"You can't just turn FIFTY and not CELEBRATE it!" screeched one of the Alexes a few weeks ago. I was really kind of depressed about turning old, and for once did not wanna do much of anything. "We're going for drinks that Friday after your birthday," she said, because bossy.
"Well, let's just have it at my house, then, so we can hear ourselves think," I said, because crotchety.
And that is how t549493-2394942-repf049i5t-340404 people ended up at my house from right after work until midnight last night.
I like how Alex, whose idea this whole thing was, can't even be bothered to listen to what I'm sure is a riveting story on my part. A story of cheeks. My famous cheek story. And look how Ned has turned to booze to dull the pain.
Really, I didn't take any good photos yesterday, because I was having fun and kept forgetting.
Thank heavens I was able to capture this super-casual one where Alex and Boy Alex had no idea I was photographing them.
We all brought snacks and everyone brought their own drinks, which means I now have 740 cans of Pabst Blue Ribbon in my refridge, and 950 salty bags of salt snacks with salt. By the end of this weekend, I will be Elvis.
Which reminds me, at one point we were telling our beleaguered guests how Jesus does our lawn, and I'm sure he pronounces his name "Hay Seuss," but of course we just call him Jesus. When he's been over, we say hilarious things like, "Jesus is just all right with me" or "Jesus saves...the lawn clippings" and so on. It's comedy gold, is what it is.
The point is, one of the Alexes said HER friend ALSO has a guy named Jesus who does HER lawn, and it's probably the same guy and just as we were about to describe Jesus our lawn guy (how he doesn't get his robes caught in the lawn mower is beyond us), she said, "Oh, wait. No. That guy's name is Elvis."
So.
I gave this Alex one of my chocolate-covered strawberries, to soothe the manic episode she is clearly having. Yes, I admire Alex's shoulders, as well. Alex goes to the gym 940 times a week. If we went to the gym 940 times a week, and if incidentally we were 28, we'd look like Alex, too. But we don't look like Alex. Some of us drink because we're NOT poets.
Name that fine film.
Eventually, someone decided we all needed pizza, so pizza was gotten, and next thing you know it's midnight and I'm sure the neighbors adored us. When the last guests left, we looked at our kitchen.
"Fuck it," said Ned, and we cleaned it this morning.
Mr. and Mrs. Fuck It.
I am sorry to tell you that my old ass may or may not be draggin' today, but we did manage to clean the damn kitchen.
Dear Less-Than-30-Year-Old-Person: You left your Miller 64 cooler thing here. Do not worry. I will not steal it.
The party's over. But my exhaustion lives on.
