Happy, Happy

You know what the best part of New Year's Eve is? It is when you hear the following "Happy New Years." (Please extend the "years" as follows - "yeeeeerrrrrrsssssss." Perhaps I am the only person on the planet who finds this funny - sorta like my belief that Daniel Day Lewis' suicide attempt in My Left Foot is on par with Laurel and Hardy's Who's On First. If you hear the dreaded Happy New Years (not, Happy New Year), and you look quick enough you will see that often that person using such phrasing falls into a certain category - older, balding and overweight. It is scientifically proven in the Theory of Cass Category. So, what am I going to do for my Happy New Years, well let me tell you . . .

First up, I am working. But we get out at 3:00 p.m. and are having a pizza party. I have noticed a few things about working on holidays. The company feels bad, and instead of just saying listen there is nothing going on, just have the day off, they instead let you out early and feed you pizza. Pizza and being let out early is the corporate world's bitch slap to your face.

After I leave the confines of work, with a little more weight to lose in the upcoming year, thank you pizza, I will be traveling to my OB/GYN who will be giving me a pap smear so that we can check out if my cervical cells are back in line. A little history - my cervix and I are constantly at battle it seems. My cells go a bit wonky, I get another test, all is okay until they go wonky again and we repeat the process. If my OB/GYN is the paparazzi, my cervix is Britney Spears. It loves the attention.

Third up on the NYE agenda is home wherein John and I will follow the routine of getting Owen to sleep and then we will be making Greyhounds with a gallon tub of Grey Goose Vodka that was on sale for 50 bux at Safeway. I don't know how you define love, but your husband calling you at 10:30 a.m. in order to inform you that he just save 30 bux on a tank size bottle of Goose, is better than all the hearts and roses you other saps receive. I love you John McCall, I really do.

As John and I wander down the road of Grey Goose and Grapefruit Juice, we will also be engaging in the play of our Nintendo Wii. I will say this, I have lost my chops. Last night I was defeated by what my brother-in-law now refers to as "The Shark". John smelled blood in the water, and I was his victim. My bowling pro status tumbled 120 points in 3 games. This, to some, is nothing, but to me and my ultra-competitive you will lose attitude, it hurts worse than the seemingly horrid ending to this "What's Grosser than Gross?" joke - sliding down a banister of razor blades into a pool of rubbing alcohol. That's pain people.

Speaking of rubbing alcohol and stories of my unfortunate past, when I was in 10th grade our school newspaper "The Blue and Gold" had a theme at Christmas in which the students would answer the question "What I Wanted For Christmas". It was the early 1990s, and in Boston it was just revealed that Kitty Dukakis, wife of Michael "Presidential Candidate 1988" Dukakis was an alcoholic. And her addiction was so severe that there was a time she pilfered her medicine cabinet to drink rubbing alcohol. So as I sat thinking about what I wanted for Christmas, I wrote the following "All I want for Christmas, is a bottle of rubbing alcohol. Signed, Kitty Dukakis." I know, absolute hilarity. However, I was told later by Mr. Hines that such a wish would not be published because it was not funny, and as a young lady, I should act more ladylike. Well, well Mr. Hines, little do you realize that was pure comedic gold. I still stand by it. I was the David Letterman of Malden High, only to be bullied into silence, by what I do believe was pure jealousy. So on this NYE, I wish you the very best - be it rubbing alcohol, or gallon size bottles of Grey Goose, for we all have our poisons.