( Oprah.com ) -- Here is my New Year 's Rockin ' Eve fantasy : A lipstick-red strapless dress ( think Ava Gardner in `` One Touch of Venus '' ) finished with a pair of Brian Atwood heels that make your legs look like the floor is the only thing that 's stopping them from going on forever , a crystal flute of Veuve Clicquot , a little `` Auld Lang Syne , '' a lot of colored lights , and the man of your dreams ( obviously , in this case , that would be my boyfriend -- not Clive Owen , not Benicio Del Toro , not the green-eyed guy who sold me sunglasses at Barneys -- and shame on you for dragging them into this ) takes your face in his cool , confident hands and gives you the kind of kiss that makes the world fall away just as the clock strikes 12 . Friends are giddy , caviar is glistening , the old year is ending , and the new year is whatever I say it is . Here is the reality : Ava Gardner put on a housecoat the minute the director yelled `` Cut , '' caviar makes my ankles swell , and New Year 's Eve has never once lived up to its billing . I spent 18 years in a tiny studio apartment just a few short blocks from Times Square , and I 'm here to tell you I saw things -- ugly , hard-partying , throw-uppy things -- that never made it onto any Dick Clark special . I mean , I like a disco ball and confetti as much as the next girl , but there 's something about forced frivolity that feels so , well ... forced . Then , a few years ago , I took a radical step : I quit . You heard me : I dropped out of New Year 's Eve . I mailed my formal letter of resignation to Ryan Seacrest , explaining that the urge to go out and get crazy has been replaced by the urge to stay in and get sane ( or a reasonable facsimile thereof ) . I said , `` So long , sucker , '' and I never looked back . Here 's the routine I employed in the early days of my gala-free existence . I 'd slip into something a little more comfortable ( we 're talking Detroit Red Wings jersey and tube socks ) . I 'd cook a lovely meal and eat it at a table set so perfectly it would make Colin Cowie weep . I 'd rent anything with Katharine Hepburn -- `` The Philadelphia Story , Bringing Up Baby '' ( hey , if Cary Grant happens to show up , so much the better ) -- and then -- drumroll , please -- I 'd pick my worst set of drawers , my messiest closet , my highest mountain of old papers , and start chipping away at the chaos that had given me grief all year long . I was ruthless in my pursuit of clarity : dog-eared Crate & Barrel catalog from last spring , gone ! Thomas Friedman article I meant to copy for everyone I 'd ever met , out ! The New Yorker with that incredible Art Spiegelman cover , bye-bye , baby -- it was great fun , but it was just one of those things . My friends would wake up with hangovers while I would wake up with a clean closet and at least half a dozen bags of stuff for Goodwill . I felt calm , I felt virtuous , I felt really , really out of it . Then one fine day , Johannes , that boyfriend I mentioned a few paragraphs back , became the father of my daughter , and suddenly the lovely meal I 'd always prepare was replaced by a hot dog for Julia , fish sticks for Jonathan ( boyfriend 's son who does n't eat meat ) , and finally , at that inevitable moment when Jules gets cranky and begins pelting Jonathan with his own fish sticks and Jonathan ca n't be in the vicinity of a nonvegetarian hot dog without making obnoxious gagging sounds , I 'd go to plan B : macaroni and cheese for all . The Katharine Hepburn movie gave way to a Polly Pocket video , and the messes that used to drive me nuts stopped getting to me in quite the same way . I finally figured out that life is inherently messy and it takes a lot more than a New Year 's Eve purge to bring it under control . So now , whenever December 31 rolls around , I abdicate control . I invite two or three close friends to stop by if they 're so inclined ; and if they 're not , Johannes and I like to devote at least a couple of hours to horrifying the children with our general dorkiness . Last year , just before midnight , we got ourselves and the kids all bundled up and headed to the roof to watch fireworks light up the East River . We were pleasantly surprised to discover that unlike the Fourth of July , we had the roof all to ourselves . It was around 12:03 when one of us remembered that there are no fireworks over the East River on New Year 's Eve . I guess sometimes you just do n't get fireworks . But every once in a while , you get something even better : We stood there , huddled together at the top of the world in our flannel pajamas , down jackets , mittens , and scarves , our breath coming out in soft puffs that mingled and hung in the night , laughing like idiots -- thinking that for better or for worse , these are the good old days . So good , in fact , we may do the exact same thing again this year . By Lisa Kogan from `` O , The Oprah Magazine , '' December 2007 . E-mail to a friend . Subscribe to O , The Oprah Magazine for up to 75 % off the newsstand price . That 's like getting 18 issues FREE . Subscribe now ! TM & © 2009 Harpo Productions , Inc. All Rights Reserved .
Not everyone enjoys wild New Year 's Eve celebrations . They used it to get high . Children add new dimension to life .