The Bell's Done Rung, Maw

I had every intention of spending my New Year's Eve in full-on Boycott Mode.

This Mode goes into effect more often than I would care to admit. It involves me, anti-social-ness and lots of time spent in the company of Demon-spawn Cats. More to the point, it involves me Not Spending Time With The General Fuckwads Of The World.

It is commonly known as a very low bullshit tolerance.

So I stocked up on orange and cranberry juices (all the better to mix my vodka with) and made plans to sit- yes, SIT, at my friend Renee's house. And if things got a little crazy... well, we might even bring out the Sex and the City DVD's.

So at 8:30 I arrived sharply and promptly and on-timely at Renee's door. I had made a moderate effort on my appearance, knowing that no matter my mood it is vastly inappropriate to ring in the new year clothed in yesterday's pajama's.*

*It is, however, appropriate to ring in the new year in your birthday suit. Now back to your regularly scheduled programming:

My appearance could never be described as stunning or New-Year's-Eve-Club-Worthy; I had managed to put on a clean pair of black slacks and top and wore my standard flat hot-pink shoes. I had done well with the makeup, applying more than the usual amount because, again, it is also inappropriate to ring in the new year in yesterday's mascara. I had straightened and smoothed my not-so-luscious, though abominably long, locks. In short, I looked only slightly better than a normal work day.

But no matter.

I was spending the celebration of the New Year on my friend's couch. And I used to live with Renee'. AND, let's note, she has seen me rising from the depths of the porcelain goddess after a night of tequila. So impressing her is not that high on my list of priorities. But I have an ounce of superstition in my bones and the thought of ringing in the new year un-bathed, un-coifed and un-adorned IS JUST NOT ACCEPTABLE.

My efforts had been mirrored by Renee's with a complimenting pair of dark jeans, knit top and silver shoes. WE ARE STUNNING EXAMPLES OF FASHION-ISM, PEOPLE. BOW TO OUR FASHION SENSE.

And in our vast cuteness, we sat on Renee's couch and ate delicious homemade chicken enchiladas.

Until 10pm.

When we decided that, yes, we would most definitely be needing to get the hell out of dodge.

So we rang up our friend Meghan and confirmed a meet-up at Disco, a club in town famous for it's truly indescribably bad drag queen shows and weird techno room. By 10:45 we had applied excessive amounts of lipgloss and were sitting with Meghan (thinkingsilentlyaloud.blogspot.com) and Beachgirl (lostbeachgirl.blogspot.com) as well as our friends Al and Mi.

Wherein the following commenced:

1) I spilled a full leg spreader ON MYSELF.
2) We saw the worst drag show EVER to be performed. EVER.
3) I spilled a glass of ice ON MYSELF.
4) We danced.
5) I spilled a wee bottle of champagne ON MYSELF.
6) I ate at Waffle House
7) I got in an argument with the Waffle House staff. BECAUSE THE FUCKWADS WERE ON A "CASH ONLY" NIGHT AND FORGOT TO INFORM THE RESTAURANT PATRONS.
8) I showered and scrubbed and showered and scrubbed and, oh, showered some more before finally crawling into bed at 3:30am. Quite the evening for an old bird like myself.

And finally, NUMBER NINE:

I got a text message from the boy, THE BOY I WROTE MY VERY FIRST POST ABOUT, the boy I removed and subsequently reconciled with 10 months later but never wrote about because it was weird and strange and sometimes I like to keep things for ME, and this text message said:

You should have been my New Year's kiss.