Another year come and gone, and what do I have to show for it?
I'm no closer to winning the lottery (it would help if I actually bought a ticket), haven't found the mother of my children (here again, it would help if I didn't rely on MySpace or It'sJustCoffee, or those other dating and hookup sites, but got off by butt and mingled with real life women in public places).
2006 will be the first year I'll have New Year's Resolutions: trim the midsection, because I hate shopping for clothes, and I can't afford what I want (right now).
The plan: Shop for ingredients to make a heaping pot of southern-style gumbo and hot spiced apple cider, compliments of Jim Beam or Jack Daniels. This year, I'll celebrate with Bryce, her sister, and roommate in Washington Heights. Bryce makes it sound in her blog entry as if I'll hold a shotgun to her head while would-be Martha Stewarts and Ty Penningtons makeover her smallish apartment and set up pastries, pastas, and gurgling punch bowls.
My recollection of the conversation leading up to New Year's Night uptown as we walked to the Columbus Circle Subway Station from a screenwriting group meeting.
"Hey Bryce, has the apartment search coming?"
"We found an apt uptown, not in Brooklyn."
"Do you like it?"
Crossing the street before a yellow cab or New Jersey driver plowed into us, delaying any immediate chance of either of us completing a screenplay and getting it read by unemployed actors or sold to the highest bidder.
"Yes, I do, actually. I received the strangest phone call. My landlord called to ask if everything was okay with the apartment."
(omitting Bryce's giddy, girly statements while she held up a pretend phone to her ear)
Somewhere between the platform and our separating (not quite movie hero and heroine, or even co-villains) . . . I asked about a housewarming party and her New Year's Eve plans.
I'm so not a movie heavy. I didn't twist her arm. Honest engine. I thought it would be cool to share hosting and cooking duties.
Back on track. We're having a shindig uptown in the colorful neighborhood of Washington Heights, where I expect there'll be revelers young and old in the streets and hanging out on their stoops. At some point when she kicks us out of the apartment, I'll make my way downtown to download the digital photos from the party. A day or two into the New Year, I'll set about exercising, getting back into African dancing/rollerblading shape, and finishing two screenplays and a novel within the first three months of 2006. Once that's done, I'll start sending out query letters, and continue building a short story collection.
I've never been much of a drinker, so I don't have to resolve not to drink like a sailor or nowadays, a surburban soccer mom.
Like Bryce, I too, like the planning, prepping, and cooking for parties. It takes my mind off which friends and colleagues will actually show up. Years ago, I was a restaurant host, so I know how to work a room and make almost everyone feel comfortable.
Must not forget to get out of the apartment in 2006 and find potential candidates to bear my younguns before I'm too old and ornery to raise children.