The Stain Lifters
So the party last Saturday night--the party at which, sadly, there were NO brandied cherries--was supposed to be a dance party. This was evident from the we'll-supply-the-music-and-dance-floor invite as well as the dimmed lights and twirling disco ball that created a space with lighting that was completely inadequate for the card game Set. Which Leon and I brought. Because we are dorks. Heh.
No one was really in the mood for dancing, though, just for mingling, drinking, and noshing on Tim Tams. At one point, I was seated on the sofa with three other people and when a fourth attempted to squeeze in, someone suggested that she bring over a chair. So she did.
There were a few wee chairs (purchased in Chinatown, it would seem, because of their wee-ness) by the bar, so she brought one over, positioned it in front of the sofa, and sat in it. A few minutes later, someone else did the same. And another.
By this point, this had set off a CODE RED among the party's hosts, who remarked to each other that their attempt to discourage seating was failing--because we were supposed to be dancing, not sitting. Dancing! And so the hosts politely told the people in the chairs that they couldn't sit in them, because they were taking up space on the dance floor and, clearly, if they weren't there, people would dance! So they lost the privilege of sitting.
This led the majority of us to seek out a new place to sit, and we ended up in one of the bedrooms, where there was a card table, and we commenced a game of...Set! A victory for dorks everywhere! (And, actually, for dancers. Because when we emerged from the bedroom some hours later, there were actually people dancing.)
The other event of note that evening was when some guy dropped a bottle of Wyder's on the off-white carpet. When we had first arrived, we were encouraged to take off our shoes, so one can only imagine the amount of panic that a spilled beverage would cause in the three party hosts. Leon, oddly enough, leapt at the spill with paper towels, while two of the hosts emerged ready for action, each with a bottle of Resolve in his hand. They sprayed and dabbed and cursed at that Wyder's while a room of 40 people looked on, fascinated.
"Why do three bachelors have more than one bottle of carpet cleaner?" I asked, and the answer was something practical, like one bottle was nearly empty. But I prefer to think that they have alter egos: grad students by day, stain-fighting dance-party hosts by night. They'll write algorithms and later, they'll put the moves on you AND the cocktail sauce in your berber.
…Or something.
No one was really in the mood for dancing, though, just for mingling, drinking, and noshing on Tim Tams. At one point, I was seated on the sofa with three other people and when a fourth attempted to squeeze in, someone suggested that she bring over a chair. So she did.
There were a few wee chairs (purchased in Chinatown, it would seem, because of their wee-ness) by the bar, so she brought one over, positioned it in front of the sofa, and sat in it. A few minutes later, someone else did the same. And another.
By this point, this had set off a CODE RED among the party's hosts, who remarked to each other that their attempt to discourage seating was failing--because we were supposed to be dancing, not sitting. Dancing! And so the hosts politely told the people in the chairs that they couldn't sit in them, because they were taking up space on the dance floor and, clearly, if they weren't there, people would dance! So they lost the privilege of sitting.
This led the majority of us to seek out a new place to sit, and we ended up in one of the bedrooms, where there was a card table, and we commenced a game of...Set! A victory for dorks everywhere! (And, actually, for dancers. Because when we emerged from the bedroom some hours later, there were actually people dancing.)
The other event of note that evening was when some guy dropped a bottle of Wyder's on the off-white carpet. When we had first arrived, we were encouraged to take off our shoes, so one can only imagine the amount of panic that a spilled beverage would cause in the three party hosts. Leon, oddly enough, leapt at the spill with paper towels, while two of the hosts emerged ready for action, each with a bottle of Resolve in his hand. They sprayed and dabbed and cursed at that Wyder's while a room of 40 people looked on, fascinated.
"Why do three bachelors have more than one bottle of carpet cleaner?" I asked, and the answer was something practical, like one bottle was nearly empty. But I prefer to think that they have alter egos: grad students by day, stain-fighting dance-party hosts by night. They'll write algorithms and later, they'll put the moves on you AND the cocktail sauce in your berber.
…Or something.