An Oldy But Goody

So with the holidays here, The Green Study  — a blog I’ve recently started following — announced she was hosting a holiday humor contest for the funniest holiday experience. One of the guidelines was the story had to be previously unpublished, and sadly, my story was published here back in 2005 — a couple of months after I started the blog. 

Yes, I’ve had this blog for SEVEN YEARS. Back when I’d tell people I had a blog and they’d say, “A what?” So then I’d say I had my own website, and I could almost hear the catty thought going in their heads, “Her own website? Well, la-dee-da. Who does she think she is?”

Eh-nee-hoo, I posted a link to this story in the comments section of Michelle’s announcement, but I thought that all five of you who read this site might like to enjoy another escapade in horrific embarrassment from my life because you might not have been around since I first posted it. I once thought of it as my second worst New Year’s Eve, but in the years that followed, it has taken top spot.

So without further ado, I give you my worst New Year’s Eve… so far.

file0001410614839New Year’s Eve 1994: the first time I was dating a guy on such a holiday. Granted, R wasn’t the most sophisticated guy in the world, but I still had this vision of us at a party where there were music, lots of people and lots of interesting conversation. I was 0 for 3.

We spent New Year’s Eve at his buddy’s house, where more of his buddies had gathered to watch a college bowl game. All of these buddies had their respective significant others with them, but the stereotypical divide had happened. The men were in the living room watching the big-screen TV while the women gossiped in the kitchen. R quickly ushered me there when we arrived, and I took a seat as he went on the back porch to draw nectar from the beer keg.

The basic party foods were served — wings, chips, dip, sandwiches and such. In the middle of the kitchen table was the drink mixing station, complete with at least five different liquors and assorted beverages. Apparently, the women had set this up here so they could make sure their men had a fresh drink in their hands at all times. The women in my family have always done a lot for their men, but they have never sat around waiting to serve them. I don’t care if it was New Year’s Eve. If my husband were to win the the freaking Nobel Prize, he’s still going in the kitchen to fix his own damn drink.

Of course, I didn’t have to worry because back then, I didn’t know how to mix any drinks, and I barely drank. Small talk was made, but after the introductions, I didn’t have too much to say because, first off, I knew no one they were talking about and second, I had nothing to contribute. Not to mention that I felt as if I were suffocating from all the cigarette smoke as they puffed away, including the pregnant lady of the house. I don’t mean to sound like a snob, but I really had nothing in common with them. I can’t even remember the specifics of all the topics. I do, however, remember the French tickler incident.

I knew from a couple of weeks beforehand, that R had this French tickler in his wallet. He had showed it to me, and it looked like a condom in its package, and while I had a good idea of what it could do, my inexperience kept me from realizing its true potential. Before midnight, R and his buddy were quite smashed yet out on the porch getting a refill from the keg when the door opened and this round, pink balloon-looking thing floated into the room. It seemed to turn in slow motion to reveal three tiny nubs near the top. Within seconds, my curiosity turned to horror. At the same time, the women at the table began hooting with laughter. They apparently knew what it was also. By that time, R bounded through the door and grabbed the swollen tickler, all at once confirming that it was his and leading the women to believe that our relationship involved much more experimentation that it actually did.

Mortified doesn’t even come close to describing my emotion at that moment. Some could probably blow it off — pardon the pun — but I was only 21, in my first serious relationship and among a group of complete strangers. R maintained that it was his buddy who tossed the tickler (love that alliteration?) into the kitchen, but R had to have taken it out of his wallet for the whole incident to happen.

I can sort of laugh about it today — maybe because it was only the second worst New Year’s I’d had or maybe because it wasn’t the worst thing R did during our relationship — but what keeps the whole event from being totally hilarious is the fact that it was just another example of how he was just too immature. A lot of guys are that way, even ones who are older, but sometimes I just wish that I had gotten rid of the immature guys at an earlier age.

But, you know, it makes for good material. 🙂


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