I wouldn't call them "big" plans

New Years Eve is a huge deal for some people. They buy new clothes, they make elaborate alcohol purchases, they coordinate the watching of the midnight (or 11 p.m., if you're in central time) ball drop in Times Square around their partying.

I guess it is a big deal; it's a new year. And I must have some part of my brain that exists solely to file New Years parties, because I don't remember generic parties I went to on some random Thursdays in Toledo, but I can recall what I did for almost every New Years since I was 10. Well, I guess those random parties didn't have a ball drop with them or any distinguishing characteristics. Just some kegs and loud music and dirty floors and smokey couches.

New Years: There was the year we partied in a garage in someone's parents' house. There was a year we partied in some sort of tractor shed where someone actually found a friend with DJ skills. I use "DJ skills" loosely. It doesn't take a lot to play songs from iTunes on a big speaker system.

But the point is, outside of those nights (which I remember as being fun, but not monumentally so), I have pretty lame New Years stories. This year appears it may be no different. But see, this year, we get to call it "romantic."

Unlike years past where our staying home would be "lame," as newlyweds no matter what we do, our night will have this rosey haze around it, like in flashbacks in movies. I'm sure that's how my brain will remember it, too. If I allowed Kenny G music anywhere within 12 feet of me, it'd be playing in the background as we drank the champagne I don't like from flutes I don't own.

Yeah. It's gonna be a good new year, no matter where we end up watching Dick Clark. Woot, woot.