I am so hung over. You know when you go to a party and all night everyone is drinking and a) no one thinks to put a pitcher of ice water on the table to keep the natives hydrated or b) even makes ice so now everyone is drinking drinks without ice? And that crappy hostess is you? And you get hung over because now you have eaten salt-laden goodness for a total of like 6 hours and you haven’t had anything to drink other than illegal sips from someone else’s Anchor Steam because wielding your very own beer after you have pried your fat pregnant belly under the table is just frowned upon by even the loosest of folks?
I’m too old for this. I laughed so hard last night I actually laid my head down on the dinner table and cried. That might have been when my husband started his falsetto/vasectomy voice across the table or maybe when I was rehashing for the 6th year in a row the story about my gay ex-boyfriend’s emotional breakdown of nuclear proportions in my kitchen one New Year’s Eve and BeBe didn’t think it was funny because she was drunk thanks to that Trader Joe’s Sparkling Limeade and vodka concoction and then someone asked if Carl and I used to date? Which we never dated but we did have that marriage pact and then Carl got emotional and thanked Derek profusely for marrying me. I really can’t pinpoint the crying party but I do think the top half of my bra was hanging out my shirt for the better part of the night and when I commented on it, Amy said, “who hasn’t seen them?” That would be my girls, which were hanging out the top of my bra. The crying in laughter was definitely NOT when Carl strayed from our 8 year New Year’s Eve script and brought up my ex who threw about the Baby Jesus or his reference to my church as “The Pickup Church.” or the reference to my match.com years. I mean days.
The Cake Lady spent the better part of the night being “on” and hobbling around on her bum knee due to an unfortunate mini motorcycle accident and then there were all manner of “bum” stories. Who knew “bum” meant so many different things to so many people. PopPop offered again to birth my child for me and while I am sure he is an excellent plumber, I mentioned I may have to pass on that one. The Husband was forced to tell The Boy to stop “grating the guests” which could have referred to either The Boy’s attempts to use an actually cheese grater on Tom’s arm OR screaming loudly and annoyingly in a manner which would have suggested that bedtime would have been helpful, say, 3 hours earlier. Dinner wasn’t on the table until 9, the host was pissed off because his grilled tenderloin was cold (so you are saying I should have started the green beans earlier?) and his exact helping of potatoes dauphinoise wasn’t cooked enough (mine was org@asmic, thank you very much) and I think he was still pissed off because of the damn vasectomy from last month. Seriously, get over it. By 11 he was hammered and then he was really funny, which is why I married him. Which is not to be confused with the vasectomy, which is why I am staying married to him. Derek did his best to share the marital disharmony by making Amy her very own bucket of popcorn from my brand new popcorn maker that Tom did NOT buy for Amy for Christmas and I don’t know if they fought on the way home because of it.
Matt and Deb waxed wistfully nostalgic about their kids growing up so fast and college applications and we folks with small children looked at them like they were crazy. Because they are. Time has stopped over here. So much so that when the clock struck midnight, we missed it. It was only at 12:01 that someone realized. No, wait. I think that means that time is moving faster.
I need a Gatorade. Happy 2009!
Go on over to PBS Supersisters and tell me your best impossible NY resolution. And just know that that 50 pounds is going to be 60 by March, at the rate I’m going.