The pork loin I bought to grill for the Tropical Depression party was inexplicably and impressively spoiled already when I thawed it. That seems to have been the only hitch in an otherwise fantastically successful day of facilitating fun. Predictably, I bought too much ice and liquor. The Spam sliders were a hit; I probably should have made at least twice as many of those, but there were time constraints.
Jim was the last guest to leave, about 12 hours after the party started, and I managed to pace myself well enough to lock the doors and shut off the crock-pot when he left, though admittedly not well enough to avoid what competitive eaters term an "unfortunate reversal of fortune" in Stevie's car on the way to Champlin the next morning for Birthday Dinner with the family. Shrimp and Macadamia nuts are a poor substitute for the stomach-insulating qualities of complex carbohydrates. Loco Moco next year, I think. The decorations are still up, and I think the success of the party dictates a repeat performance. This is the new Tax Return Barbecue, kids.
The party served as a de facto house-warming, with a handful of guests making their first visit to the Owned Home. Ian and Jessica were suitably impressed, and Ella, my real estate agent finally picked up the glass-and-brass atrocities that used to be my kitchen and living room light fixtures, to be refurbished and sold at her her vintage store. Apparently that look is coming back into fashion. And with it, one assumes, comes an upswing in the demand for either cocaine or General Tso's chicken.
Renae did a yeoman's job of mingling with my purported-to-be-insular-and-unwelcoming social circle, in spite of having only what remained of my focused attention after hosting responsibilities, a handful of Dos Equis and an admittedly ill-considered Long Island around midnight.
Ian asked about the dime on the floor of my parents' downstairs bathroom. It's weird that I immediately knew what he was talking about.
The decor is cheerful, but since the party comprised the bulk of my discretionary income for the coming weeks, I will be leaning into the cold, dull routine of winter, and I'll need my stark white walls for that. If it were just me, I might leave the 5000K daylight-equivalent bulbs in their sockets, but even if it takes all day and a stepstool, I'm sure Stevie will be having none of that. They definitely make photos of food unappetizing.
While the dinner was yesterday, today is properly my mom's birthday. Happy birthday, Mom! She is 58. I looked up the date and number in Wikipedia for an interesting fact to share and came up mostly dry. 58 is the atomic number of cerium.
I think I might have a bowl of cerium for dinner again.*
Except that the only milk in my house was finally thrown away while cleaning for the party, having expired some time in early January.
*This is the kind of wordplay that I, as a tedious pedant, sometimes find annoying, because the words only sound the same because they share an etymological root, but what do you want from me, Internet, it's still Monday morning.
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"Is that penny still there? Or was it a dime? I think about that from time to time."
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