Par-Tay
So husband and I launched into a new era of our couple-dom: we had a party. Neither one of us had ever really "thrown" a party in our entire lives. I don't count the "party" I had in the seventh grade for Halloween when four or five people came over and walked through our dank basement that we decorated as a haunted house. This divine suare celebrated the friendship of the "law buds" with whom husband shared the experience of schooling. All attendees worked into nice neat couples (though one with child in tow).
The production of the par-tay involved much pondering, preparation and cleaning. I can't understand the utter compulsion clean everything so thoroughly when people are going to dribble beer, chips and other items on the floor anyway. I suppose it's all about impressions. For me it's about nice neat vacuum cleaner lines (that are promptly sullied by dog footprints within seconds of their creation). We don't want others to know that we actually live and use our residences. So, I spent most of Saturday morning ensuring that no one would find my long hairs on the floor in the bathroom. Meanwhile, husband prepared the outside of the house and foraged for beer. We had lots of beer - several coolers full of beer to be specific.
The party went well. People enjoyed themselves through conversation, food and drink. While we had a plethora of beer, I abstained because not only do I not like beer (or really alcohol of any kind), but also because I don't do "under the influence" well. My inebriated experiences are highlighted by: 1. asking someone to stick me with a pitchfork 2. puffing on a cigar in a German restaurant and 3. asking someone if he was going to try to have sex with me as I laid on the cold ground with my head probably inches from where the fine gentleman inside the tent to whom this question was directed had just relieved himself of some beer. These three instances, among others, I don't care to relive.
When the party was over, we cleaned. Again. Additionally, when the party was over we had beer left over, a couple of coolers full to be exact. Being inexperienced in the ways of beer and thinking the brew would get "skunky," husband offered the two coolers to a work friend who gladly took burden off of our hands. This resolution came after we had toted the coolers to different locations in the house, attempted to put the beer in the refrigerator and even went so far as to ponder purchasing an auxiliary "beer fridge." The other carnage left over included a slew of buns ranging from hot dog to hamburger. I've tried to come up with innovative ways of dealing with the buns by eating them as snacks, making modified cheese toast out of them and attempting to use them as currency (the bun market is not high these days though). Our refrigerator was also glutted with leftover desserts brought by the party-goers. I decided that husband and I could not possibly eat four pies (it would not be wise), so I brought an untouched apple pie with me to work on Monday. Monday was a busy day at work as I spent most of the day fetching chairs. Yesterday I forgot completely about the pie. I saw the pie this morning in the break room, still untouched, but then promptly forgot about it again. About mid-day, an e-mail comes across entitled "Pie." Apparently there had been much conversation among the office about the pie to which I was not privy. Everyone had been asked about the pie, except, of course, the person who brought the pie. I fessed up in an e-mail response that I, yes I, was the source of the mystery pie. I was then subsequently told by no less than five people that I should have put some explicit notification that the pie was for common consumption as if I had just committed a criminal offense by leaving an unattended wanton pie on its lonesome. Typically something put out on a counter, in the middle of the counter of the break room, will disappear, without notice. For some reason this pie had a menacing look about it that made it somewhat disarming. If it had been a rhubarb pie, I would've understood, but apple seemed harmless. Honestly, I didn't have time to put a note on the darn pie. Next time the pie will come with a note that says "eat me."
The production of the par-tay involved much pondering, preparation and cleaning. I can't understand the utter compulsion clean everything so thoroughly when people are going to dribble beer, chips and other items on the floor anyway. I suppose it's all about impressions. For me it's about nice neat vacuum cleaner lines (that are promptly sullied by dog footprints within seconds of their creation). We don't want others to know that we actually live and use our residences. So, I spent most of Saturday morning ensuring that no one would find my long hairs on the floor in the bathroom. Meanwhile, husband prepared the outside of the house and foraged for beer. We had lots of beer - several coolers full of beer to be specific.
The party went well. People enjoyed themselves through conversation, food and drink. While we had a plethora of beer, I abstained because not only do I not like beer (or really alcohol of any kind), but also because I don't do "under the influence" well. My inebriated experiences are highlighted by: 1. asking someone to stick me with a pitchfork 2. puffing on a cigar in a German restaurant and 3. asking someone if he was going to try to have sex with me as I laid on the cold ground with my head probably inches from where the fine gentleman inside the tent to whom this question was directed had just relieved himself of some beer. These three instances, among others, I don't care to relive.
When the party was over, we cleaned. Again. Additionally, when the party was over we had beer left over, a couple of coolers full to be exact. Being inexperienced in the ways of beer and thinking the brew would get "skunky," husband offered the two coolers to a work friend who gladly took burden off of our hands. This resolution came after we had toted the coolers to different locations in the house, attempted to put the beer in the refrigerator and even went so far as to ponder purchasing an auxiliary "beer fridge." The other carnage left over included a slew of buns ranging from hot dog to hamburger. I've tried to come up with innovative ways of dealing with the buns by eating them as snacks, making modified cheese toast out of them and attempting to use them as currency (the bun market is not high these days though). Our refrigerator was also glutted with leftover desserts brought by the party-goers. I decided that husband and I could not possibly eat four pies (it would not be wise), so I brought an untouched apple pie with me to work on Monday. Monday was a busy day at work as I spent most of the day fetching chairs. Yesterday I forgot completely about the pie. I saw the pie this morning in the break room, still untouched, but then promptly forgot about it again. About mid-day, an e-mail comes across entitled "Pie." Apparently there had been much conversation among the office about the pie to which I was not privy. Everyone had been asked about the pie, except, of course, the person who brought the pie. I fessed up in an e-mail response that I, yes I, was the source of the mystery pie. I was then subsequently told by no less than five people that I should have put some explicit notification that the pie was for common consumption as if I had just committed a criminal offense by leaving an unattended wanton pie on its lonesome. Typically something put out on a counter, in the middle of the counter of the break room, will disappear, without notice. For some reason this pie had a menacing look about it that made it somewhat disarming. If it had been a rhubarb pie, I would've understood, but apple seemed harmless. Honestly, I didn't have time to put a note on the darn pie. Next time the pie will come with a note that says "eat me."
posted by runninchick at 7:31 PM
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