Maybe I'm just not getting invited to the right kinds of parties...

Maybe I’m just not getting invited to the right kinds of parties…

The New Year’s Eve party is another one of those holiday loop-di-loops I prefer to avoid. My luck with these events leans in the bad direction.

I know you. You want evidence. Okay.

Emotional Trauma. I was a teenager and finally allowed to stay up to watch Dick Clark’s Rockin’ New Year’s Eve Party. I distinctly remember my younger sister and I with our Chex Party Mix bowl on our laps, picking through the parts we wanted, listening to the countdown to 1970 and hearing my mom barfing in the bathroom. She had a migraine and the walls to the trailer were thin. I felt sorry for her and tend not to gravitate toward the Chex Party Mix at social functions.

10...9....raaalph...8...Eewww...7...bleurgh...6...Hey, Lisa, do want any more of this Chex Mix? I Don't.

10…9….raaalph…8…Eewww…7…bleurgh…6…Hey, Lisa, do want any more of this Chex Mix? I Don’t…2…1…Happy New Year!

Fashion Fiasco. I was old enough to date and actually go out to a New Year’s Eve party with my boyfriend where there was dinner (buffet) and a band (a bunch of drunk guys who played enough instruments loudly enough to satisfy drunken listeners–and you know I was one of them). I couldn’t afford to buy a fancy outfit for the party, but I was a fine seamstress, so I made myself a red satin long-sleeved jump-suite. It was the mid-1970s and all the rage–satin jump-suits, I mean. I thought the color would look good with my blonde hair. Mindful of my figure, I was “good” and just got a salad from the buffet with Italian dressing. As I was making my way back to our table, some guy who had an early start on celebrating bumped into me and smashed my salad against the front upper chestal area of my satin jump-suit. Oil and satin love each other. They were inseparable. My outfit and evening were ruined.

This is an amazing likeness of me and my jumpsuit except: my jumpsuit was long-sleeved, I wasn't standing behind a microphone, and I had a huge Italian Dressing splotch shining where my cleavage should have been shining. Oh, And I wasn't as popular as Faith Hill.

This is an amazing likeness of me and my jumpsuit except: my jumpsuit was long-sleeved, I wasn’t standing behind a microphone, and I had a huge Italian Dressing splotch shining where my cleavage should have been shining. Oh, And I wasn’t as popular as Faith Hill.

Physical Disaster. While married, I took a family cruise to the Hawaiian islands. We planned on a fancy dinner and dancing on the ship for New Years Eve. On that day, we were supposed to go horseback riding on the beach, but that got cancelled. Our Plan B (“B” in this case stands for “Boneheaded”) was a glass-bottom boat tour of the coral reefs. Sounds nice, right? And it probably would have been had it not been for the six-foot waves that tossed the boat for the two hours we were aboard that freaking puke bucket. People offered to pay the guides to let them off early. By people, I mean me and another really sick woman. No deal. By the time they let us off, I a worse case of morning sickness than Kate, Duchess of Cambridge ever thought of having. I had to go to the ship’s doctor, who gave me a shot of something in the butt that had me hobbling to my cabin where I dry-heaved a few more times before sleeping through New Years Eve.

Did we pay extra for all this wave action? I hope we didn't pay extra for this, because it's seriously not working out for me.

Did we pay extra for all this wave action? I hope we didn’t pay extra for this, because it’s seriously not working out for me.

So I like to spend a quiet New Year’s Eve at home, alone, avoiding mental and/or physical trauma. I usually get my way. But not this year. Our family’s annual gift exchange, always scheduled between Christmas and News Years, was scheduled for the 30th, but had to be moved to the 31st. I was supposed to host it, but that got changed, too. My older sister hosted it. No problem. We were all together and that’s what counted.

We have a tradition of writing a poem to summarize the year and sharing it before opening the gifts. When I host, I pick a song that represents my attitude for the year and ask everyone to dance with me to celebrate. Wanna Β see me dance my way out of 2012?

For the record, I had a great time, but this morning I woke up feeling like I had a dance-floor altercation with Bruce Willis. Every joint in my body ached and my hair didn’t look nearly as good as it did in the video. This, too, shall pass…

Roger that! Target in view. Blonde. Black dress. She won't know what hit her. I'll contact you when she's been neutralized.

Roger that! Target in view. Blonde. Black dress. Strutting her stuff like she’s 25, not 55. She won’t know what hit her. I’ll contact you when she’s been neutralized.