Sunday, April 8, 2007

A rabbit lays those eggs?

So I take off the metal cage from the top of B’s “re-gifted” champagne, and wipe my hands in preparation of working the cork out -- I prefer to pull it up into my palm -- but it erupts on its own, bouncing off the ceiling. Damn thing nearly had my eye out! Dudes, it ain’t a party until someone loses their eye…but preferably not the host.

Judging the bottle to an obstreperous little anarchist, I poured it swiftly into the half pomegranate/half Clementine juice/dash of bitters concoction I’d already shaken up. “My Darling Clementine,’ I called this potion, not to be confused with the “Bloody Pommy Bastard” of my last party (pomegranate/blood orange/prosecco). Stuff went down like soda pop and J said it reminded him of “bug juice” in camp. That must have been Camp Antioxidant.

A toast to Spring (it’s about 30 degrees outside), Easter, Passover, the Sacred Bunny! It was accompanied by the Co-op’s mixed olives and a soft and delicious goat cheese from Fairway. The main eats were all from yours truly: a potato and pea curry, black lentils, black rice pilaf, sautéed cherry tomatoes, blueberry cobbler for the finish.

Six wonderful guests were all their own delights.

I asked, when’s Passover over? A. and A., dropping a six-pack up on the counter, said, Tuesday… oh god we bought beer! And I said, Drinks are the least of your worries, kids... you should see what’s on the menu. And A. said, It’s OK, we’re Sephardic tonight.

Meanwhile, A. decided he was finally going to switch the doors to my refrigerator and freezer, which awkwardly open from the left next to the apartment door. This is something he’s been aching to do for years. So, he says, he can get to a drink quicker. So at one point, I’m propping up my refrigerator door under my armpit and somebody says you look like you’re drinking and driving. And I say, I’m getting farmer tan on this arm.

The Cooperator, who thanked me for the invitation in a late night message Thursday night, did not come. I returned her call Friday, leaving a message. One of my advisors urged me to call her again, to let her know my address, since her politeness was ambiguous, but I was too exhausted by it all to do so.

And then during the dinner D. called. She’s my Wednesday or Thursday date this week (You don’t know? asked an incredulous A). (We hadn’t set anything up yet.) C answered the phone and handed it to me. And I explained that I was having “a little party.” Only everybody was quiet. Uh-oh.

Having a little party in your pants, said C as everyone was leaving. I’m still laughing.

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