Having dedicated myself Saturday night to the quest of good-natured inebriation and, it seems, the resultant headache and dull-wittedness of Sunday, I am here to report.
And just as soon as I recall enough of the evening to do so, that’s exactly what I’m going to do.
What a night! Rows of crockpots and chafing dishes sought out available electrical outlets. Platters of finger foods, cookies, antipasto, cheeses fought for card-table space. Champagnes and wines filled the fridge while the porch acted as a large, walk-in cooler to cases of beer.
Like last year, the Dice Game was played. A pile of wrapped gifts in the center of a circle, we passed three plates of dice around, shaking for doubles and taking the presents one at a time until they were gone, whereupon we shook the dice for a frenzied five minutes, stealing them from each other.
Notoriously bad at dice, I personally did not shake a single double, leaving that to the professionals, AKA Ma and Toua, who, like last year, seemed to have accumulated the most gifts.
If they weren’t my own dice, I’d say they were up to something. How else does one walk out with such coveted items as candles, chocolates, and a scented oven mitt?
To be honest, there were two parties, really, Saturday night. There was the party that I threw – you know, the expected party, the scheduled party – and then there was the party that my son threw, the one that started after the bar closed.
My party began at 6:00 p.m. and ended at 1:53 a.m. as I was walking Maryna, the last guest, out to her car.
The Boy’s party started at 2:00 a.m., when he brought just under a dozen of his friends, people he’d known since elementary school home with him from the bar, and ended at 6:30 a.m.
So help me, Maryna came back into the house and we attended both.
Have you partied, recently, with people in their mid-20s? Loud, flirtatious, earnest and passionate, it’s like stepping into a time machine. Ah, you think to yourself. I remember this. I remember the intensity of idealism, the fervor of steadfast and absolute conviction.
The after-bar crowd left just a little after 3:00, and it is with tiny, red-rimmed eyes that I write this Sunday afternoon, that I tell you of Maryna’s, my, and my son’s all-night discussions of linguistics, politics, and geography.
The Boy was outlining the coming revolution when I finally decided, the sun peeking over the horizon, that it was time for me, as Grandpa used to say, to “hit the hay”.
I left them to finish the evening and, apparently, make coffee and breakfast.
Planning a revolution makes one hungry.
Thanks to everyone who made the party such a success.
I look forward to full access to my faculties soon.
Of Borders and lines
8 hours ago