The Hottest of New Years Eve Messes

December 31^st will be the fourth time I celebrate New Years Eve in New York City, and I can’t wait to ring in 2010 with a BANG, ifyouknowwhatimean. I’m anxious to see what the night has in store –- although I have several pretty good ideas about how it might go. The previous NYEs in the city have been nothing less than crazy, entertaining and absolutely ludicrous –- complete with hot mess stories that I will pass on to my grandchildren, who will tell their grandchildren, who will say, “Great Great Great Granny Sara was a legend –- the hottest of all New Years Eve messes.” And my debauchery will live on in infamy.

And even though I might share these ridiculous stories with my (adult) grandkids, I just can’t find the courage to post such amazing tales on the internet -– mostly because I’ve tried writing them out, and they just don’t have the same effect as they do verbally. EVERY LITTLE DETAIL of these encounters is critical and giving EVERY LITTLE DETAIL involves a great deal of oversharing, which I am not interested in doing at the moment.

I wish I could just lay it all out there and tell you about each and every absurdity from New Years Eves Past… like how in 2006, I brought a boy I’d been seeing as my date to a party, and kissed an adorable boy from Alabama at midnight instead. Or how in 2007, I busted my face and my camera and my ego, all in a short matter of hours. Or how in 2008, I accidentally stole a man’s coat, got trapped in the middle of a champagne fight and had a boy pour MY entire drink down HIS bare chest.

But I can’t.

Here’s hoping this New Years Eve gives me lots to talk about on January 1st and that 2010 is full of many, many more amazing stories.

wknd

I woke up Saturday morning SURE that it was Sunday, which is why I think this weekend felt longer than usual. It was definitely an enjoyable one nonetheless. Some highlights…

• Drinking beer OUTSIDE for the first time in months. Spring is in the air!
• Testing out the new bangs
• Absolutely no pictures! (sad/bizarre)
• Shameful drunk texts
• Brunch @ Balthazar
• Hilarious/juicy/fantastic stories I could never, ever blog about (but will likely use as material for future “fiction” short stories)
• Convincing some fool at the karaoke bar to sing “Sara” by Fleetwood Mac
• Not having to pay a bar tab
• Dancing til 4AM
• Shopping / new dresses!
• More subway rides than cabs (this is a huge victory)
• A clean room
• Watching movies on a rainy Sunday evening
• Terrible, awful, horrible Sunday Night Blues

I would do anything for another day of weekend.

Lovers in the Rain

The glass door flailed open and they stormed out of the restaurant. The woman came first, he followed. She struggled with the sleeves of her coat, he tried to help. She yanked the wool from his hands, and the man threw his arms up in frustration. She stomped down the avenue in four-inch heels (as if angry at the sidewalk and not the man), and he pursued with seeming hopefulness.

It was pouring, and the woman and the man were unarmed from the storm. The thick drops and wild winds ambushed them, but did not slow their pace. Her long legs veered toward the curb and splashed into the street, and he danced in her shadow. With arms like windshield wipers, she alternated between hailing a cab and shielding the rain from her eyes. He stood beside her, making heated gestures with his upper body, vying for her attention. His animated eyebrows and forehead creases rose and fell as his mouth did. She kept her eyes on the road, ignoring his every move, his every word, as if she really didn’t know he existed. The passing of occupied taxis made her grow visibly frustrated, and it became clear that the black streaks down her cheeks were not the result of mere raindrops.

The wind picked up and the man’s intensity hardened with the downpour. The woman dismissed his need to be acknowledged and accepted and forgiven, but he was relentless. Eventually his persistence and anger waned in the rain and gave way to a long, sorrowful gaze. She continued to stare down the gray avenue, despondent and soaked to the bone, and he reached for her slippery hand. She pulled away with force before he could even touch her, but didn’t shift her body from his closeness.  He tried again by sweeping the drenched bangs from her eyes, but she snubbed his affection and her entire body tightened.

The man parted his mouth and pressed his lips to her ear. The words seemed succinct and soft and sincere, and she closed her eyes for a brief second, soaking it all in. He led her gently toward the curb, and she faced him with apparent apathy and distance. Through the sheets of rain and her discouraging disposition, he stared at her so intensely and so compassionately and so intimately, as if counting each and every tiny droplet that landed on her skin. His palms pressed against her cheeks and he gently wiped away the black streaks with his thumbs. Her face melted into his hands, and his body melted into hers.

And I thought to myself, despite the rain, despite the rage, despite the tears, I wanted that passion more than anything. Even an umbrella.

[This was my third assignment for class: writing a short story using “physical action.” I was relatively proud of it, so I thought I’d share.]