lettermen he is too liberal for my taste.
A few years ago I decided to venture out for New Years. I got all sexied up. Whatever the hell that means. I went to a party and had a few glasses of champagne then made the mistake of leaving with a female friend, who I will call Esmeralda, to make the rounds at the crowded and overbearing bars. We decided to make our final stop at a cool place with live music. I was introduced to some of her delightfully funny gay friends who thought I was the cat's meow. Remember I don't like cats. But they were enough to give me an ego boost to flirt with that darling younger guy at the bar who I just could not keep my eyes off. Well of course our eyes met and before I knew it we were engaging in flirtatious conversation. I will call him Smarkle. It was at the height of the moment when he asked me if he could buy me a drink that I had the overwhelming feeling of the need to excuse my self to go to the ladies room. "Oh," I thought to myself, "I could be getting that New Year's Kiss after all." As I finished up my primping, I was relishing in the fact I was looking so adorable and had just enough of a slight buzz to engage in some more heavy flirtation. But it was not a moment to soon that the boost of self confidence, adorableness, engaging buzz and my inner most flirtiness flattened into a deflated tire found at the side of the road. There it was, my worst nightmare, memories of high school, my friend Esmeralda, maddeningly engulfing the lips and face of Smarkle. I have never seen anything like it. I had only been gone for minutes. How could this be. I don't think I remember either of them ever coming up for air in the next few hours. I spent the next few hours with Esmeralda's gay friends making fun of her and taking bets on whether she would bed Mr. Smarkles like she always does. I didn't really care. My balloon had bursted.
So here I am. Another New Year's Eve, alone. Well not alone but with my dog. I heard Esmeralda got drunk and threw up, all over Smarkles mind you. I am glad I wasn't there for that, vomit makes me nauseas. Go figure. Happy New Year!
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