Adventures from the Eve of Y2K + 10 : Bahs-ton and CT Editions

Like a best served cold present from a curmudgeonly, schizophrenic, and menstruating polar bear  rapidly approaching menopause, dear ole New England weather decided to treat us all to fluffy sky dandruff on New Year's Eve Day morning. By mid-afternoon, the cobblestoned streets of Willard M. Romney's old stomping grounds became a lovely grey slushed winter wonderland. Ah, First Night. High-pitched sounds--decipherable only to dolphins--periodically emanated from the mouths of bundled up darlings whose parents were too busy gawking at OMG! Ice Sculptures! to pay them any mind. Summa cum laude graduates from the Mumbles Mennino School of Public Speaking served as MBTA workers for the day, informing us of delays and imparting words of wisdom from some homeboy named Grabauskas or however it's pronounced and spelled.

Perhaps because academic masochism has encroached into the realm of mental health  masochism, we decided that we absolutely positively needed to buy more sensible shoes that what we were originally intending to wear (translation: a modest pair of four inches, instead of the scandalous five) and jumped into the mosh pit called last-minute shopping. It's safe to say that WWE wrestlers now come under the guise of impassioned Nine West and Aldo loyalists who don't hesitate to use their Minx-adorned talons to show their displeasure over being beat out in a race to get that last size 7 foot torture device. 

After we escaped the 5th level of hell that is frenetic shoe-shopping, we then entered the 6th level called Food Court. In here, an ear-shattering cacophony of dolphin-decibel voices greeted us once again, mostly coming from dear little no-longer-bundled-up munchkins whose parents ignore them while fueling up for the eve's festivities with healthy, MSG-doused Chinese food or flatulence-trumpeting comida Mexicana. Since Regina's Pizzeria offers Italian grub that's as authentic as Madonna's British (by way of Ann Arbor) accent, we decided to skeedadle on over to Sakura, which serves Japanese food that's as authentic as a Chanel purse sold on Canal St. in NYC. 

While First Night is where most people choose to bling out the New Year, we were actually headed to good ole Mohegan Sun Resort and Casino. As usual, a scantily-clad gymnast dude with abs so chiseled it could've been displayed at the MoMa was doing this Cirque du Soleil thing wherein he hangs and contorts himself to all sorts of position from a tall ribbon dangling from the ceiling. Oh, not to be outdone by Dickie Boy Clark and Ryan Seacrest, the homies at Mohegan also had a ball drop at midnight. 

Overall, it was an okay way to spend the dawn of another year. I must admit, however, that this year, I would rather greet 2011 at home, with a small dinner with loved ones. Good food, good conversation, good people? I'd rather have that than spend a ton and cram into some place with thousands of people. Huh. Night in instead of out? I must be getting old ;o)