So, I've been mentioning this all over the place in chatlogs and stuff, but I don't think I've put my thoughts down in a formal or organized manner. This post is an attempt to fix that.
I am...nervous about this New Years. I think "nervous" is the accurate word, although "scared shitless" seems to be just as right (though more dramatic). But the gist is that, instead of looking towards the changing of the years with joy in my heart, I am filled with trepidation and some small amount of dread.
My normal New Years --as in, the one I've been celebrating for my entire life, literally as long or longer than I can remember1-- is hosted at The Empty City, thrown by my mother (and often some other people like![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
whimmydiddle or Chort) and attended by ALL THE GEEKS IN MARYLAND or at least, all the people I grew up around, most of whom are geeky, and all of whom are cool.
The party consists of a costume theme, to which people put varying amounts of effort into, puzzles being solved in the playroom, games being played in the other half of the playroom and the sunroom, copious amounts of food that last for several days, movies or television (or the year the theme was Internet Memes, EVERYTHING WORTHWHILE ON THE ENTIRE INTERNET) playing in the living room, and video games being played in the basement, as well as a mess of dress-up and blocks and barbies and often more games. And of course, you can't get to any of these activities without stepping over and around people everywhere, engaged in animated conversation, or dodging photographers, or being asked by 'Stan if you want a cookie fresh from the oven. (Answer: Yes. The answer is always yes, at least until her fifth or sixth round, at which point people start slowing down _slightly_ and the cookies might go all the way from omg to "merely warm and delicious" before they're devoured.
As midnight approaches, the TV in the living room is appropriated to watch the ball drop, and in those last few minutes of the year, EVERYONE crowds into the living room or kitchen, hopefully to get a glimpse of the TV (with the official countdown) or at least be packed in with all the people they adore. The counting starts in earnest around sixty seconds, and grows loud and enthusiastic and it's impossible not to smile in the midst of this cacophony of numbers and cheer. The party is not an alcohol party, (Although people do bring and drink beer) but certain folks make sure everyone has a cup full of champagne or sparkling juice. At midnight, there is a shout of "HAPPY NEW YEAR" followed by the "clink" of red plastic cups, several different off-key versions of Auld Lang Syne (none of which know enough lyrics to really manage), and at least a dozen people shouting "WHITE RABBIT" at each other (sometimes followed by arguments about whether it's midnight or 12:01 that counts.)
The last several years, I have started off the new year by scampering through the house, kissing damn near everyone, on the cheek or lips or head. It's my way of wishing the world a happy new year, my way of connecting with the fact that this is an entire house packed to the rafters with people I love. At any given New Years party, there are thirty people or more who I could spend just hours chatting with, and it remains a constant challenge to pack all that conversation into just one party.
After midnight, and kissing, and drinking, and cheering, the party continues at roughly the exact same pace as it had been --although many of the children who'd been allowed to stay up are now ordered off to bed by various parents. I had the tendency to be one of the last people off to bed, drifting off to the basement2 well past three or four in the morning, to fall asleep curled up amongst people I love --barely enough energy to remove my glasses. I am full of delicious munchies and games and conversation and snuggles and sometimes movies and certainly laughter. And even if I've had rough moments, by the time I slink off to sleep, I have cheered myself with the sheer joy permeating the house.
Around ten or eleven on the first of January, the opening theme of "Escape from New York" starts up, echoing through the house from being played much too loudly on the stereo. This officially starts once the pancakes are done, and it's a household alarm to get up, come eat breakfast, and start playing more games. I usually shy away from the game table on the 31st, but make up for it by playing party games and endless rounds of Agricola (<3!) that second (and sometimes third, fourth, fifth) day of the party. People who went home the night before will return for the game playing extravaganza, and there will be all-day Rock Band parties, and people everywhere creating lies for Beyond Balderdash, or shouting out movie trivia for Planet Hollywood.
Those following days, Chort keeps the food coming --if it was curry for dinner the night before, it'll be stir-fry for lunch, meatballs late in the day. Pancakes and french toast are cooked for hours and hours in the morning, and everyone everywhere keeps wandering past the snacks table for a handful of S&Ms3 or cheetohs or homemade brownies. While the soda stores are likely to be dwindling, they're certainly not diminished, and red cups will litter the house, marked with strange pictures or arcane symbols (or okay, sometimes just names) and the half-drunk drinks from the night before.
Eventually, one of the more outdoorsy types will convince us all to go on a walk, out on the bike paths. We'll tumble out in a rush of coats and scarves and meander through the woods on the nice paved path, waving to strangers that we meet, and likely spending far too much time at the playground --any excuse for blind tag, after all. If the world was coated with snow, we'll likely appropriate the stove on our return, for cocoa. For several years, I would wash my hands in the frigid creek near my house, a way of washing away the old year and welcoming the new. Eventually, the travelers return, just in time to find another round of delicious cooking, and another game about to start.
People slowly trail away, family by family, but the party doesn't end until everyone has left, and that probably makes the average three or four days. Mom and I clean up, survey the leftover food and gifted presents, and I congratulate her on another year well-welcomed.
As for this year?
Well, The Empty City's gonna be a lot emptier than in previous years. But dad is inviting the train gamers, and mom is inviting her chorale group, and the local madrigals, and the boy she's made friends with at her favourite restaurant, and I think there was talk of just putting up flyers and inviting the whole damn neighborhood.macaroniandtuna is gonna go out to represent the Maryland contingent (bless him, and oh I wish I could join). There's certainly gonna be good ham soup, and cookies, and other delights, and if it's not Chort's amazing curry, well, it's not bad either.
The party I grew up with is gone. That's...something I need to accept, and I probably will, given enough time. But knowing my mother? It'll be back, no more than two or three years I expect. Maryland won't know what to do with itself, now that the best party on the East Coast is a time zone away --they'll have to figure out cheap carpools to Chicago, and the entire house will become a slumber party for days at a time. I look forward to it.
I don't know what I'm doing for New Years this year. I've been invited to several parties, and whichever I choose, there will probably be games, be counting, be people I care about and love. But for the first time in my life, I'm not going to be able to wish my mother a Happy New Years, two minutes past midnight. For the first time since 2004, I'm not going to be necessarily able to distribute kisses across the house. For the first time in four years, I'm not going to sleep between two people I am dating, or very close to dating, or wish I am dating.
I am nervous about this new year. But mostly I am sad. I am growing up and this is the year in which everything has changed. Sometimes I wish that wasn't so clearly the case.
~Sor
MOOP!
1: I have no memories of the house in Malden that I lived in just after I was born. I do have (very few) memories of the house in Rockville that I lived in for a couple years between Malden and Columbia. There are pictures from New Years parties happening in Rockville, and so even though I don't remember them, they definitely existed.
2: At New Years, us three kids rooms are booked --often months in advance-- by people who know they're going to stay overnight. We have to sleep in the basement.
3: Skittles and M&Ms, of course. I thought it was a very fitting name, and I'm sure I told people about them well before I had any concept that "S&M" might have another meaning. I suddenly wonder if my mother ever had concerned conversations asking where I picked that up, *grin*.
I am...nervous about this New Years. I think "nervous" is the accurate word, although "scared shitless" seems to be just as right (though more dramatic). But the gist is that, instead of looking towards the changing of the years with joy in my heart, I am filled with trepidation and some small amount of dread.
My normal New Years --as in, the one I've been celebrating for my entire life, literally as long or longer than I can remember1-- is hosted at The Empty City, thrown by my mother (and often some other people like
whimmydiddle or Chort) and attended by ALL THE GEEKS IN MARYLAND or at least, all the people I grew up around, most of whom are geeky, and all of whom are cool. The party consists of a costume theme, to which people put varying amounts of effort into, puzzles being solved in the playroom, games being played in the other half of the playroom and the sunroom, copious amounts of food that last for several days, movies or television (or the year the theme was Internet Memes, EVERYTHING WORTHWHILE ON THE ENTIRE INTERNET) playing in the living room, and video games being played in the basement, as well as a mess of dress-up and blocks and barbies and often more games. And of course, you can't get to any of these activities without stepping over and around people everywhere, engaged in animated conversation, or dodging photographers, or being asked by 'Stan if you want a cookie fresh from the oven. (Answer: Yes. The answer is always yes, at least until her fifth or sixth round, at which point people start slowing down _slightly_ and the cookies might go all the way from omg to "merely warm and delicious" before they're devoured.
As midnight approaches, the TV in the living room is appropriated to watch the ball drop, and in those last few minutes of the year, EVERYONE crowds into the living room or kitchen, hopefully to get a glimpse of the TV (with the official countdown) or at least be packed in with all the people they adore. The counting starts in earnest around sixty seconds, and grows loud and enthusiastic and it's impossible not to smile in the midst of this cacophony of numbers and cheer. The party is not an alcohol party, (Although people do bring and drink beer) but certain folks make sure everyone has a cup full of champagne or sparkling juice. At midnight, there is a shout of "HAPPY NEW YEAR" followed by the "clink" of red plastic cups, several different off-key versions of Auld Lang Syne (none of which know enough lyrics to really manage), and at least a dozen people shouting "WHITE RABBIT" at each other (sometimes followed by arguments about whether it's midnight or 12:01 that counts.)
The last several years, I have started off the new year by scampering through the house, kissing damn near everyone, on the cheek or lips or head. It's my way of wishing the world a happy new year, my way of connecting with the fact that this is an entire house packed to the rafters with people I love. At any given New Years party, there are thirty people or more who I could spend just hours chatting with, and it remains a constant challenge to pack all that conversation into just one party.
After midnight, and kissing, and drinking, and cheering, the party continues at roughly the exact same pace as it had been --although many of the children who'd been allowed to stay up are now ordered off to bed by various parents. I had the tendency to be one of the last people off to bed, drifting off to the basement2 well past three or four in the morning, to fall asleep curled up amongst people I love --barely enough energy to remove my glasses. I am full of delicious munchies and games and conversation and snuggles and sometimes movies and certainly laughter. And even if I've had rough moments, by the time I slink off to sleep, I have cheered myself with the sheer joy permeating the house.
Around ten or eleven on the first of January, the opening theme of "Escape from New York" starts up, echoing through the house from being played much too loudly on the stereo. This officially starts once the pancakes are done, and it's a household alarm to get up, come eat breakfast, and start playing more games. I usually shy away from the game table on the 31st, but make up for it by playing party games and endless rounds of Agricola (<3!) that second (and sometimes third, fourth, fifth) day of the party. People who went home the night before will return for the game playing extravaganza, and there will be all-day Rock Band parties, and people everywhere creating lies for Beyond Balderdash, or shouting out movie trivia for Planet Hollywood.
Those following days, Chort keeps the food coming --if it was curry for dinner the night before, it'll be stir-fry for lunch, meatballs late in the day. Pancakes and french toast are cooked for hours and hours in the morning, and everyone everywhere keeps wandering past the snacks table for a handful of S&Ms3 or cheetohs or homemade brownies. While the soda stores are likely to be dwindling, they're certainly not diminished, and red cups will litter the house, marked with strange pictures or arcane symbols (or okay, sometimes just names) and the half-drunk drinks from the night before.
Eventually, one of the more outdoorsy types will convince us all to go on a walk, out on the bike paths. We'll tumble out in a rush of coats and scarves and meander through the woods on the nice paved path, waving to strangers that we meet, and likely spending far too much time at the playground --any excuse for blind tag, after all. If the world was coated with snow, we'll likely appropriate the stove on our return, for cocoa. For several years, I would wash my hands in the frigid creek near my house, a way of washing away the old year and welcoming the new. Eventually, the travelers return, just in time to find another round of delicious cooking, and another game about to start.
People slowly trail away, family by family, but the party doesn't end until everyone has left, and that probably makes the average three or four days. Mom and I clean up, survey the leftover food and gifted presents, and I congratulate her on another year well-welcomed.
As for this year?
Well, The Empty City's gonna be a lot emptier than in previous years. But dad is inviting the train gamers, and mom is inviting her chorale group, and the local madrigals, and the boy she's made friends with at her favourite restaurant, and I think there was talk of just putting up flyers and inviting the whole damn neighborhood.
macaroniandtuna is gonna go out to represent the Maryland contingent (bless him, and oh I wish I could join). There's certainly gonna be good ham soup, and cookies, and other delights, and if it's not Chort's amazing curry, well, it's not bad either. The party I grew up with is gone. That's...something I need to accept, and I probably will, given enough time. But knowing my mother? It'll be back, no more than two or three years I expect. Maryland won't know what to do with itself, now that the best party on the East Coast is a time zone away --they'll have to figure out cheap carpools to Chicago, and the entire house will become a slumber party for days at a time. I look forward to it.
I don't know what I'm doing for New Years this year. I've been invited to several parties, and whichever I choose, there will probably be games, be counting, be people I care about and love. But for the first time in my life, I'm not going to be able to wish my mother a Happy New Years, two minutes past midnight. For the first time since 2004, I'm not going to be necessarily able to distribute kisses across the house. For the first time in four years, I'm not going to sleep between two people I am dating, or very close to dating, or wish I am dating.
I am nervous about this new year. But mostly I am sad. I am growing up and this is the year in which everything has changed. Sometimes I wish that wasn't so clearly the case.
~Sor
MOOP!
1: I have no memories of the house in Malden that I lived in just after I was born. I do have (very few) memories of the house in Rockville that I lived in for a couple years between Malden and Columbia. There are pictures from New Years parties happening in Rockville, and so even though I don't remember them, they definitely existed.
2: At New Years, us three kids rooms are booked --often months in advance-- by people who know they're going to stay overnight. We have to sleep in the basement.
3: Skittles and M&Ms, of course. I thought it was a very fitting name, and I'm sure I told people about them well before I had any concept that "S&M" might have another meaning. I suddenly wonder if my mother ever had concerned conversations asking where I picked that up, *grin*.
