Yesterday, I dragged self to work feeling not so fresh. That 36-hour migraine had done me IN.
December 31 is The Poet’s birthday, a thing I mention every year, I think, because it bothers me that no one has time to notice her, not that she’s a real ride-my-unicycle-while-I-play-my-one-man-band-instruments type, but still. Plus, this was a major birthday. Let’s say The Poet is 90 years young as of December 31.
So there we both were, two of the four people who actually went to work yesterday, and I asked her if she still wanted to go with me to The Other Copy Editor’s bed and breakfast that night, for their big New Year’s party.
“Not really,” she said. And the thing is with The Poet, you never know if she’s just being nice because you’re clearly green like the Wicked Witch of the West and you look like the last person who’s ever going to go out that night, including Stephen Hawking’s corpse, which polls indicated had a 95% more likely chance of raising the New Year’s roof than me.
We decided to get birthday tea instead, and we couldn’t find an open tea place, and I don’t want to once again refer to Dan Fogelberg’s song about buying a six-pack at the liquor store. But there we were, in the same predicament as Dan Fogelberg and his old lover at the grocery store. If we ever sleep together, and you know we will, please, I beg you, refer to me as your old lover. In fact, I want you all to be all, “Lovely post, old lover” from this moment on.
After assuring The Poet I had decaf tea at my house (she’s a migraine person too), we got there and found out all I have is caf. Why buy the cow when the caf isn’t free.
That made zero sense, and I know it. Why’d you ever sleep with me?
Nevertheless, we persisted, and I gave The Poet some Vernors, which, as she is not a Michigander such as myself, she does not drink like it’s water. I had caffeinated tea, because I’m a rebel and I tore my dress. Also, my face is a mess. I’m 53. What do you want from me?
The Poet is really a dog person, but when you’re at my house you can’t help but notice cats, even though mine keep dying off at an alarming rate.
I can’t imagine it’s remotely fun to be at my house if you’re not into cats.
Anyway, she left, The Poet did, and whatever discouraged her from staying longer, do you think? Was it my fine selection of herbal tea and cat-free zones?
When she left, I made a nutritious dinner,
And really, I felt so awful that my whole goal was to keep down those fish sticks while I lounged in a robe. But then I got a text from TinaDoris.
“You going to the B&B?”
Oh, goddammit. Once she got the idea in my head, and once I knew she was going, it sounded kind of fun. So I threw on pants, which was already way beyond my goals for ending 2018, and really looking fairly awful, I headed to the party.
It was one of those things where once you show up, you’re so glad you did.
There were all KINDS of people from work there.
And it was all festive and shit.
There was one couple there who wore pajamas and I LOVED THEM.
The great thing about parties at The Other Copy Editor’s B&B is you can wander into all the rooms.
I just splayed there on the bed and sang Love For Sale. Disclaimer: No one bought.
And what party would be complete without Ned, who lives on the same street as the B&B and came over after some stupid sporting event, an event TinaDoris’s spouse (“You’re not going to blog me, are you?” he asked) and Ned discussed ad nauseam all night.
Speaking of nauseam, I wasn’t feeling all that great. But I blew my noisemaker instead of chunks, because I’m a tough, no-nonsense brunette now.
I was outside on the balcony during this one.
Oh! And also?
There was a proposal at the party! I cut their heads off to protect the not-remotely-knowing-they-were-getting-blogged.
So that was my year end, and this is my rear end.