Attending church is one of the highlights of my week. I enjoy several aspects of the worship service -- the liturgy, the music, the pageantry -- and I also like socializing with the other parishioners. I'm very fond of the clergy at my parish, so that only adds to the experience of worshiping there.
The majority of people attending services on Sunday morning are families and couples. For single people, church can be a very isolating place. As I am currently (and for a while now) single, I sometimes find myself feeling a little awkward and, frankly, envious on Sunday mornings. Even though I've been in some wonderful relationships, I've never been with anyone who regularly attended worship services with me. In a couple of instances the impasse was sectarian. A boyfriend I had who was raised in the Baptist church went to mass with me once. He was clearly uncomfortable with the Episcopal experience, even going so far as to decline communion. I've also dated agnostic and athiest men, so their obstacles to attending worship with me were even greater.
Several of the couples at my parish have children. This is another area where my inner green monster raises its ugly head. I ache to have children, and despair with each passing year that I never will. Seeing the happy kids at church interacting with their parents, marching to children's chapel and attending formation classes fills me with joy and dread both -- joy at the site of the gleeful youngsters, dread at the thought that I will never know the joy of being a father.
After the service this morning I was talking with a woman from my parish who recently had a baby. When I left her table, I noticed her daughter's stroller and walked over to look in at the baby inside. She was fussy, and I leaned down to see what was wrong with her. As soon as I touched her and talked to her, she stopped fussing and started to smile. I identified the underlying cause of her distress -- her pacifier had slipped out of her mouth -- and placed the offending passy back into her mouth. I was overjoyed at being able to perform this small act to comfort her; however, it was again joy mixed with dread -- joy at helping a small child, dread at the thought of never being able to comfort my own baby.
I fervently believe that God has a plan for my life. I sometimes wonder, however, if that plan includes marriage and fatherhood. That being said, I refuse to concede that I am not the master of my destiny, not the captain of my soul. I think the onus is on me to be cognizant of the opportunities God offers to me. I was blessed with the good sense to end relationships that I know cannot progress towards permanence, and the strength to be alone for the right reasons rather than with someone for the wrong ones. I have to rely on that strength right now, because God knows I'm not getting any younger. The passage of time may be constant, but its coursing grows louder in my ears.
Sunday, January 22, 2006
Saturday, January 21, 2006
The Science of Desperate Housewives
Okay, this has been bugging me for almost a week. I just have to clear this up.
On Sunday's episode of Desperate Housewives, we found our favorite ladies at the Wisteria Lane Blood Drive. Zack walked up to the registration table and told the nurse that his blood type was AB-. The woman remarked, correctly, that this was a rare blood type. She then said that another man with that same blood type had just donated. The man of whom she spoke was -- you guessed it -- Mike.
What was the purpose of this sanguine exchange? It was supposed to be a clue to Zack that Mike is his biological father. Sadly, the writers really screwed the pooch. Here's why.
There are two different antigens used to type blood for donation and transfusion, the ABO antigen and the Rhesus (Rh) antigen, antigens being proteins recognized by antibodies. The ABO blood antigens are coded for by three different alleles, the Rh antigen by two alleles. Alleles are simply different genetic sequences that encode the same protein. In basic biology, alleles are often referred to as "dominant" or "recessive." For the Rh antigen, Rh+ blood type (expressing the Rh antigen) is "dominant" while Rh- blood type (failure to express the Rh antigen) is "recessive." Therefore, if an individual receives one Rh+ allele from his father and one Rh- allele from his mother, then that individual will be blood type Rh+, even though he only has one Rh+ allele. To be Rh-, one must receive an Rh- allele from both parents.
ABO blood typing is a little different. At any given genetic locus, we all have two alleles, one inherited from our father and the second from our mother. This means several combinations are possible -- two A alleles, two B alleles, two O alleles, or a combination (AB, AO, BO). Because the A and B alleles are co-dominant, if one has both an A and a B allele, then one's blood type is AB (one expresses both the A and B antigens). If an individual's blood type is O, then that person has two O alleles, and must have neither an A nor a B allele (and therefore expresses neither the A nor the B antigen).
So, if I were a writer on DH, and I wanted to use blood typing to show that a character's custodial father was not his biological father, this is what I would do. I'd ignore the Rh antigen completely because it's a simple recessive/dominant situation, so it's not very informative. I would simply make the child's blood type O and I would make his custodial father's blood type AB. An AB father cannot parent a child with blood type O, barring spontaneous mutations. This is because he would pass either the A or B allele to all of his offspring, and since the A and B alleles are always dominant over the O allele, any resulting children would always be either A, B or AB.
Unfortunately, this would have required explanations such as the one I've presented here. Maybe that's why I work in a research lab and don't write for television shows.
But at least I've gotten this off of my chest! Oh, and if anyone really wants to "see the math", then I'll be happy to send you a Punnett square. Or perhaps you could go hide under the bed until the feeling passes.
On Sunday's episode of Desperate Housewives, we found our favorite ladies at the Wisteria Lane Blood Drive. Zack walked up to the registration table and told the nurse that his blood type was AB-. The woman remarked, correctly, that this was a rare blood type. She then said that another man with that same blood type had just donated. The man of whom she spoke was -- you guessed it -- Mike.
What was the purpose of this sanguine exchange? It was supposed to be a clue to Zack that Mike is his biological father. Sadly, the writers really screwed the pooch. Here's why.
There are two different antigens used to type blood for donation and transfusion, the ABO antigen and the Rhesus (Rh) antigen, antigens being proteins recognized by antibodies. The ABO blood antigens are coded for by three different alleles, the Rh antigen by two alleles. Alleles are simply different genetic sequences that encode the same protein. In basic biology, alleles are often referred to as "dominant" or "recessive." For the Rh antigen, Rh+ blood type (expressing the Rh antigen) is "dominant" while Rh- blood type (failure to express the Rh antigen) is "recessive." Therefore, if an individual receives one Rh+ allele from his father and one Rh- allele from his mother, then that individual will be blood type Rh+, even though he only has one Rh+ allele. To be Rh-, one must receive an Rh- allele from both parents.
ABO blood typing is a little different. At any given genetic locus, we all have two alleles, one inherited from our father and the second from our mother. This means several combinations are possible -- two A alleles, two B alleles, two O alleles, or a combination (AB, AO, BO). Because the A and B alleles are co-dominant, if one has both an A and a B allele, then one's blood type is AB (one expresses both the A and B antigens). If an individual's blood type is O, then that person has two O alleles, and must have neither an A nor a B allele (and therefore expresses neither the A nor the B antigen).
So, if I were a writer on DH, and I wanted to use blood typing to show that a character's custodial father was not his biological father, this is what I would do. I'd ignore the Rh antigen completely because it's a simple recessive/dominant situation, so it's not very informative. I would simply make the child's blood type O and I would make his custodial father's blood type AB. An AB father cannot parent a child with blood type O, barring spontaneous mutations. This is because he would pass either the A or B allele to all of his offspring, and since the A and B alleles are always dominant over the O allele, any resulting children would always be either A, B or AB.
Unfortunately, this would have required explanations such as the one I've presented here. Maybe that's why I work in a research lab and don't write for television shows.
But at least I've gotten this off of my chest! Oh, and if anyone really wants to "see the math", then I'll be happy to send you a Punnett square. Or perhaps you could go hide under the bed until the feeling passes.
Monday, January 16, 2006
The Mountaintop
I saw a very interesting episode of The Jeffersons tonight. The episode takes place in the recent past and shows what happens to the main characters -- George, Louise (Weezie) and Lionel -- on the day preceeding and the day of the assasination of the Rev'd. Dr. Martin Luther King. The episode ends with the family listening to a rebroadcast of the last speech Dr. King gave, commonly called the "I've Been to the Mountaintop" speech.
On the day before he was shot, Dr. King gave a speech in Memphis to support striking sanitation workers. At the end of his speech, Dr. King said the following:
And then I got to Memphis. And some began to say the threats, or talk about the threats that were out. What would happen to me from some of our sick white brothers?
Well, I don't know what will happen now. We've got some difficult days ahead. But it doesn't matter with me now. Because I've been to the mountaintop. And I don't mind. Like anybody, I would like to live a long life. Longevity has its place. But I'm not concerned about that now. I just want to do God's will. And He's allowed me to go up to the mountain. And I've looked over. And I've seen the promised land. I may not get there with you. But I want you to know tonight, that we, as a people, will get to the promised land.
Dr. King was shot the next day by James Earl Ray. (Note that Mr. Ray recanted his confession late just before dying of liver failure while in the custody of the State of Tennessee.) It seems, in the above concluding remarks to his speech, that Dr. King was prophesying his own death.
In his speech, Dr. King posits himself as Moses in the land of Moab. In Deuteronomy, the time of Moses's death is described thus:
And Moses went up from the plains of Moab to Mount Nebo, to the top of Pisgah, which is opposite Jericho. And the LORD showed him all the land, Gilead as far as Dan, all Naph'tali, the land of E'phraim and Manas'seh, all the land of Judah as far as the Western Sea, the Negeb, and the Plain, that is, the valley of Jericho the city of palm trees, as far as Zo'ar. And the LORD said to him, "This is the land of which I swore to Abraham, to Isaac, and to Jacob, `I will give it to your descendants.' I have let you see it with your eyes, but you shall not go over there." So Moses the servant of the LORD died there in the land of Moab.
Dr. King helped to lead his people out of bondage, just like Moses. He said that he had seen the Promised Land, just as God showed Moses the Promised Land. Like Moses, Dr. King could not live to enter into the Promised Land he had been shown. Sadly, even had he lived to see his 77th birthday, Dr. King would still not have been able to enter into the Promised Land he envisioned, a land where people of color are afforded the same rights, privileges and responsibilities as are caucasians.
The dream has been deferred so long. I pray that it will not be, ultimately, denied.
On the day before he was shot, Dr. King gave a speech in Memphis to support striking sanitation workers. At the end of his speech, Dr. King said the following:
And then I got to Memphis. And some began to say the threats, or talk about the threats that were out. What would happen to me from some of our sick white brothers?
Well, I don't know what will happen now. We've got some difficult days ahead. But it doesn't matter with me now. Because I've been to the mountaintop. And I don't mind. Like anybody, I would like to live a long life. Longevity has its place. But I'm not concerned about that now. I just want to do God's will. And He's allowed me to go up to the mountain. And I've looked over. And I've seen the promised land. I may not get there with you. But I want you to know tonight, that we, as a people, will get to the promised land.
Dr. King was shot the next day by James Earl Ray. (Note that Mr. Ray recanted his confession late just before dying of liver failure while in the custody of the State of Tennessee.) It seems, in the above concluding remarks to his speech, that Dr. King was prophesying his own death.
In his speech, Dr. King posits himself as Moses in the land of Moab. In Deuteronomy, the time of Moses's death is described thus:
And Moses went up from the plains of Moab to Mount Nebo, to the top of Pisgah, which is opposite Jericho. And the LORD showed him all the land, Gilead as far as Dan, all Naph'tali, the land of E'phraim and Manas'seh, all the land of Judah as far as the Western Sea, the Negeb, and the Plain, that is, the valley of Jericho the city of palm trees, as far as Zo'ar. And the LORD said to him, "This is the land of which I swore to Abraham, to Isaac, and to Jacob, `I will give it to your descendants.' I have let you see it with your eyes, but you shall not go over there." So Moses the servant of the LORD died there in the land of Moab.
Dr. King helped to lead his people out of bondage, just like Moses. He said that he had seen the Promised Land, just as God showed Moses the Promised Land. Like Moses, Dr. King could not live to enter into the Promised Land he had been shown. Sadly, even had he lived to see his 77th birthday, Dr. King would still not have been able to enter into the Promised Land he envisioned, a land where people of color are afforded the same rights, privileges and responsibilities as are caucasians.
The dream has been deferred so long. I pray that it will not be, ultimately, denied.
Friday, January 13, 2006
Souvenir?
There are some things that just defy good sense. This hat is one of those things.
I adore Louis Vuitton bags. Really, I do. I don't own one because, frankly, I'm not independently wealthy. Vuitton bags are not cheap, which is part of the reason they're status symbols. I've been to Louis Vuitton stores, I've perused their merchandise, I've even considered buying some very small pieces, although my desire to be able to pay my rent has always won out.
But not once in all those times did I think, "Gosh, maybe I could just buy a Louis Vuitton hat." Maybe I thought it would be an unsatisfactory substitute for a satchel or overnight bag. Perhaps I realized that I don't, in general, look good in hats.
Or maybe I realized that a Louis Vuitton hat just looks stupid.
What's next? Tiffany's lapel pins? Prada shoe laces?
I adore Louis Vuitton bags. Really, I do. I don't own one because, frankly, I'm not independently wealthy. Vuitton bags are not cheap, which is part of the reason they're status symbols. I've been to Louis Vuitton stores, I've perused their merchandise, I've even considered buying some very small pieces, although my desire to be able to pay my rent has always won out.
But not once in all those times did I think, "Gosh, maybe I could just buy a Louis Vuitton hat." Maybe I thought it would be an unsatisfactory substitute for a satchel or overnight bag. Perhaps I realized that I don't, in general, look good in hats.
Or maybe I realized that a Louis Vuitton hat just looks stupid.
What's next? Tiffany's lapel pins? Prada shoe laces?
Thursday, January 12, 2006
Isolde Has Left the Stage
In case you missed the New York Times obits page today, let me be the first to tell you that Birgit Nilsson has died at the ripe old age of 87. Truly opera has lost one of its brightest stars, and certainly no one living today can sing Wagner like she can. It may be another generation before such a chanteuse again graces the stage.
Her obit portrays her as an independent and strong woman. According to the Times La Nilsson largely managed her own career, and did not resort to tantrums during negotiations. She also gives no credit to her voice teachers, insisting that if anything they hurt her voice. (Fortunately, I have no such complaints about my voice teachers, who have done nothing but help my voice.)
La Nilsson had a lovely quote from a nine-year-old interview with the Times:
"I've always tried to remember what my mother used to tell me. Stay close to the earth. Then when you fall down, it won't hurt so much."
God be with you, La Nilsson.
Her obit portrays her as an independent and strong woman. According to the Times La Nilsson largely managed her own career, and did not resort to tantrums during negotiations. She also gives no credit to her voice teachers, insisting that if anything they hurt her voice. (Fortunately, I have no such complaints about my voice teachers, who have done nothing but help my voice.)
La Nilsson had a lovely quote from a nine-year-old interview with the Times:
"I've always tried to remember what my mother used to tell me. Stay close to the earth. Then when you fall down, it won't hurt so much."
God be with you, La Nilsson.
Wednesday, January 11, 2006
Lousy Day
I just should have stayed in bed this morning.
I got to work early this morning because I needed to get some reagents prepared for the day. My hope was to be a little ahead of the game at the end of the day. The reality was that I wound up a day behind, with nothing to show for my efforts.
Sadly this isn't too outside of the norm for science. Sometimes procedures that have worked flawlessly ninety-nine times in a row will fail when you try to perform them the hundredth time. They might fail because a reagent has gone bad, or because a piece of equipment malfunctions, or because of something I like to call G.T.I. (Gross Technical Incompetence), which explains a myriad of experimental failures.
Today, it seems as though every experiment was in its hundredth-round failure cycle. By the end of the day, I was dropping pipet tips on the floor and spilling solutions all over my bench. After ten hours of banging my head against the metaphorical wall, I gave up and went home.
It's days like this that I wonder why I became a scientist. Fortunately there are also good days, when experiments work and I can put another piece into the jigsaw puzzle that is my project. Of course, I think the ratio is about 15:1 in favor of the bad days.
The nice thing about bad days is that, like all other days, they end. Today will be over soon and, in the immortal words of Scarlet O'Hara, tomorrow is another day.
I got to work early this morning because I needed to get some reagents prepared for the day. My hope was to be a little ahead of the game at the end of the day. The reality was that I wound up a day behind, with nothing to show for my efforts.
Sadly this isn't too outside of the norm for science. Sometimes procedures that have worked flawlessly ninety-nine times in a row will fail when you try to perform them the hundredth time. They might fail because a reagent has gone bad, or because a piece of equipment malfunctions, or because of something I like to call G.T.I. (Gross Technical Incompetence), which explains a myriad of experimental failures.
Today, it seems as though every experiment was in its hundredth-round failure cycle. By the end of the day, I was dropping pipet tips on the floor and spilling solutions all over my bench. After ten hours of banging my head against the metaphorical wall, I gave up and went home.
It's days like this that I wonder why I became a scientist. Fortunately there are also good days, when experiments work and I can put another piece into the jigsaw puzzle that is my project. Of course, I think the ratio is about 15:1 in favor of the bad days.
The nice thing about bad days is that, like all other days, they end. Today will be over soon and, in the immortal words of Scarlet O'Hara, tomorrow is another day.
Monday, January 02, 2006
Quintessentially Southern
It was lovely visiting North Carolina last week. The weather was quite pleasant -- it was in the 50s most of the week, and I believe one day even reached 60 degrees, plus there was very little precipitation.
I enjoy visiting North Carolina because the spirit of North Carolina still lives within me, and going home feeds my soul. I go out and hear people speaking, and I recognize their accent because it is my accent. In Chicago, my voice tends to be noticed because it is so very different from the prevailing midwestern/nasal accent endemic to this area of the country. It is often commented upon, rarely with malicious intent, but nonetheless the attention can be annoying.
I don't cringe, though, nor do I slink from my Southern heritage or my lilting Piedmont southern accent. I embrace being Southern. I know the difference between a mint julep and a mojito. I know just how and when to use the phrase, "Bless her heart" to allow me to say anything about anyone without fear of reproach. When I cook I measure ingredients in dollops, dashes, smidges and pinches. I understand how nervous is a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs and comprehend the happiness of a puppy with two peters. I know the correct way to use the word y'all -- I also know the correct way to punctuate it.
Some people will be forever biased against people who pronounce the word "couch" with three syllables. It's their loss.
I am Southern. Hear me roa-ahr.
I enjoy visiting North Carolina because the spirit of North Carolina still lives within me, and going home feeds my soul. I go out and hear people speaking, and I recognize their accent because it is my accent. In Chicago, my voice tends to be noticed because it is so very different from the prevailing midwestern/nasal accent endemic to this area of the country. It is often commented upon, rarely with malicious intent, but nonetheless the attention can be annoying.
I don't cringe, though, nor do I slink from my Southern heritage or my lilting Piedmont southern accent. I embrace being Southern. I know the difference between a mint julep and a mojito. I know just how and when to use the phrase, "Bless her heart" to allow me to say anything about anyone without fear of reproach. When I cook I measure ingredients in dollops, dashes, smidges and pinches. I understand how nervous is a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs and comprehend the happiness of a puppy with two peters. I know the correct way to use the word y'all -- I also know the correct way to punctuate it.
Some people will be forever biased against people who pronounce the word "couch" with three syllables. It's their loss.
I am Southern. Hear me roa-ahr.
Sunday, January 01, 2006
Obligatory New Year's Thoughts
As I write this I'm listening to a podcast from the Krebs Cycle blog. The author of that blog, a guy named Adam, is going on about what he did for New Year's. I just stumbled across this blog a couple of weeks back, and I admit I initially clicked on it because of the science theme (I am a scientist, after all), but I check it out because I like Adam's writing style and his topics are somewhat interesting. Right now Adam is talking about why he doesn't particularly like the New Year's holiday. Incidentally, if you think the Krebs Cycle is something Lance Armstrong might ride in the Tour de France, clearly you've forgotten most of your intro bio course from college/high school. Here's a diagram of the Krebs cycle for you to peruse. Without going into too much detail about this biological process, you're doing it right now, or else you're dead.
I'm not an anti-holiday person. I love and enjoy spending time with my family, so Christmas is a great time for me. Thanksgiving is all about cooking, and there's nothing I love to do so much as to cook womploads of really fattening food for people, so I am all about the Turkey Day. Easter is my favorite ecclesiastical holiday, which is good since it's the most important holy day of the church year. I also love Lent, as it forces me to look inward and be contemplative about my life and the choices I make every day for 46 days (I don't believe in "skipping" Sundays, thank you very much!)
That being said, there are two holidays that I just cannot abide. The first and foremost is Valentine's Day. Ick, ick, ick, ick, ick!! I have been single more often on Valentine's than not, which only makes sense since I've been single during most of my adult life. This, however, is not why I abhor Valentine's Day. Since I have about 6 weeks before I have to tackle that holiday, I won't go into all of my various reasons and rationalizations for despising this wretched holiday. Yet.
The other holiday I hate? Well, if you guessed New Year's Day, well, sorry, but you're wrong. The holiday I hate is New Year's Eve. For years as a young adult I felt the need to go out on New Year's Eve and show just how horrifically drunk I could get in the company of good friends. Later, I tried spending New Year's Eve with friends maintaining some semblance of sobriety and participating in absurdly insipid activities and games to stay awake until the new year's arrival at midnight.
I think the year that really cemented my feelings of hostility towards New Year's Eve was 1999. My friends and I organized a trek to Atlanta to usher in the "new millennium" (which really didn't start until 2001) in the big city. I lived in Nashville at the time, and Atlanta seemed a much more cosmopolitan and exciting place to party in the new year.
I spent $20 on the cover charge to get into Backstreet. Inside, there were about 5,000 people on a dance floor the size of my living room. I was asked not to "cross dance" -- don't ask, I don't know what it is, either -- by some very snippy queen and saw my friend Joel nearly kill a group of girls who had made a clear space between them on the dance floor by standing lock-armed around an iron rail along the side of the dance floor. When the countdown was over, and it was officially 2000, we went back upstairs to the main bar. The people there were unfriendly, the drinks were watered down and I saw a girl expurgate the entire contents of her stomach onto the floor next to the bar. No one rushed to clean this up. After about an hour and a half, we decided this was a lousy place to be and headed back to our hotel at the perimeter.
I stayed up until 5:30 in the morning drinking gin and tonics. Actually, that's inaccurate -- we ran out of tonic at about 4:00, so after that we were having gin and gins. I fell asleep, or passed out, I can't really remember which. I puked about 3 times, and was awakened 20 minutes before check-out time by one of my friends staying in another room.
We had a lovely brunch at Einstein's, which still ranks as my favorite restaurant for brunch and makes a trip to Atlanta nearly worth having to drive around Atlanta. Brunch was by far the best part of the trip, but I would rather have saved money on the hotel and the bar and had everyone over to my house for a lovely meal.
Since then, where and how I spend New Year's Eve has largely been based on my mood and work schedule. The past two years I've been in Chicago for New Year's Eve, and both times I spent the evening at home alone. And I'm not complaining. Yesterday I got my apartment nice and clean and even rearranged my kitchen. I toasted the New Year with a very dry martini (I couldn't open the cap on my vermouth) and Dick Clark (bless his heart, that stroke really packed a wallop!). I then took my evening meds and went promptly to bed.
Today I had a lovely time at church and then cooked brunch for a friend. I helped a nice elderly lady from church get upstairs to her apartment, so I feel as though I'm starting the new year off with a good deed, which is nice. I really attach very little significance to the new year vis a vis adopting new habits or making changes in my life. I know what I need to do to improve my personal and professional well-being, new year or no new year. Resolutions are largely a crock that no one expects to live up to. It's wonderful when people do live out their resolutions, but my question is, why did you have to start January 1st? Why not start on November 22nd or wait until February 13th?
Now I'm going to get back to the very important task of watching the Bears lose to the Vikings. Well, at least the Panthers won, and most importantly NC State blanked South Florida to win the Meineke Car Care Bowl (geesh, how pathetic a bowl is that?) yesterday, so overall it's a good football weekend.
For what it's worth, have a great New Year!
I'm not an anti-holiday person. I love and enjoy spending time with my family, so Christmas is a great time for me. Thanksgiving is all about cooking, and there's nothing I love to do so much as to cook womploads of really fattening food for people, so I am all about the Turkey Day. Easter is my favorite ecclesiastical holiday, which is good since it's the most important holy day of the church year. I also love Lent, as it forces me to look inward and be contemplative about my life and the choices I make every day for 46 days (I don't believe in "skipping" Sundays, thank you very much!)
That being said, there are two holidays that I just cannot abide. The first and foremost is Valentine's Day. Ick, ick, ick, ick, ick!! I have been single more often on Valentine's than not, which only makes sense since I've been single during most of my adult life. This, however, is not why I abhor Valentine's Day. Since I have about 6 weeks before I have to tackle that holiday, I won't go into all of my various reasons and rationalizations for despising this wretched holiday. Yet.
The other holiday I hate? Well, if you guessed New Year's Day, well, sorry, but you're wrong. The holiday I hate is New Year's Eve. For years as a young adult I felt the need to go out on New Year's Eve and show just how horrifically drunk I could get in the company of good friends. Later, I tried spending New Year's Eve with friends maintaining some semblance of sobriety and participating in absurdly insipid activities and games to stay awake until the new year's arrival at midnight.
I think the year that really cemented my feelings of hostility towards New Year's Eve was 1999. My friends and I organized a trek to Atlanta to usher in the "new millennium" (which really didn't start until 2001) in the big city. I lived in Nashville at the time, and Atlanta seemed a much more cosmopolitan and exciting place to party in the new year.
I spent $20 on the cover charge to get into Backstreet. Inside, there were about 5,000 people on a dance floor the size of my living room. I was asked not to "cross dance" -- don't ask, I don't know what it is, either -- by some very snippy queen and saw my friend Joel nearly kill a group of girls who had made a clear space between them on the dance floor by standing lock-armed around an iron rail along the side of the dance floor. When the countdown was over, and it was officially 2000, we went back upstairs to the main bar. The people there were unfriendly, the drinks were watered down and I saw a girl expurgate the entire contents of her stomach onto the floor next to the bar. No one rushed to clean this up. After about an hour and a half, we decided this was a lousy place to be and headed back to our hotel at the perimeter.
I stayed up until 5:30 in the morning drinking gin and tonics. Actually, that's inaccurate -- we ran out of tonic at about 4:00, so after that we were having gin and gins. I fell asleep, or passed out, I can't really remember which. I puked about 3 times, and was awakened 20 minutes before check-out time by one of my friends staying in another room.
We had a lovely brunch at Einstein's, which still ranks as my favorite restaurant for brunch and makes a trip to Atlanta nearly worth having to drive around Atlanta. Brunch was by far the best part of the trip, but I would rather have saved money on the hotel and the bar and had everyone over to my house for a lovely meal.
Since then, where and how I spend New Year's Eve has largely been based on my mood and work schedule. The past two years I've been in Chicago for New Year's Eve, and both times I spent the evening at home alone. And I'm not complaining. Yesterday I got my apartment nice and clean and even rearranged my kitchen. I toasted the New Year with a very dry martini (I couldn't open the cap on my vermouth) and Dick Clark (bless his heart, that stroke really packed a wallop!). I then took my evening meds and went promptly to bed.
Today I had a lovely time at church and then cooked brunch for a friend. I helped a nice elderly lady from church get upstairs to her apartment, so I feel as though I'm starting the new year off with a good deed, which is nice. I really attach very little significance to the new year vis a vis adopting new habits or making changes in my life. I know what I need to do to improve my personal and professional well-being, new year or no new year. Resolutions are largely a crock that no one expects to live up to. It's wonderful when people do live out their resolutions, but my question is, why did you have to start January 1st? Why not start on November 22nd or wait until February 13th?
Now I'm going to get back to the very important task of watching the Bears lose to the Vikings. Well, at least the Panthers won, and most importantly NC State blanked South Florida to win the Meineke Car Care Bowl (geesh, how pathetic a bowl is that?) yesterday, so overall it's a good football weekend.
For what it's worth, have a great New Year!
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