The party was a smashing success.
There was drama and intrigue and fighting: Someone said something so offensive to Someone Else that the Someone Else felt compelled to leave early, providing much speculation and gossip for the rest of the evening.
It rained, but then stopped around 11:30, so everyone ended up on the deck under the little white lights. The conversation was well worth the damp bum.
I learned a joke so filthy, it hurts to think about. If by “hurts,” I mean “makes me laugh so hard I drool,” which I do.
The margaritas were strong, and the guacamole was excellent. I told Emily that if everyone left and it was just me and the guacamole, I’d still be happy at the end of the night.
There was not quite as much making out as I would have liked—just a few girl-on-girl kisses—but it was before the married people left. Involving one of the married people, actually, so I really can’t complain.
Ryan flew in from New York, brought the elusive and reclusive Michael G., struck out with Kerry, and earned himself a new nickname (Neopolitan) with appropriately inappropriate origins. He was probably my favorite guest.
Two former boyfriends showed, and both brought me books: one brought some Babysitters Club, and the other Everything Is Illuminated. I’d like to say that these gifts are representative of both relationships, but that really wouldn’t be true. Well, just a little true.
Everyone sang to me, and there was a cake with candles and all my friends’ faces in the glow, and for a minute I thought I was going to cry like a Hallmark ad.
The evening ended at 4 am, with only five people left, barefoot on the floor, discussing who was a slut in high school. As all good parties should.