Walking into a party last weekend, a few minutes fashionably late, my friend and I are still the first to arrive. And since I was invited by a friend of a friend, I walk straight up to the host and introduce myself. And then he says …
“I gotta take a shower.”
This is a new one. I haven’t been to a house party in a few years, but clearly things have changed. It used to be you get to a party, the host greets you at the door, offers you a drink, and then points out the chips and dips and pigs in a blanket.
Not this guy. He’s going to bathe. But not before asking my friend to cut limes – and mentioning something about a DJ, a pot of chili, and warning that the Western horse saddles draping all the bar stools are not actually attached.
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As the first guests arrive, I’m immediately asked where John is.
“Who’s John? Oh, John! He’s in the shower. We have plenty of fresh-cut limes. And chili, there’s chili. No pigs in a blanket, but there’s a DJ somewhere, hopefully not trying to ride a bar stool.”
This is why you don’t leave hosting to your guests. Because we don’t have any information. I don’t know when John’s coming down – or if we have any more limes, if the chili’s meatless, or why the bar area looks like the starting gate at the Kentucky Derby. I just don’t know.
What I also don’t know is why do you post a nice invitation on Facebook telling friends that you’re having a party with food and drinks, football and a DJ. But not mention what the party won’t have, which is – well – you.
But just as I start to stir the chili, he descends the staircase. And I’m confused, because I don’t know how to react. I’ve already seen him, so I’m not as excited as everybody else. Plus, I’ve been working – we needed more limes.
And I’m confused because I don’t know how he’s supposed to react. It’s like he’s walking into his surprise party – but he already knows we’re there. Or like he’s arriving at his wedding reception – but without a bride. He’s making his grand entrance – in his own house. John has just arrived. From the john.
I don’t know what to do. The only thing I can think of is to start a round of “For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow,” but it doesn’t catch on. Everyone just seems so happy that he made it … downstairs. I’m happy too. With the host back in the saddle, I can take a break. Better yet, we decide to leave before it’s time to serve dinner...
He’s probably gonna need to shave.