It’s the second of advent. The Christmas trees (yes, plural) spread their soft glow in the December afternoon and the scent of a freshly baked ham is spreading through the apartment. A soft snowfall has powdered the city in a thin sheet of white during the night. Only the, let’s use the word “expressive”, screams from a man losing a whole lot in some kind of computer game breaks the silence that has lowered itself over the household, a household that during this Sunday has experienced that special sort of suffering silence that only follow a night of a thorough round of alcohol consumption.
Yes! Because yesterday, I had my birthday party!
One after one they dropped in to celebrate with me and before 2 am when I threw the last partyers out, I’d been sung to twice, gotten lovely gifts that I hadn’t expected and gotten myself really off of my face on an excessive amount of white russians. Parties, huh. I love having them, even though being host causes me the kind of neurotic stress that makes me want to throw myself on the couch, dramatically press a cool, moistened towel to my forehead with one hand and softly waving with the other hand at things for my roomie to clean, careful not to spill the drink said hand is holding dearly.
I didn’t get all THAT dramatic even though the cleaning of the apartment to prepare for the party was preceded by the town bloodbath after I, in an attempt to make a potato gratin, stabbed myself in the hand.
I know it’s karma for me laughing hysterically for a few minutes just the weekend before after my brother in law fileted his thumb on his mandolin and photographed a tiny little piece of flesh, complete with finger print pattern, resting between slices of carrot.
I still laugh. It was worth it.