Last night my father and I threw a 60th birthday party for my mother that I fear she won't ever forget. Highlights of the evening included, but were not limited to:
1) Her best friends forgetting about the party completely. They went to the beach, and were unreachable by phone.
2) The food being so bad that it was literally inedible. I thought maybe it was just me because I have a sinus infection and my head is so full of crap that I thought my sense of taste had gone haywire; but no, nobody liked anything. Don't ever, ever pair rare seared albacore tuna with green chile relish and fava bean succotash . . . *shudder*.
3) My mother watching me turn steadily paler while the lady to my left, her friend Annette, described in great detail the trauma of having her house infested with rats, including the gruesome manner in which her husband disposed of two of them, and a lengthy description of the feces-related havoc they wreaked in her kitchen. I am extremely squeamish, with a hair-trigger gag reflex. Luckily I had an excuse to get up from the table and leave for a minute, because . . .
4) I spent most of the evening in the bathroom blowing my nose. I don't know why I bothered to be polite, since a guy at the neighboring table had apparently chosen that evening to die in public of tuberculosis or something aurally indistinguishable therefrom.
I believe this entire enterprise qualified as A Depressing Waste of Time and Money. Oh, well. It was the thought that counted . . . at least I hope so.