Every year my husband and I throw what we would consider a pretty kick-ass New Years party.  Jim, the consummate cook, creates his most yummy creations of shrimp bisque, coconut shrimp, Scully’s chicken wings, steak fondue (with a plethora of dippings to fit every taste) and chocolate fondue for dessert.  After the food has pretty much made even our fat jeans tight, we will play board games, maybe even sing karaoke, and just have a fun time chatting it up with friends.  In the background will be Dick Clark’s Rockin’ New Years Eve (sadly to replaced by Ryan Seacrest - who honestly does an outstanding job).  After the last shrimp has been grazed from the plate and the bottles of wine have been emptied it gets louder, funnier and sillier.  My husband and I have usually a private (although sometimes with an audience - my Dad, the “Yea!” man) air guitar session very similar to this one.  One year Jim got so into his role as Pete Townsend, complete with walking stick air guitar, he came eerily close to plunging his axe through the Marshall Stack he was bumping into.  He was only snapped into reality when I screamed, “Jim stop!” and he saw that he was about to destroy our big screen TV.  Yes, it gets that intense on “stage.”

This year, we thought would be more of the wonderful same but as our guest list starts to dwindle we begin to question wether it was really as great at entertaining as we thought, or other people just started to suck.   I have to believe the latter is true.  At around 7 o’clock we will have a house full of people, gleefully eating of Jim’s creations.  But at around 9 it seems our guest have other (I hear better) parties to go to.  We are the revolving doors of NYE parties.  Or better, the concession stand.  Come, eat our of our bountiful goods and then LEAVE!  No, I’m not bitter.  It’s better this way. Now, no one can stop us from doing a third round of Tommy !