How I've celebrated New Year's has changed over the years, as I'm sure it has for you, too. We all get older, and as the years have passed, we've watched Dick Clark not age, then age, then have a stroke, then die. Depressing, right? Let's take a look at some New Year's Eves from my past:

1. December 31, 1985: In the Longo house, New Year's Eve was a night for eating chips and dip, playing Trivial Pursuit, and watching the ball drop. This is how I remember most of our New Year's Eves growing up. This particular year was memorable because we ran out of dip and had to bake up an emergency batch of cookies to keep the junk food coming. Also, I remember the newscaster breaking in on the Times Square footage to show us a shot of Ricky Nelson's plane crashing. My mom was sad. Happy New Year.

2.  December 31, 1986: Hoping for better things this time around, we invited friends over to ring in the New Year. My sister and I and our friends Jen and Chuckie watched movies. Our selections? Witchboard and Children of the Corn. I was 13. We had an Ouija board. We lived on a farm, with acres and acres of corn. It was all fun and games (and more chips and dip) that year, but I'll admit that it was no "accident" that the Ouija board wound up in the dumpster shortly thereafter. Also, I was terrified to walk in the corn for years, convinced I could feel Malachai's breath on the back of my neck. Totally psychologically damaging New Year's Eve fun.

3. December 31, 1993: Funny, I don't remember any New Year's Eve celebrations from my college years. Before my roommates from that era chime in and tell you I was a lush (I was, but that's not the point) I'm sure I was on winter break during these New Year's Eves. So I'm going to guess this was another evening of chips and dip at home.

4. December 31, 1999: I rang in the turn of the century on Block Island, at Sam Peckham's Tavern. I usually hated going out on the island on New Year's Eve (or, as we called it, Amateur Night) but made an exception this particular year. I remember a woman named Paula was playing a rousing rendition of "Blow Me (a Kiss as You're Leaving)" on the piano, which at the time I thought was brilliantly witty. I might have been drunk.

5. December 31, 2008: Fast forward a few years. At this point, Jason and I were newly married, and had both agreed that we didn't want to be out on New Year's Eve, as we were now mature enough to realize getting wasted with strangers was not particularly fun. We stayed home to play Trivial Pursuit, eat pizza, and watch the ball drop. This year was memorable because at approximately 11:42 PM, Jason was struck with a virulent stomach bug, and began power-vomiting into any receptacle he could find. At 12:07 AM, I followed suit. We barfed at least three times an hour for the next 48 hours, making for a memorable New Year's celebration together. Honestly, we were pushing each other out of the way to throw up in the toilet. I was so mad because I was sure nobody would believe we'd been home, sober, behaving like grownups.

6. December 31, 2013: This year, we plan on staying at home. I'll mention that it's been 28 years since Ricky Nelson died; we'll throw on some scary movies, like Children of the Corn. We won't order pizza, since now the thought of pizza on New Year's Eve makes us think of barfing, but I'll make chips and dip. We don't have TV anymore, so no watching the ball drop, but that's okay, because Dick Clark won't be there to count it down. There's a 50/50 chance that I won't stay awake 'til midnight anyway. 

I hope everyone has a happy and healthy New Year!

Guess who's now writing "B" horror movie reviews for Cinema Knife Fight? That's right, me! Check out my very first review, of a fine film starring Ron Jeremy. My mother will be so proud!

Sometimes, people ask me why I'm so grouchy around this time of year. These people are taking their lives into their own hands. However, I do have a simple explanation: others have made me this way.

Jason, for instance, would argue that he does everything he can to put me in the Christmas spirit. I can tell you that his methods are faulty. It's taken him a long time to realize that not only do I not find it funny when he puts on holiday videos that he knows I despise (i.e. all of them, with the exception of the outstanding A Wish For Wings That Work) but it's also a good way to get me to empty the contents of his underwear drawer, soak the whole lot in cold water, and dump everything in the freezer.

Just yesterday, he popped in a video of A Christmas Story. Now how could I possibly not enjoy this little tale of a boy who wants a Red Ryder BB gun for Christmas, you ask? This movie is full of terrible lessons and yes, I'll say it, racism. First of all, throughout the whole movie, all of the adults tell Ralphie he'll shoot his eye out with that dumb gun. So what does he do when he gets it? He practically shoots his eye out. Perhaps he should've taken the hint and saved up his allowance for safety goggles, and this wouldn't have happened. Then he lies to his mother about almost shooting his eye out. Clearly, this film encourages children to lie to their parents. That's a terrible lesson.
Also, I don't like that Ralphie beats up that redheaded kid for no other reason than he's a redhead. (I think. I wasn't really paying attention.) For centuries, gingers have been put to death simply because of the color of their hair. So this movie teaches kids to discriminate based on looks. Why would I want to watch this racist crap?

Perhaps you think I should try another activity, like decorating the tree. I'll admit this would have the potential to un-grinch my heart, but because I have two cats who are inclined to misbehave, this isn't as fun as it sounds. When I unpacked the blinking snowflake tree lights, I plugged them in and immediately electrocuted myself. It turns out Wednesday had been using them as kitty dental floss, and the wires had been stripped bare. Bad cat. Bad cat!
How the tree is decorated is also largely influenced by the cats. All of the nice ornaments have to go up top, and the cheap ones hang low, since the cats think the whole tree is their plaything. So the top foot of my tree is crammed full of adorable cow ornaments, and the bottom half is sparsely decorated with Jason's Coca-Cola ornaments. The cats manage to take down and destroy about three ornaments a day, and I'm certainly not going to let those little demons get their claws on my cute ice-skating cow with a scarf. (I should also mention that I had to decorate the tree myself. If you're not going to help, then you're not allowed to complain when your Coca-Cola Santa ornament becomes a casualty.) Plus we can't put silver icicles on the tree, because it could kill the cats if they eat it (and they will). I have at least two aunts that would never speak to me again if Wednesday died of silver icicle ingestion.
Finally, nobody in the house will cooperate with me at all when I do try to do something fun, like make a cute video of the cats in Christmas hats. (See epic failure below.)

So why am I a humbug? Because the people and animals in my house made me that way.

One holiday task that I'm just not good at is writing out and mailing cards. I'm usually late with them, and I always forget someone. Also, I never seem to have enough stamps. So this year, I've decided to pare down my list. Want to know how to decide to cut someone from your card-mailing list? These rules might help:

1. If they've died, they're off the list. I've found that sending cards to dead people is often considered cruel and insensitive. Go figure.
2. If you've sent them a card two years in a row and they've never sent one to you, cut them off. Fool me once, shame on you . . . you get the drill.
3. If they send you a picture of their dog in a Santa hat, and you know for a fact that they have human children, no card for them. This type of behavior should never be rewarded.
   
4. If they've moved and left no forwarding address, you're off the hook. This has happened to me, like, six times. Where did you go, Grandma?
5. If they constantly misspell your name, stop sending them a card. Clearly they don't love you. By the way, there's an "e" in Stacey.
6. If they don't know if it's Michael Buble or Harry Connick Jr. singing that particular version of "Santa Claus is Coming to Town," no card for them. Only because I thought Harry Connick Jr. was dreamy in Copycat. Yes, it is perfectly acceptable to use your own shallowness as a reason to withhold holiday cards.
7. If they constantly put a "t" at the end of "across," lose their address. You're judged by the company you keep, and do you really want to be associated with someone like this?
8. If their cards are consistently more expensive and sparkly than yours, forget it. This type of card-shaming is more common than you think. If their goal is to shame you with their spectacular Christmas cards while you're sending out old cards you found in the basement and the glue on the envelopes doesn't even stick any more, don't bother sending one to these people. They'll only make fun of you.
9. If they send you a holiday newsletter talking about how wonderful their year was, drop 'em. How nice for them that Bobby is making the Dean's List at Yale and Billy just won a Nobel Peace Prize. This year, you applied for food stamps and your dog got lupus. These happy newsletters are consistently depressing to anyone who didn't have a good year. And who wants to be depressed around the holidays?
10. If they continue to address the card to you and your first husband, and you've been divorced for longer than you were married to him, cut them off. Thanks so much for the annual reminder of the biggest mistake I ever made in my life. You're dead to me.

See? These simple rules will make your holiday card-mailing so much easier.
On a side note, I've only gotten one Christmas card this year, and that was from my bank. Weird . . .

I may have mentioned in the past that I'm not a fan of stupid Christmas specials. One of the worst offenders, of course, is 'Twas the Night Before Christmas.
Surely you've seen this insipid tale of a clockmaker with a rodent problem. Joshua Trundle and his family, who all have ridiculously huge ears, painfully pointy chins, and bigger teeth than the Kennedy clan, discover that Santa is returning all of their letters unopened. How can this be? What's going on?
Turns out the family of mice Trundle's been breeding in his walls contains a pretty obnoxious rodent named Albert who managed to offend Santa Claus with his snotty attitude. Had Trundle put out some rat poison like every other normal human being who finds mouse droppings in the pantry, this problem would've never happened. But noooo, Trundle fancies himself the Mouse Whisperer or something, and actually lets these creatures run rampant throughout the house. You're creating your own problems there, Bucktooth.
Apparently, Albert the Mouse wrote a letter to the paper saying Santa was a fraud. Perhaps you're asking, Why does a mouse even care about Santa? Or even, Who taught a mouse to write? I'd personally be thinking Hold the poison, I think I might be able to make a few bucks off of this talking, writing rat, but that's just me. Trundle thinks none of these thoughts. Instead, he decides to solve the problem by building Santa a singing clock.
Now, everybody with half a brain knows that Santa is absolutely open to bribery, if you've got the right goods. Namely, cookies and milk, and maybe a carrot for Rudolph thrown in for good measure. Not, I repeat, NOT, a singing clock. Doesn't matter anyway--Albert, the obnoxious twerp that he is, breaks Trundle's clock before the hands can even be set to the correct time.
Albert's father is not amused. Papa Mouse drags his rotten little son to a children's hospital, where all of the sick kids are sobbing because Santa's throwing a temper tantrum over Albert's letter. Does this impressive guilt trip  cause Albert to repent? Heck no. However, when he overhears Bucktooth singing a song about miracles needing a hand, he melts like butter. What a load of crap. You've got a budding psychopath on your hands there, Papa Mouse.
Albert races to fix the clock before midnight. He fails, but at 12:01 AM, the song starts playing, wooing Santa back to town. Kids are cheering in the streets, which makes me wonder what the heck is wrong with the parents in Junctionville. Why is your kid even up at 12:01 AM, and outside in the streets wearing nothing but pajamas? It's freezing out! You are a BAD PARENT. Nobody in your house deserves a visit from Santa.
Santa comes anyway, which just exemplifies why this whole story is terrible. One little mouse writes a snotty letter and Santa's willing to pout like a petulant child and cut off the whole town from Christmas, but every single parent allows their brats to run rampant in the streets on Christmas Eve, and they're rewarded for it? Not to mention the little whiners in the children's hospital bawling all day. I don't think so. Santa will give you something to cry about. Personally, I'd like to think Santa has higher expectations than that for all of us.
What I'd like to see in this crappy holiday tale is a happy ending. Like, for instance, if Santa gifted the Trundle family with a nice new cat. Say, perhaps, one that comes from a long line of expert mousers.