Before you begin reading this dribble, stop what you are doing and make sure you have your black-eyed peas cooking on the stove (no, not the group, that would be silly plus they wouldn’t fit in the pot). You must cook them today, not tomorrow, nor a week from yesterday. This is a rule that must not be broken; our new year depends upon it.
That said, how was your Hogmanay? After writing yesterday’s post, I looked up Edinburgh’s Website touting their oh-my-could-this-be-more-fun raucousness, shared it with Hunky Husband, and we have collectively set a goal to celebrate the next new year there! Honestly, where else can one march through a river of fire, set a Viking longboat aflame, and burn a giant willow stag?
So 2008-2009 Hogmanay in Edinburgh it shall be where we will celebrate “A guid New Year to ane an' a'!” (Now to just come up with that pesky matter of funding the adventure but I’ll think about that tomorrow, Scarlett. It’s New Year’s Day!)
Dreams of Edinburgh notwithstanding, we had a wonderful evening two doors down (where they were laughing and drinking and having a party). Got that song in your head? Good. The food was wonderful as was the company. We actually behaved ourselves considering the occasion (I’m saving rampant misbehavior for next year) and I had just enough to drink to get to that point where, for some unfathomable reason, I think I can dance and also think I look damned good doing it. My dear friend Karen and I share this phenomenon.
Plus, “The Clash” was blasting “London Calling” on the stereo; it is a not-to-be-broken Lauren rule that I must shake my moneymaker to “The Clash” and/or the “B-52’s.” (As an aside, wouldn’t it be nice if the shaking of one’s middle-aged posterior would generate capital? It would definitely help with trip expenses.) Anyway, here I was in a room with about 20 people dancing all by myself (didn’t want to be but I was all by myself anyway, Eric Carmen) when, unaccustomed to wearing the heels that bedecked my feet, I unsuccessfully navigated the fringed border between the rug and the carpet and fell flat on my ass. Not only did I fall, mind you, I landed in such a manner that a pine side table cupboard smacked into my head with a deafening crack. Yup, there I lay, Mrs. No-Longer-Dancing Fool. Awesome.
You would have thought a bomb had gone off. The room went silent and all heads turned my way. Hunky Husband, Knight in Shining Armor that he can be, rushed to my side, sure I had given myself a concussion whilst our worried hostess filled a gianormous Ziploc bag with ice, wrapped it in a towel, and literally ran across the room to me. I, in my goose-egg-growing state, didn’t really think it was that big a deal. Hey, I made it through the eighties and fell down plenty of times during that decade. Why the concern now?
Today, though, I have to admit I am feeling the effects of my misadventure. Due to our recent viewing of the “Johnny Cash Show” on DVD, a show which ran from 1969-1971, I am experiencing an obsession with hot rollers. That female keyboardist must have put at least five rats in her hair to get it to puff up that high and damned if for some insane reason I am totally wanting that look right now. We have two functions to attend today, a casual corned beef and cabbage luncheon at favorite neighbors Tom and Michelle’s followed by a New Year’s Day Open House at the Candee’s (I’m secretly hoping for shoes) and, no matter how much the pine-damaged portion of my head hurt, I was damned if I wasn’t going to put those rollers in my hair and shove those medieval torture sticks around them to hold them there. Beauty, albeit totally-retro-bordering-B-52’s beauty, before pain, dang it.
I will now end this tale of humiliation and woe. I hope, by sharing it, the rest of you feel just a wee bit better about yourselves and know, that no matter what you do, I alone am the fool on the floor.
Tomorrow, the revolution begins.