I used to host parties with some regularity when I was younger, especially Halloween parties. The prep was buy a bunch of booze and put the same decorations I’d put up six straight years in a row. Then I hoped no one pissed in my laundry room or chucked my furniture off the balcony.
Well, I got to host my first kid birthday party last weekend (which makes sense because I have a kid now). It was a little different. I actually cleaned. This is a weird thing where you wipe stuff down and mop and sweep. It was unpleasant, but seemed to work. I’ll make a note of that.
Then I went to the store. Four times in 24 hours. We made this (by we I mean my wife).
Me going to the store with my wife’s list usually involves me aimlessly looking for something I’ve never heard of, like vegetables or fruit. The last trip, though, I bought a batch of beers and ales totaling 72 drinks, plus ice and 3 gallons of ice cream. Cashier: “Having a party?” No, I am going for the funnest suicide ever.
We survived and my daughter had a blast, but if we get three more toys in the house, I’ll have to sleep in the car to make room. It works, because I still have tons of beers left over and I tend not to care where I sleep after pounding a few of those.