Is there anything worse than being single on New Year's Eve? Yes. Being single and having a birthday on New Year's Eve. Anything worse than that? Yes. Being single on Valentine's Day. Can we top that one? Yep. Being single and celebrating a birthday on February 14th. My deepest sympathies to any single forced to celebrate a b-day on Valentine's Day.
Now, what could possibly top the hideousness of a Singletonville-New Year's-or-Vomit Day-birthday? Being a single virgin on New Year's and having fate flip you the finger in the most illuminating fashion.
My New Year's Eve festivities are pretty predictable: hang around with family, watch some kind of innocuous movie/show marathon, eat cookies or ice cream, and wonder about the hidden symbolic meaning behind tons of people celebrating a giant ball sliding down a pole. Then, at about 3 a.m., I am forced to hear the 90-year-old neighbor come home from her date. Yes, her date. Every year she has a date. The sound of her heels clip-clopping along her porch is unnerving.
This year was no exception, but for one event occurring early in the evening.
About an hour after painting my nails, I heard my mom have some sort of meltdown in the kitchen.
Me: "Mom? Are you okay?"
Mom: "I've destroyed the refridgerator."
Me: "Um, is that possible? How?"
Mom: "I don't know."
Me: "Is it not working?"
Mom: "It's drizzling."
Me: "Mom, you are making zero sense right now. What do you mean it's drizzling?"
Mom, opening the fridge door: "Come here...listen."
It sounded like something was dripping within the fridge.
Me: "Maybe something fell over in the back."
Mom, moving things around: "Oh my God."
Me: "What? What do you see?"
Mom: "Red. All down the back of my beautiful fridge. OH! It's running down three shelves AND down behind the SALAD DRAWER! I have to get my special quiche finished for tomorrow! I can't clean this mess now! This is a nightmare."
Me, trying not to laugh: "It's New Year's Eve, honestly, what do you expect? I'll clean it up, don't worry."
Mom: "Oh, sweetheart, thank you."
I began unloading the fridge to find the nasty culprit.
Me: "You have got to be kidding me."
Mom: "What is it?"
Me, holding a jar: "Cherries."
Mom, reddening in the face, trying to suppress the laughter: "Oh, honey. Cherry juice? My, that's..."
Me: "Typical. The virgin cleaning cherry juice on New Year's Eve. Doesn't that just beat all."
After a few minutes of silence, my mom and I broke into hysterics. Hey, what can you do? Ya gotta laugh. The irony is just ridiculous. And to put the icing on the cake, I chipped my freshly painted nail while cleaning cherry juice...my freshly painted bird finger. I don't know what it is with me and screwing up my bird finger, but I'm convinced it's fate's way of flipping me off.
In fact, I'm quite certain the whole event was fate saying, "Up yours virgin! I've got a whole lot planned for you this New Year." Cruel witch.
Fast-forward to the ball dropping hoopla--my mom insists on watching it every year. I usually try to escape the festivities, but it never works. I loathe all the kissing shots. And, HELLO, what's with the constant kissing TEN MINUTES after midnight! Classy. Get a room!!!
Though I do not drink, rare nights like these call for reinforcements, so I turned to Al K. Hall to help me out: ONE glass of wine, no more. I have ZERO tolerance. Heck, a glass and a half and I'm probably going to be taking my clothes off in some ridiculous version of a striptease. Can only assume that two full glasses would render me unconscious with face in toilet.
After said glass, I realized something: every year Dick Clark looks sexier and sexier to me.
Yes, one glass is quite enough.