New Year’s Eve is my party.
Robby hosts the Christmas party. Anna throws Night of a Thousand Casseroles. Allison dominates the Jersey Shore bash.
But New Year’s Eve is mine.
Every year I wake up on New Year’s Eve and stumble downstairs and eat breakfast thinking about my party.
Then I realize I haven’t planned or shopped or cooked. And I panic.
Then I curse myself for letting my laziness get the best of me, once again.
But every year it somehow comes together.
There is cheese with sayings.
There was other cheese, thoughtfully provided by my work Secret Santa.
Clearly my coworkers know me quite well.
There is dessert.
Said dessert will cause much smoke and open windows and chilliness.
But all great apple cakes demand sacrifice.
(Though in this case my sacrifice was small compared with Skye’s, as she’s the one who actually baked said cake.)
There is laughter.
Much, much laughter.
So maybe I never send invitations out until December 27th.
Maybe I don’t plan my menu until walking down an aisle at Giant.
Maybe this was my first year without a theme simply because I forgot to think of one.
But there’s no other way I’d rather celebrate the past year and welcome the new.
I’m prouder than should be allowed over my brie letters,