A Girl...

Bear Rug

So, I know you're all just dying for a full report on the party, and if you had my phone number, you, like my mother, would have already called to ask about it in your worried-mother tone, as if this were a Major Life Event with the potential to crush my delicate spirit, like not getting invited to the prom or something. (I did not go to the prom sophomore or senior year, and it left absolutely no impression on me whatsoever, so there.) Whereas my mother was probably hoping the party was a success--everyone showing up on time with big smiles on their faces and heads full of ideas to keep the conversation flowing with every one of the completely dissimilar people in attendance--I know you voyeuristic blogger types a little too well, and you were secretly hoping it was a disaster, if only for the dramatic aftermath--only two people showed up and they left fifteen minutes later out of sheer pity, rightly guessing that I'd prefer to cry alone rather than in front of a live studio audience, and then I'd write about it on my blaaaaahg.

What really happened is that Simon and I spent all day shopping for snacks and cleaning the house and scrubbing our own selves into fragrant hosts with shiny white teeth, and by 7:30 p.m., the bounty of snacks was spread upon the table, the candles were lit, the signs posted (one on the front door telling people to come on in, and one on the bathroom door telling people how to get the hell out (turn the handle and push down)). Even though Simon warned against looking too "tried" in case only a few people showed up, I insisted that we nevertheless put a bouquet of fresh flowers on top of the piano because that's how I do festive. That and it's always better to be overprepared than underprepared, especially when it involves Gerber daisies.

Six people cancelled at the last minute, and four of our "maybe"s made it after all. With ten guests, two hosts, and a cat, we were a full house, a happy house, and, at long last, a warm house. Everyone got along, we had the perfect amount of food, there was good ambiance, good conversation, and everyone did actually walk in the door smiling and with a head full of conversation topics. In short, I have nothing to report. It was exactly as it should have been, I couldn't be happier, and the only thing I'll change next time is to invite all of you, because the only thing that was missing was some hardcore Internet nerdery. Next time.

In other news, I just tilted my tea mug so far back that I dumped about a half a cup of Tips down my nose, but guess what? I don't care! Because it is late in the day and I'm not dreading going home--for home is now spanking clean and WARM and stocked with gift bottles of housewarming wine, and today is Simon's birthday(!), which means there's a homemade chocolate cake on the counter with my name on it. Well, with Simon's name on it, but I'm pretty sure he'll share.

Also at home is the cat, who not only shook hands and said howdy do* to all the party visitors but also finally staked her proverbial flag and claimed the apartment for her own by means of a little yellow bear, name of Barnaby. When Eve turned one year old, she got this canary yellow beanbag bear from IKEA, and when I lived in my old apartment, the bear had a mysterious habit of finding its way to the bathroom rug from wherever I had stashed it the night before. I'd put the bear in Eve's kitty condo, it would show up on the rug; I'd put it in the windowsill, it would show up on the rug; I'd put it in a pot of boiling water, it would show up on the rug.

In the months since we moved in with Simon, Eve has certainly become comfortable with her surroundings--running, howling, scratching with glee everything with upholstery--but it wasn't until early last week that she finally found a place for that damn bear--right in the middle of the living room rug, i.e., #1 heavy traffic area. Each morning, I trip over the bear on the way to the bathroom, and each day as I'm headed off to work, I toss the bear into either Eve's wicker toy basket or her toy cubby in our fancy shelving unit. And each night we return home to find the bear sprawled splay-limbed and facedown like a homicide victim in the middle of the rug, where I proceed to trip on him.

This morning I hid the bear over by the drumset, just to mix things up. I fully expect him to be back on the rug by the time I get home, and Eve will have that special gleam in her wicked yellow eyes. But even though it's a little exasperating and troublesome at times, you'll never hear me complain, because 1. I know it gets worse with kids and plastic toys (some of which make noise, the horror!), and 2. a bear on the rug means we're really truly finally home.

*Stars at stake! Name that reference!

[NOTE: It's kind of lame that today is Simon's birthday and yet this isn't a post about him and how wonderful he is and schmoopy schmoopy schmoo, but that's not what happened to come out of me today, so rather than be ingenuine and force something that isn't there, I'll save the birthday post for a later, more natural time (if/when it comes). In the meantime, please wish him a happy birthday because today is the day and he totally deserves it.]