I rode a wave.

What made Mardi Gras and me a good fit is we both have a strong sense of TOO MUCH IS NOT ENOUGH

So we begin planning our party in September, build a miniature London of cardboard boxes and toilet paper rolls painted black. I build a 14 foot Big Ben that, it turns out, will not withstand Arctic winds. With a friend, though, we can lash it to the tree in my yard. It doesn’t have its hat on. A great victory, nonetheless.

Throwing a party is an endeavor for the ego. Will people regard me as welcoming, fun, and deeply aware of their every need for comfort and amusement? Will they?

How many people will regard me this way? What is the number that means they do? What is it?

I ride the wave a little better now.

I understand the crash of apres party, and I am quicker to return to what enchanted me. 

What enchanted me: twenty people dragged their asses out when it was dark, the wind chill was below zero, and my street was covered in snow and ice.

That’s nice.

That’s really nice.

There were at least three people over the age of seventy who dragged their asses out in that. Can you believe it?

I would say I’m not competitive. I feel competitive about hostessing, though. Every time people are at my house, I want them to exist in joy, outside of time and space, but fully in their human bodies.

We had a two-year-old guest, and this child enjoyed swordfighting, running in circles, screaming, and petting my cat very, very, very gently.

That was the fucking best.

I believe someone who was feeling socially anxious stayed for hours and smiled and laughed. I believe someone who was anxious about getting older didn’t think about getting older at all. I believe someone who thought, I want Liz’s party to be great, felt good that it was great.

I forgot to put out the nonalcoholic mixers.

I bought slingshots. I recommend them. People enjoy slingshots, and the missiles were relatively harmless.

Someone shut my front door, a painting I’d propped up fell over, and my bust of Chopin and my egg hunt trophy took a tumble. The egg hunt trophy requires hot glue. (I participated in its original creation, so I should be authorized.) Chopin lost his head at the neck. His nose is long gone. Chopin was a gift from my best friend’s brother. He was like twelve at the time, and found this ceramic bust that he thought I would like.

He’s now living in Spain, probably eating paella and drinking good wine right now. He deserves it. 

Something is generally broken at a party. You want it to be something that can be glued again. I try not to own anything that would make me cry if it broke. I do own a ceramic Nautilus tiki… mug? I would cry if it broke. I would cry and cry. 

Chopin, though, he will take to glue just fine.

Neighbors came over. One of them wore a Carhartt coveralls because she was serious. ”It’s time to burn the Bastille,” she told me. I agreed. This is how the evening peaks.

She helped me find matches, and accompanied my co-chief and I outside into the weather I mentioned (below zero, wind chill further below zero). The three of us tried desperately to protect the little flames I could spark from the worn out side of my match box. It took a while. But it caught.

When I returned upstairs, the two year old guest was crying and crying. ”He’s upset because the Bastille burned,” a parent said.

Oh, parties. The waves.