The Routine

Daring and adventurous are rarely words associated with me these days. Sure, once upon a time, you may have found me hitchhiking in the Soviet Union, but these days my view of adventure is checking to see if there is a new episode of “Moonlight” on TV, or looking for change in my pockets (come on big money). But every once in a while…

I believe I expressed my completely rational loathing (LA LA LA Loathing, unadulterated loathing; For your face; Your voice; Your clothing; Let's just say - I loathe it all…) of New Year’s Eve festivities. However, that is not to say that I do not perform certain rituals to mark the passage of yet another year.

3:30pm
I like to start the evening off with a round of personal recriminations. My favorites involve “How could I?” and “Why didn’t I?” Feel free to incorporate your own. This can take quite a while, so I like to be prepared to take several breaks involving ice cream.

6:00pm
From here, I like to smoothly transition into some good, old-school self-pity. I have to start this early because otherwise by the time I get around to the “why God, why” business, I’ll have missed the new year –

9:00pm
– which starts at 9:00:01pm. The simple reality is that watching a re-run of the ball dropping in New York at midnight in Los Angeles is not inspiring enough to keep my enormous bum out of bed. I usually celebrate with the east coast by doing the count down, marveling at the insanity of anyone willing standing in the cold for hours, and then turning out the light.

9:05pm
Yawn. Happy New Y… zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

It’s not that I don’t mix it up. Occasionally, I’ll alter the kind of ice cream. One particularly wild year, I distinctly remember chips and salsa. These are time-honored traditions not to be discarded lightly—which makes my decision this year unanticipated.

I went out.

It was dark, and I left my apartment. I willfully engaged in frivolity in the Hollywood Hills. I am living the dream. I expect TMZ to be calling for a statement any moment now. Please express your appreciation and amazement by sending cash (large bills only) or sizeable checks to the “Help Pay Off The Jimmy Choo Stiletto Boots That I Wore to This Party” fund.

And no, it does not matter that I was only there for 45 minutes. The only thing that matters is that I actually had fun—nice people, beautiful view, shocked hosts and still home and asleep by 10:30. It’s not the quantity of partying, but the quality of partying that counts.

(No, really, the party was great and hosted by dear friends who took my initial RSVP of “Hell no, I’m not coming to a New Year’s Eve party” in the loving way it was intended. And yes—45 minutes.)

Maybe next year, I might stay 52 minutes (no promises). Obviously, now everything is up in the air. You have to re-examine all your pre-conceived notions about me. I am unpredictability personified.

And now I have to rest from all the excitement.

Kate
(The envy of It girls everywhere—provided they are over 50 and institutionalized)