For many of us, New Year's Eve has been a collection of common disasters: Long lines, huge cover charges, jerks, and some baffling choices of partners or dates. At some point in the 90s, we decided to pack it in, avoid anything billed as a New Year's Eve party, and use the night as an excuse to get together with friends. Since then, I've danced in a gumball machine at a Phish concert with James and Ernie, rang in the Millenium at a lake house in New Hampshire, and spent two consecutive NYEs pregnato. In recent years, we've met friends for drinks after work or a senior citizen-early dinner and then scurried through Copley Square to get home before First Night took over. And that's been really nice.
So, when Paige decided to have a house party at her swish pad in Charlestown, I was a little scared because I knew the time was just right for a ruckus. James, a rabid hater of New Year's and still exhausted from our dinner out the previous evening, decided he'd rather have a Nyquil on the rocks and sleep through it this year. After the babies went to sleep, I attached a fake hair piece from CVS to the top of my head and drove the legal speed limit up Route 3. I found a parking space right by 11 Monument Square, Jamie's old apartment, where we once danced to Snoop Dogg, Marvin Gaye and the Waterboys in the living room.
I arrived on Chestnut Street around 10 p.m., light snow was falling and all was quiet. But once I was buzzed in the front door, I was almost knocked over by the bassline of "OPP" blaring from the third floor. I spotted Di, Paige, Annie and Keri tarted up gorgeously and the Brownguy looking exceptionally dapper. Brownman was mixing us some orange sodies. Paige was swirling around the kitchen in her taffeta skirt. For a moment, I viewed the scene from a distance hoping it's something I'll see many more times in the coming years -- fancy and happy.
Just when the vibe couldn't get better, our favorite swarthy greek made a grand, swarthy entrance. I only met Nick once when Nicola and I -- flagrant MUIs (mamas under the influence) -- perpetrated an unsolicited fix-up that went awry at LP's marathon fundraiser. Nevertheless, we're forever connected through a facial-cheek grazing incident; a moment, in its infinite brevity, that may revolutionize the international sign for swarthy -- should such a sign exist.
So, there was dancing and much rejoicing. Annie and I discovered that Paige's fridge was chock full of champagne at 11:50. Paige looked at us with an expression that said "bust those bitches open."
LP and WMD and his pals arrived, and things got absolutely bubbly....for awhile. Then the dancing became straight-up degenerative. My final memory of night was Paige wearing my hair piece.
The only downside of the evening, aside from my taking my nylons off in the dining room and throwing them into the fireplace, is that I forgot to bring my camera. Please share images so we can better illustrate this fabulous night! And thanks, Paige, for one of the MOST effervesent NYE parties in recent memory. It's going in the book!