How to Survive White Trash Hell on New Year’s Eve
an illustrated story by Gwen
When Tad told me that the gang wanted to attend a New Year’s Eve event sponsored by a particular local radio station, I was skeptical.
“I don’t know,” I said. “I’m worried that, if it’s sponsored by that radio station, it might not be… you know. Nice.“
“No, baby, it’ll be fine,” he assured me. “It’s black tie optional.” Then he coughed, and muttered under his breath, “Or you can wear togas, or lingerie, but the guys want to go because it’s open bar.”
“What’s that, sweetie? I didn’t catch that last part,” I said.
“I said, we should go to the mall this weekend and buy you a nice dress.” And the subject was promptly changed.
This was the picture I wanted to use to show y’all how I looked on New Year’s Eve.
But my boyfriend said not to, so I’m using this one, instead:
You may have noticed that I’ve gained someI decided to post this picture, even thoughThere’s no use pretending to be skinnier than I am for the Internet, when everyone who sees me in real life can see that
I think I look nice.
When our group met up in the line for the event, all our female members immediately shared with each other the fear that, being sponsored by this particular local radio station, the party might not be quite as… elegant… as we were hoping. As we were dressed for, I should say.
All too soon, we discovered that our fears were well founded. Because, while our group had chosen to dress like this:
… other attendees had chosen to dress like this:
Let me rephrase. While we had chosen to dress like this:
… other people had gone with the option of dressing like this:
No, seriously. I don’t think you’re getting it. I’m trying to tell you that there were people there dressed like this:
You see the situation clearly now, do you not? Yes, not, I’m sure that you do.
And I’m not saying that there’s anything wrong with dressing like that. In public, on New Year’s Eve. No, because I don’t judge. All I’m saying is that, if I had known that 70% of the attendees would be dressed like that, I might have left my good rhinestones at home.
The women in our group felt many emotions at that point. Now that it was too late to get a refund for our tickets… Now that we’d spent several hours getting ready for the evening… Now that we had not yet gotten our money’s worth from this beer-sponsored, Linkin-Park-cover-band-ridden event… I’m not going to say that the main emotion was disappointment, and I’m not going to say that the chief sentiment was “Mike is never, ever picking the place for New Year’s Eve again.” I’m just going to let you imagine how you would have felt at that point, if you were us. And I bet you can imagine it well.
Obviously, there was only one thing to do.
And once we did that, we thought of a few other ways to pass the time until the 1 AM buffet.
Such as, for instance, cursing our fates…
Catching up with friends…
Coming up with new variations on the classic devil-horn photographic pose…
Dancing our troubles away…
Getting to know young ladies seated near our party…
In more than one sense…
Or, in my case, stealing Cyra’s camera and using it to photograph myself with strangers.
It’s easier than you’d imagine. Especially after everyone involved has had a beer. Here’s the key: Don’t ask the strangers to pose with you.
Just put your arm around their shoulders, and hold up the camera.
And, instinctively, they will look into it and smile. Voila! (Or else, they’ll look down at your boobs.) (Voila!)
Sometimes, they will kiss you. Whether you realize it or not. Whether you’re absorbed with doing your “Sailor Moon fingers plus prominent tongue” pose or not, and whether you remember it the next morning or not. But don’t worry – you’ll have the photo, so you can treasure the moment forever, either way.
One guy’s group of friends caught on to what I was doing, and they gathered around me. “He thinks you’re hot,” one of them screamed, pointing at the one guy and then at me, in order to facilitate his point.
“I am hot,” I agreed.
“No… He thinks you’re hot!” the guy’s friend screamed. A little louder, so I’d understand.
“I am hot,” I screamed back, in case he’d missed my point.
“No… Our friend thinks…”
Finally, I realized what they were trying to tell me. They wanted me to take a picture of myself with their friend, and then post it on my blog. Okie dokie, guys. Here you go:
I have to admit that, in that photo, their friend was totally right. And so, although I’d felt insecure earlier in the evening, with this man’s approval of my appearance, my life had suddenly become complete.
All too soon, however, the new-found fun was over. As the clock struck midnight, like magic, heated misunderstandings broke out in the ladies’ room. Like a beautiful rainbow, some guy didn’t appreciate Richard trying to make out with his wife. Like fairy dust sparkling on gurgling streams, vomit emerged from partygoers’ mouths.
It was time to go home. And so we did, with designated driver intact. And as we rode down the city streets, with Richard lying wrapped in a tablecloth across the laps of everyone in the back seat, our hearts welcomed all the potential of 2006. And we promised ourselves, through laughter mingled with tears, that next New Year’s Eve, we’d stay home.
