MARY ANN FITZMORRIS

Getting ready for new year

This is the time of year for starting life anew. A time to get it together. To imagine the possibilities. For my husband and me, it has been a few years since we indulged in the fantasy of New Year’s resolutions. For awhile we had them, like everyone else. They were the same each year. We would lose weight, get organized and start beating the children into submission. Instead we are fatter, less organized and more afraid of the children. Better to scrap the whole idea, we’ve concluded. There is a flaw in the system. In analyzing this, I’ve decided that the reason for our lack of success with these lofty aspirations lies in the very beginning of the New Year. We simply don’t have enough fun on New Year’s Eve. If we could just bring in the New Year properly, everything would fall into place. For example, just last week we had the option of ringing in the REAL millennium in Times Square, the four of us crowded into one square foot of street space. We probably wouldn’t even have felt the frigid temperature; the breath of our neighbors would have warmed us for the six or so hours. But no, we chose to snub poor Dick Clark and his Rockin’ Eve. We headed south to ring in the New Year in the nation’s capital. Did we gather with thousands of other revelers in the mall for a pyrotechnic extravaganza over the Washington Monument? A celebration befitting the REAL millennium? No, we opted to accept the invitation we received from our host; a quiet, cozy, gathering in the family room. We surrounded the hearth, the real one and the electronic one, watching the many thousands spilling over the barricades for that REAL New Year’s celebration, Rockin’ Dick and his hundredth Eve (although he certainly doesn’t look it!) My brother-in-law was so excited to have guests on this special night that he pulled out all the stops. The visiting chef, my husband, cooked a fabulous meal; and our host presented us with strawberry shortcake before going to take a nap. He left the room commissioning someone to awaken him to watch the ball drop. The champagne was chilled for that important moment, and a few minutes before the New Year, I was slapped awake by my nephew. My first image was of sleeping people lying everywhere like bowling pins scattered at the end of a lane. We toasted each other over the champagne and resumed snoring. No one even bothered to wake the children. It’s a good thing there were teen-agers in the house. They were the only ones who didn’t have to be awakened to see it turn 2001. But why were those kids in the house on New Year’s Eve with a bunch of scattered, snoring slugs? If those kids don’t watch it, they’ll have the same kind of lackluster New Year career I’ve had, ending in the abandonment of ever-useful resolutions. These kids, though, had a reason to be in the house; both their drivers were sleeping. I, on the other hand, have a lifelong pattern of meaningless eves of the New Year. My siblings would leave the house one by one, with the usual forebodings by my parents. The rest of us would gather in front of our big, picture-window to see if my firecracker-obsessed brother would escape bodily injury again that year. We quickly tired of watching him, so we set off a few sparklers. Soon it would be time to board ourselves up in the house, before the neighborhood pyrotechnics began. The people next door created large fireballs which whizzed across our front door. It was quite a show. When the new year came, we had a glass of champagne and watched the ball drop. When the neighborhood explosions were over, we went to bed. With a history of the big night like that, it’s no surprise that last year, 2000, was the first party I ever attended. We wore the hats and had confetti, but we did the same thing – sparklers! Next year, I’m going to ring in the New Year with a bang. That will be the year I shrink to a size eight, keep a calendar and finally show those kids who’s boss. Have a great year! MARY ANN FITZMORRIS writes this column every Saturday for L’Observateur.