Greetings, my fellow port swillers!
Even as ol’ Robbo types this post, guests are starting to arrive for teh Youngest Gel’s birthday bash. We may have as many as fifteen to twenty 7th grade gels loose in the house this evening.
Unfortunately, I will not be able to hide completely from the festivities, as I have been deputed to monitor the fire pit later on when the kiddies make s’mores.
On the bright side, I’ve been looking for a good excuse to break into the Laphroaig 10-y.o. that Mrs. R recently gave me. This may well be it.
I think so. I think so.
Wish me luck, my friends!
UPDATE: Well, it looks like the body count is going to be closer to 10. Fine by me. And as I pointed out to teh Gel, who was starting to get upset at the number of no-shows, these are the friends who actually want to visit with her, as opposed to those who simply are looking for any party to attend. (I have heard all kinds of anecdotes about this partying-for-its-own-sake phenomenon at teh Gel’s school, especially when boys are involved – which they aren’t here.)
Meanwhile, teh Eldest, who possesses the moral outlook of Oliver Cromwell, has been coming to me every ten minutes or so with fresh accusations of inappropriate musick, Guitar Hero and movie choices.
UPDATE DEUX: Well, all over and done and kiddies got rid of. Ol’ Robbo spent a lot of time last evening sitting in front of the fire and staring into the flames. Indeed, I stayed out not a little while even after all the gels had gone back inside. What is it about an outdoor fire that is so transfixing? I personally think it is some sort of race memory thing Literally millions if not billions of others have done exactly the same thing as I did, going right back to Og and Nog sitting in front of their cave and gnawing on mammoth meat. I think this sets off some ganglion deep within our braims.
Or, as the Mothe has always maintained, I’m simply a pyro.