My sister is always one of the best party guests ever. She packages food. She does dishes. She takes out recycling. She does all the busy bee parts that I don’t want to do which is good because I’m usually plating food, making drinks and trying to escape be a good hostess. Even though she desperately wants me to get a dog for her to play with, she offered to get me and Jow a hedgehog, which we’re considering but it may be time for Our Man Max to reincarnate into Max II, like a Dax or a Doctor.
Usually I try to get the house lovely for a party but Jow and I have been passing the same cold back and forth and we had two shows during the weekend of his birthday party. Spare Oom is overflowing with craft supplies and xmas gifts, our bedroom is exploding with laundry. I straightened the “common areas” and wiped down the bathroom sink and just shut the doors to the bedroom and Spare Oom. When our guests asked where to put their coats and purses, I gestured vaguely to the chairs. Where ever, I said vaguely.
We had a lovely little birthday party for Jow, just with enough people to make the house feel bustling with all our close friends. A1 & A2 were furtively smoking cigarettes in the kitchen, the exhaust fan on high. R, BL, A, B, G were in the living room with the birthday boy, drinking beers with him and laughing while RI and D played catch with our Tiny Nephew with Green Mouse (one of Bellatrix Peepingston’s mice, not to be confused with her other mouse, Red Mouse) in the dining room. Tiny Nephew insisted on being allowed to circulate throughout the guests with a tiny plate of mini cupcakes, offering one to each person.
At exactly 10p, being the hostess with the mostest, I simply said, I have to be up at 6a for my show tomorrow. Get the fuck out.
Because . . .sometimes you’re Miss Martha and sometimes you’re a half eaten chicken.
Behold! A selected tour of our rabbit burrow in its current state as Jow is too sick to fight me off from publicly posting about our shame.