I’d like to thank the ants residing in my home. Really, here’s to you, you little beady-eyed bastards. Your yearly pilgrimage from the hill behind the kitchen into the kitchen has certainly kept Matt and I on our toes these past two years. This current rainy season has proved especially entertaining as we struggle to guess where you might turn up next: The sink? The toilet seat? Even, yes -- my pants! Ha! That was a fun, unexpected treat! I think we can all agree, however, that invading the dishwasher proved a tactical error on your part. Touché!
Ants, we know you’re not the kind of houseguests who expect pampering, and so Matt and I keep the food in the fridge and stored away. The house is cleaned daily, so we know you don’t visit us for the killer crumb cuisine. Perhaps you seek the past proprietor, our landlord. He’s much more welcoming than us and doesn’t believe in insecticide or ant traps. He swears you are best corralled by baby powder and has encouraged Matt and I to welcome you with lines of white tucked against each wall and sprinkled across each doorway. How amusing it is to see the adorable white footprints our cats leave throughout the house!
Above all, you and your million-odd siblings have helped me realize No. 864 – despite its cottage charm and incredible San Francisco Bay views -- is not perfect. So you’ve made me feel a little less sad about the big move tomorrow and the impending sale to strangers who will surely fail to appreciate this home as I have. Thank you for that. If I too possessed six appendages, I’d employ each one to simultaneously salute you.
I greeted New Year’s Day 2016 with regret and a hangover, the product of too much pinot and the realization that the moments-long rest I had snuck into the last of my ever-frequenting trips to the restroom had transported me four hours into the future to 3 a.m.; my husband was climbing into bed, the kitchen had been cleared and our party guests were gone. WORST. HOSTESS. EVER.
I traded my jeans and sweater for pajamas and stumbled into the bathroom. I gobbled two Tylenol and, swallowing, studied my reflection in the mirror. God, I look old. How did we get to 2016? How is that even a real year?
I joined Matt under the covers and engaged in my typical post-drinking ritual: analyzing and reanalyzing every stupid thing Alcohol made me say and do the night before. Last night’s list included: pre-screening a friend’s friend as potential dating material for my single sister, Hailey; drunkenly humming “Imagine” and becoming irate with Brice, my annoyingly young Cranium teammate, for failing to correctly identify the “Humdinger;” eating that second bowl of chili. And I had so many questions, all of which would remain unanswered until I could quiz Matt in the morning (not the insanely early “morning” of the present but the acceptable, reasonable “morning” of hangovers – 10 or 11 a.m.) Left to captain the ship alone, did he remember to tune in to the Times Square ball drop ABC infuriatingly tape delays three hours for west coast viewers? Did our six guests drink any of the six varieties of sparkling wine I binge bought at Safeway? Did Kelsey follow-through with her vow to smooch Bonnie, our rotund feline, at midnight?
I can now sympathize with my mother; As far as I know, Mom has failed to consciously greet any New Year’s Day of the past three decades. She’s not one for champagne toasts or fireworks. On every New Year’s Eve I can recall, she’s mysteriously disappeared from the festivities by 9 p.m. By 10 p.m., we generally find her facedown in bed.
On New Year’s Eve 1999, my family, my mom’s sister’s family and my grandmother sought refuge from Y2K on a houseboat anchored in the middle of a north Georgia lake. Convinced the power grid would fail and planes would plunge from the sky, Hailey insisted our parents stockpile the boat with bottled water and toilet paper. The world could end but we’d be well-hydrated and sporting clean hinies.
That New Year’s Eve celebration occurred well before I reached the drinking age and at least a decade before I advanced to the “sleeping age” – that profoundly disappointing stage in life when too much red wine and the lure of a soft pillow can temporarily prove stronger than the party underway in the next room –- but other than the world not ending, I don’t recall all the details.
So in between chili-flavored burps and my mental recital of transgressions, I texted Mom and Hailey this morning:
Me: “What do you remember about Y2K?”
Mom: “That I went to sleep early.”
Hailey: “I remember making mom and dad stock up on gallons of water and food for the houseboat and then anchoring off on that island on the houseboat with the Storeys and watching the fireworks and me trying everything to wake Mom up but she wasn't phased. I remember talking about the Watergate scandal (random). And I remember us watching Australia to see if it was going to blow up when it hit the new year first.”
Ironically, Hailey spent this New Year’s Eve in Australia, where she’s temporarily living. And as far as I know, that country didn’t blow up. But I’ll have to check the delayed taped telecast to make sure.
