I can’t say that 2011 treated me particularly well, so what better way to flip it the bird than with a New Year’s Eve bash?
The party was actually Cassie’s idea. She conjured it a couple months ago with these words: “It will give us motivation to clean the house.”
Her logic escaped me. Consider:
1) Won’t the house be even more trashed after the party?
2) Won’t everyone be too loaded to differentiate between a dirty and clean house?
3) Our friends already know we’re slobs. Who are we fooling with this before-bash cleaning?
Of course, after nearly 20 years of marriage, you learn not to ask questions. Cassie’s idea seemed good—the party, not the cleaning—so I simply nodded my head in agreement.
December 23-27, 2011
Now it’s late December. New Year’s Eve is fast approaching, but we still have miles to travel before we get there.
Figuratively, I’m referring to the hustle and bustle of the holidays; literally, it’s the 736-mile drive to and from Cassie’s hometown of Cleveland. I’ve had a Cleveland Christmas each year of my married life, and the pattern has remained remarkably unchanged: We’re fed unfathomably large amounts of food at every turn, though never anything resembling a green vegetable. On Christmas Eve, we gather in Cassie’s parents’ living room to open presents.
Cassie’s dad has gotten himself into something of a pickle with the present-opening part. One year he bought Cassie’s mom expensive jewelry, another year he gave her a trip to a destination of her choice, and so on. Last year, however, he pulled out all the stops. We whisked Cassie’s mom off to Aunt Joyce’s under some bogus pretense, and when she returned, a Toyota Camry with a giant red bow on top was waiting for her in the garage.
So how can he possibly top the car-in-the-garage bit? He can’t. And wisely, he doesn’t even try. He takes a different route in 2011, spreading the holiday cheer around in equal measure by giving everyone an iPad (everyone being the Family Wagner, Cassie’s sister, her brother and her mom). This is Cassie’s mom’s introduction to the computer age, and she approaches it with a combination of fear and fascination. The rest of us jump right in. As I look around the living room at the whirl of iPad activity, a Christmas poem pops into my head:
’Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house
Everyone got an iPad, including my spouse.
These iPads are spread by the chimney with care.
It’s as if St. Steve Jobs is standing right there.
Tuesday, December 27
We’re back from Cleveland, but we still have miles to travel. A messy house awaits us. The dining room table alone—Will Wagner HQ for the past few months—resembles Oscar Madison’s office. The house, however, is the least of our worries. Everyone in Cleveland was sick, and now Cassie and I are sick, too. How very fitting in what has become the Year of the Malady. (The good news is, my groin is holding up remarkably well, though my calf remains touch and go.)
There will be no cleaning this evening. Wheezing and coughing and sniffling, Cassie and I retire to bed.
Wednesday, December 28
I backburner the idea of cleaning today. Believe it or not, there’s more to my life than iPads and New Year’s Eve bashes—I actually have work to do. I soldier through editing a 3,600-word treatise on the Bomb (nothing like some light holiday fare to lift your spirits) before retreating to my bed to rest.
Cleaning just isn’t going to happen tonight either. I’m supposed to meet up with my Party Line friends, and there’s no way to gracefully bow out. (The Party Line, you might remember, is an email group composed of my cynical and perverse sportswriting cronies.) Wheezing and coughing and sniffling, I set out for the Edison Park Inn. These stooges are always good for some laughs, and for a few hours, I forget that I’m not well.
Thursday, December 29
I edit and rest, clean and rest, edit and rest, and then clean and rest. In between, an image of Cassie’s mom unexpectedly appears on our iPad. “What just happened?” she asks. “Did I just call you? Why did I call you?” Oh well. She’ll get the hang of the computer age soon enough.
 |
| My beloved basement bar. |
Evening arrives, and it’s time for the most blessed of quests: I go to Binny’s Beverage Depot to stock up for our New Year’s Eve party. Pushing a cart up and down the aisles, I stop to admire the exotic bottles of liquor that are locked behind glass cases. I imagine choirs of angels singing as these bottles are cracked open.
Once home, I carefully place my provisions behind my basement bar. The bar is finally repaired following the flood that wiped it out over the summer—in fact, it has come back bigger and better than ever. I can’t wait to give it a test spin.
Friday, December 30
More editing, more cleaning. In between, Cole and I go over to my friend Bennett’s to pick up his foosball table. This turns out to be less of a fiasco than usual. Several years ago, for example, Bennett and I tried to move a 55-inch TV into his house; amid the grunting and the wobbling, we wedged it in the doorway and broke the screen.
At any rate, New Year’s Eve is almost upon us. We’re just about ready to launch 2011 into history with a big FU before chasing the glory that is sure to be 2012.
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