It dawned on me yesterday that I’ve never had a huge bang up New Year’s Eve. I mean we’ve gone to parties in the past at friends’ houses but I’ve never ridden in a limo or been to Times Square or anything mind blowing to ring in the New Year. And quite honestly I’m secretly a little bit of a home body and that’s fine with me. Hubby and I have dinner reservations at an Italian restaurant and then we’ll probably head home and watch New Year’s Eve coverage on TV and drink some bubbly.

One of the most memorable New Year’s Eves that we spent together was in 1998. A good friend of mine from college invited us to Memphis and I was so excited because we had tickets for a party at the Botanical Gardens. The event was sponsored by a young working professionals philanthropic organization my friend was involved with and I was certain it would be a fabulous soiree. We skipped dinner because we knew there would be a fantastic spread of food. Of course we started drinking before we headed for the party.

We arrived at the venue and it was an absolutely gorgeous setting. The place was filled to the gills with 20-something singles dressed up and dancing their asses off and drinking cheap mixed drinks and beer.

Hubby and I held hands and snaked through the crowd toward the highly anticipated buffet. We were starving. And there it was, the most incredibly (disappointing) sight ever—all you could eat Wendy’s chili.

WTF? (Pardon my French but, frankly, that is what we were both thinking.)

Young women in flirty little black dresses and heels and men in suits and ties were actually standing in line and waiting to fix themselves a bowl of chili. This seemed so wrong. I know the organization was happy to have the evening’s food donated but I would have gladly taken some smoked weenies and cheese squares on fancy toothpicks. Where were the fancy pants hors d’oeuvres?

We’d driven more than three hours for an out of town party, gotten all dressed up and hit the town, and the only available food at the event was being donated by a fast food joint. To make it even more comical for me, the only fast food job I had in my life had been one summer in high school at our small town Wendy’s and it was a particularly heinous experience. Flashbacks to high school and wearing navy polyester pants, a zip up striped top, and a goofy hat and coming home smelling of a single with cheese—-this was not good.

We decided to make the best of it because we were out with a great group of friends and we were all in the same boat. I know at one point some song came on that I loved and I kicked up my heels and catapulted a black high-heeled pump half way across the dance floor. Thankfully I didn’t take out anyone’s eye. Hubby and I ended up drinking our calories that evening, which was unfortunate for both of us the next morning. This was four years before we had Miss C, though, so we could handle it better. And by handle it better I mean we could sleep in the next day and do absolutely nothing that required bright light or noise or rapid movement.

Tonight we’re having a nice quiet dinner out, just the two of us, and sipping on champagne at home from our crystal champagne flutes that we got for our wedding in 1997 and I can’t wait!

What are you doing to ring in 2010?