Emily is throwing me a birthday party.
There will be margaritas and guacamole and fresh pico de gallo and Coronas with lime.
There will be lemon squares and homemade cupcakes with buttercream frosting.
There will be citronella candles and little white lights on the deck.
There will be cleverly designed invitations that people will display on their refrigerators for months afterwards.
There will be old boys and new boys and gay boys and friends’ boys and those irresistible slouchy hipster boys.
There will be tall girls and curvy girls and girls with curly hair and girls with red hair and girls who will sass you back when they’ve been drinking.
I will wear a flower in my hair and my Vargas pin-up girl bracelet. I have the go-ahead to be the belle of my own ball.
Tony assures me there will be drama and intrigue, and fighting, and crying, and it will last until the wee hours of the morning.
There may be singing.
There may be a scene.
There is a slight chance of it becoming a makeout party, maybe, after the married people go home.
Maybe even before they go home.
Did I mention the margaritas? There will be many, many margaritas.
Of course, you are all invited.