I’ve always felt like New Year’s Eve turns out to be sort of a let-down. You spend forever getting all cute and glittery and trying to make plans to do something EPIC. It’s theoretically awesome but in practice it ends up resembling the herding of a lot of expensive, sparkly cats. Who are drunkenly trying to hail non-existent cabs at 2am.
So, last year we hosted a party at my parent’s house, and now that we actually have a place to live in California, we decided to go for it again Chez Nous. Hopefully everyone else likes this tradition, because I love it more than anything. You’re all spending New Year’s with me until you’re ninety, and that’s basically all there is to it.
I especially love the part where these people make all the food (with lots of prepwork help by Smash) . . .
. . . and Swanson sets up an actual photobooth. I guess the amount of time he spent on this (and the resultant fun quotient) outweighs the number of purposely unflattering photos of me he managed to work into the device’s countdown prompts. Maybe.
I feel like these photos more or less speak for themselves (though obviously I will speak for them also):
Reunited loves and some inexplicable antlers. Not even remotely sure whose hand that is . . . but does it really matter? Baller and her new man (and Swanson!) drove down from SF just for the party, and we were all so, so glad to have them there. How legit to have friends who will drive over 6 hours just to drink champagne with you, right? Take that, adulthood and resultant friendship drift! We laugh in your general direction!
Per Justin’s request, James Bond martinis for all the gentlemen present. Did you know that a “James Bond martini” involves Lillet Blanc, a totally rando French white wine? Neither did the unwitting BevMo salesperson I forced into helping me. But now you are equipped with the knowledge needed to imbibe like 007 himself.
Just be forewarned that, if you do, things like this can happen . . .
I think we can all agree that Swan Lake has never seen a better tribute. And that, if you stick a bunch of dancers in front of a camera, it’s only a matter of time (um, 5 seconds) until the posed arms and tilted necks come out. It’s not what you would call a totally conscious choice, as all ballet-trained people are inherently bizarre.
Except that some of them just take normal human pictures with their boyfriends, which basically blows my theory to shreds. Thanks a lot, LK.
Whatever. Apparently whatever bizarreness is lurking these halls is drawing in a pretty stellar crowd. We’ve got . . .
. . . New . . .
. . . Old . .
. . . and rediscovered. Which pretty much rounds it out, yes?
And then it ended, as do all events involving A. Bo, in an ADVENTURE. (Let’s hope she agrees to raise my children between the ages of 5 and 12, because they’re probably not going to think “Reading a Book!” is as much fun as whatever this girl would suggest instead). This adventure was entitled, “Go to the Beach and Plunge Into the Freezing Cold Water!”
…subtitled, “Put on All Of The Jackets and Hug Your Friends.”
We left this festive reminder of the glitter explosion (I would give a limb for a picture of Carl’s bald pate just covered in confetti, but apparently that is not to be) up until it was Treebert’s time to go.
I feel like the topper makes it all very “Cindy-Lou-Who-Had-Way-Too-Much-Fun.” Accurate. Love all these people and our newly-minted traditions so much.