rough approximations of life
- was the company Christmas party. I woke that morning remembering the numerous beers from the night before and got up late. It was one of those mornings where I woke up repeatedly trying to remember / relive something, convinced that the best way to accomplish this would be through more sleep. It's a tactic related to the mornings when I wake from a really nice dream and I go back to sleep trying to pick up where waking up left me. These are the games my sleepy brain likes to play on me.
On finally dragging my carcass into work the next order of business was lunch. Lunch with MomVee. It felt so grown up. Not in that "Oh my god I'm so old" way that everything else feels grown up in my life. More like a fabulous adult version of those tea parties that little girls on TV and in the movies dream about - only hip and sophisticated, with much better conversation and more stylish outfits. A cross between Holly Golightly and Doris Day with a dash of Dorothy Parker. It felt grown up in the way I used to daydream about being grown up when I was a little girl.
HR suggested that we wear something festive, so I wore a too-tight-for-me sundress in bright red Hawaiian print and a black shawl - as if a shawl over my shoulders could do anything to hide my panty line. I had several Grey goose and tonics and kicked up on the dance floor. Also known as shaking my thang in front of the entire office. Which is not necessarily the kind of thing that mortifies me, but perhaps should. There may have been others present who were mortified on my behalf. What can I say, when the DJ plays Bobby Brown's "My Perogative," one must dance.
From there people went to a bar called Antarctica where there was drinking, drink spilling, and fraternizing with co-workers. I "borrowed" someone's coat to walk KM to her subway stop. Causing much consternation which I tried to mollify with hugs and the liberal application of top shelf vodka. Wisely, I left early in favor of a slice of pizza covered in ziti and ricotta.
There was a breakfast of SPAM, eggs, toast, and many glasses of V8. A 3 hour phone conversation with CK and the weekend ritual of the washing of the clothes.
The first outing with Banjo Guy was fun. And in a moment in which I was not using the part of my brain that thinks, I broke all of the meaningful rules about dating that exist. I called him up and invited him to come over and hang out. Which seemed like a good idea until I looked around my house and realized just how disgusting my living conditions are. There are no words for it, Friends. There are no words. *shudder*
I piled everything, and I mean everything into the bedroom, vacuumed, swept, took out two bags of garbage, remembered to scrape the scary unidentifiable things off of the toilet bowl, hid as many incriminating things as I could (I did not quite manage to get all of them.) And then I hit a problem: the place smelled like SPAM. I lit two pumpkin spice scented tea candles in the hopes of masking this. Which didn't work. The place still smells like SPAM.
My mother has often told me that if only I would clean the house, cook, and dress pretty I might find a nice Korean doctor to marry me, start a family with, and take care of me. I am starting to suspect that the contrapositive is also true and I may grow up to be the perennial bachelor girl.
The activity for the evening was to bake cookies, eat lime flavored chips and drink PBR. (I am one hell of a hostess, no?) We baked over 6 dozen cookies. Mostly chocolate chip and a batch that were peanut butter with peanut butter and chocolate chips. I had promised to bring baked goods or a cooked bird to CKn's party and decided that cookies might be easier to transport. Banjo Guy was highly amused by the old fashioned activity for the evening. The beauty of cookie baking is that you just need to follow directions and learn to tell time. After the burning the first batch to go in the oven, things got better.
The last time I suggested to a fella that we bake, I suggested baking a pie and he didn't call me for a month. Pies are apparently very scary. Scarier than cookies?
Banjo Guy reminds me of about ten different people that I have known in my life. I have to tell myself that I do not really know this person and there is much to figure out. It's anything from his posture, to the way he gestures, to the intonation he uses when ranting about something - like how much he hates pigeons or the apple computer company, to how intently he inspected my books.
CKn threw a party in honor of buying a new couch. To this party I went bearing cookies. The couch is this comforting sage green retro thing which has me wanting to buy a new couch too. There was food and folks. I had a small world moment in which I walk into the kitchen and run into DF, a college classmate of mine who married a college classmate of CKn's. Which was kinda cool. And I had the great pleasure of seeing many a small child walk around the apartment nibbling on one of my cookies until there was nothing left.
Left the party to meet up with SW for a sing-along Messiah event at the Borough of Manhattan Community College. This is the 20th year they have done it. There was a small orchestra, 4 soloists, a choir sitting out the in audience. And if you wanted to sing along, you could come on down, grab a score and do that. It's been years since I have sung chorally, years since I have tried to sight sing. And I am now convinced that I have actually never heard the Handel's Messiah in its entirety. The experience overall was a little raw and on my part more than a little cringe-worthy. At the same time, it was very engaging. I might need to learn it proper for next year and do it up at Avery Fisher Hall. Hells yeah.
Later that evening, missing the bird I never cooked, I picked one up on the way home and had it all to myself.
What was missing here was knitting and a mosh pit, but Friends, let us not dwell on the glass half empty. Let us rather give thanks for the little things.