Champagne and bean dip

New Year's Eve has never been a big celebration in our family. Growing up evangelical, santimonious, and holy, we rather looked down on those revellers who needed alcohol to get high. We were already high on Jesus -- what more did one need? So we always stayed in, watched a little Dick Clark on TV, then went to bed.

For one, I don't like being cold. The idea of getting out in 20 degree temperatures, with the added benefit of a cutting Oklahoma wind, just doesn't appeal to me. A couple of my very young friends drove down to Dallas to go to a bar they like. So while I salute their energy and enthusiasm, I kept to the time-honored tradition of warm pajamas, a can of bean dip, and Dick Clark (bless his heart, still soldiering on despite a stroke.) Weakened by endless commercials, we cheered feebly when the newly refurbished Times Square ball (it's eco-friendly!) came down to usher in the New Year.

SO and I toasted with a glass of bitter, dry champagne, while the boys drank their sparkling cider. I eyeballed my flute glasses nervously when they insisted on clinking them together.

"Cheers!"

Lego begged to try a sip of alcohol.

I, of course, refused.

"There's alcoholism in your genes. One sip, mister, and you could be in for at least 36 years of hard core addicition, a couple of divorces, loss of a limb, and the repossession of your home." Lego rolled his eyes, a typical response to my overly-imaginative ramblings, then staggered into the kitchen, perfectly imitating a drunken man. That kid can act, I'm telling you.

The next day, Sport checked the calendar.

"Is it 2008?"

"All year."

He sighed. "I really miss 2007."