This is the point in life where you either, A...accept who you have become or B...make some serious New Year's resolutions you intend to keep.
I'm home. Alone. By choice. The 27-year-old, The Child From The Defective Gene Pool (who has redeemed herself), is at a fabulous party wearing a slinky number she picked up in Atlanta a couple of weeks ago. I didn't go. The 12-year-old, The Nice Child, is at the beach with a friend, having New Year's dinner at LuLu's (that would be Buffett as in the sister of Jimmy). I didn't go. The seven-year-old, The Not Nice Child, went hunting with her seven-year-old cousin today and he bagged an 8-point deer. They are currently at the processing plant, which donates this meat to needy families, taking lots of pictures. Later, they will go to a fireworks display, hosted by the family who imports most of the fireworks in the United States. (City Girl...ALL of them? Or part?) I didn't go.
My husband is at the local chop house, with his high school buddies and their wives, enjoying a LOVELY meal. I didn't go. Because the wives smoke through dinner (this is an attorney and a successful female auctioneer. WTF?) and I'd rather not go than breathe the smoke. And box up my dinner because if you can't breathe through your NOSE, then you have to breathe through your MOUTH and if it's full of tenderloin then...you really should have stayed home.
Did we get invited anywhere? Oh, yes. Keeping in mind the younger children, we got invited to many cool parties, because if you stay on my good side I will bake. And cook. And plan. And organize. And make money for your organization. But to attend these parties I would have had to have lost 20 pounds between breakfast and lunch. I'd have had to dig through my shit, panic, dig some more, then put together an outfit with attitude...in the past I've had to wear a short, flirty black skirt with one of my husband's Pebble Beach sweaters...acting like I MEANT to and hoping no one noticed the little black skirt had an elastic waist and the really cool, v-neck sweater hid the mid-section.
Because I was sick so long this year? That excuse is engraved on the bottom of our business cards. Mama's sick. We can't be there. Mama hasn't been sick for two months, but I'm not telling.
As he left, my husband announced we WERE really going to a party. Cheap, loud and fun. I realized after he left, he's talking about listening to music by a local celebrity (this is Muscle Shoals, our local celebrities are better than your local celebrities, Google it) at a sports bar. With college kids and smoke and hormones and me watching in horror as kids YOUNGER THAN MY KID prepare to have sex later tonight.
I don't think so. I made linguine with sauteed garlic, red pepper flakes, sundried tomatoes and some of the Point Reyes blue cheese I got for Christmas. I opened a bottle of red wine. I have some of the no-knead bread that made such a splash in the New York Times (I'm still working on my technique) and I have my butter. The fireworks have started so I just put the 100-pound dog (who shares residency with the inmates in this institution) in the bathtub, pulled the curtain, turned off the light and shut the door so he doesn't TOTALLY freak out.
I have bourbon, and champagne for the witching hour, be it midnight or 9:30. I'm very content.
DO I PANIC OR NOT?
PS...Two major points here. By staying home, I didn't have to shave my legs, and I've been watching original Twilight Zone episodes all day. I LOVE recognizing all these stars when they...weren't! And did William Shatner go into acting when he was...TWELVE?