Heh... Ball Drop
Yesterday, before commencing the 15-hour (if I'm lucky) drive back from North Carolina, I had lunch with My Mandy and her two boys. This was a pleasant experience and my last chance to get a decent taco before returning to New England, where the opportunities for a good taco are surprisingly thin on the ground.
We ordered flan at the end of the meal, because opportunities for good flan in New England just don't exist at all. Mandy insisted the boys share her flan, but I got one of my own, which prompted the older son to remark, "I wish I could order my own flan."
"Well, kiddo," I said, "someday you will be older and you'll have a job and then you can order all the flan you want. That's the tradeoff. Your memory will turn to slush, and your face will sag down to your knees, but you'll be able to order whatever you want whenever you want."
Another advantage is that you don't have to worry about New Year's Eve. I mean, you CAN go out and play if you want to, but you no longer feel like you have to do anything. You can sit on the couch, and the hardest decision you'll have to make is whether to watch the marathon of The Walking Dead, or True Blood, or The Big Bang Theory.
You won't feel that you need to explain how you drove seven hours yesterday and eight more today, and now you are, as they say, knackered. You won't feel the need to try to remember any fun you ever had on previous New Year's Eves in order to prove that it is as overrated as the haters say it is.
You might have hazy memories of a party that didn't suck that might have happened in high school-- but that also could have been after graduation. You're just not sure, on account of your memory has turned to slush. You might also remember a frat party in college at which some douchebag launched a Roman candle indoors and how said Roman candle barely missed your head. You might remember a random array of bartenders over the years with whom you may or may not have made out. (Hey, you try writing that sentence and not ending it with a preposition.) But you can't be sure of the details.
So, yes, it's been amply stated that New Year's Eve is an overrated night that is almost certain to end in disappointment. The crowds. The sloppy drunks. The desperation. The Greek calls it Amateur Night for a reason.
But more than that, today I did battle with the Northeast Corridor. Usually, the Northeast Corridor, and specifically the New Jersey Turnpike, wins in a manner designed to humiliate me into crying like a little girl. However today, on New Year's Eve, just a few miles from where The Ball Will Drop, it looked like this:
Either I have some really excellent karma stored up from all the other times the New Jersey Turnpike beat me up and stole my toll money, or the Magic of the Hair Band is a real thing. I know I didn't turn the channel from Hair Nation (sattelite radio and I have made up and are trying to make it work this time) from the time I crossed the New Jersey state line until I arrived in my driveway. The Van Halen and Bon Jovi seemed to created a protective coating that allowed me to breeze through like it was 2 in the morning on a Wednesday, not the middle of the afternoon on New Year's Eve.
But five hours is a LOT of rocking out. I can only be expected to sing "Don't Stop Believin'" so many times in one day. Six times. Six is my limit.
So I'm staying at home. I've got some eggnog that my mom packed in my travel cooler. But I don't have any rum... maybe I can add tequila and call it huevo nog.
But no. That sounds gross. And when you're all grown up and have a job, you can buy the top-shelf drinks and learn that shooting it or mixing it with inappropriate liquids is a waste that nears the scale of a crime against humanity.
Yesterday, before commencing the 15-hour (if I'm lucky) drive back from North Carolina, I had lunch with My Mandy and her two boys. This was a pleasant experience and my last chance to get a decent taco before returning to New England, where the opportunities for a good taco are surprisingly thin on the ground.
We ordered flan at the end of the meal, because opportunities for good flan in New England just don't exist at all. Mandy insisted the boys share her flan, but I got one of my own, which prompted the older son to remark, "I wish I could order my own flan."
"Well, kiddo," I said, "someday you will be older and you'll have a job and then you can order all the flan you want. That's the tradeoff. Your memory will turn to slush, and your face will sag down to your knees, but you'll be able to order whatever you want whenever you want."
Another advantage is that you don't have to worry about New Year's Eve. I mean, you CAN go out and play if you want to, but you no longer feel like you have to do anything. You can sit on the couch, and the hardest decision you'll have to make is whether to watch the marathon of The Walking Dead, or True Blood, or The Big Bang Theory.
You won't feel that you need to explain how you drove seven hours yesterday and eight more today, and now you are, as they say, knackered. You won't feel the need to try to remember any fun you ever had on previous New Year's Eves in order to prove that it is as overrated as the haters say it is.
You might have hazy memories of a party that didn't suck that might have happened in high school-- but that also could have been after graduation. You're just not sure, on account of your memory has turned to slush. You might also remember a frat party in college at which some douchebag launched a Roman candle indoors and how said Roman candle barely missed your head. You might remember a random array of bartenders over the years with whom you may or may not have made out. (Hey, you try writing that sentence and not ending it with a preposition.) But you can't be sure of the details.
So, yes, it's been amply stated that New Year's Eve is an overrated night that is almost certain to end in disappointment. The crowds. The sloppy drunks. The desperation. The Greek calls it Amateur Night for a reason.
But more than that, today I did battle with the Northeast Corridor. Usually, the Northeast Corridor, and specifically the New Jersey Turnpike, wins in a manner designed to humiliate me into crying like a little girl. However today, on New Year's Eve, just a few miles from where The Ball Will Drop, it looked like this:
Either I have some really excellent karma stored up from all the other times the New Jersey Turnpike beat me up and stole my toll money, or the Magic of the Hair Band is a real thing. I know I didn't turn the channel from Hair Nation (sattelite radio and I have made up and are trying to make it work this time) from the time I crossed the New Jersey state line until I arrived in my driveway. The Van Halen and Bon Jovi seemed to created a protective coating that allowed me to breeze through like it was 2 in the morning on a Wednesday, not the middle of the afternoon on New Year's Eve.
But five hours is a LOT of rocking out. I can only be expected to sing "Don't Stop Believin'" so many times in one day. Six times. Six is my limit.
So I'm staying at home. I've got some eggnog that my mom packed in my travel cooler. But I don't have any rum... maybe I can add tequila and call it huevo nog.
But no. That sounds gross. And when you're all grown up and have a job, you can buy the top-shelf drinks and learn that shooting it or mixing it with inappropriate liquids is a waste that nears the scale of a crime against humanity.
Posts
