The Disco Ball Is my Spirit Animal

I threw a party last night.

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I planned it way before I had a job offer, because “throw a cocktail party” was on my 2013 list, and I needed a project.  Also, I know myself well enough to know that I am excellent, just really gifted, at starting things and then not finishing them.  It’s not my best trait.  So, to hold myself accountable for putting my house back together after I rearranged every single room last month, I put a house party on the calendar.  And then invited people.  It’s a pretty good motivator.

Then I got a job offer and took a twelve-day road trip, so things got a bit compressed, there at the end.  It was all fine, and I felt like celebrating a whole new chapter starting Monday.  I did, indeed, get my house put back together, and all of the pictures re-hung, and even managed to frame my new posters from Hatch.  I tidied the yard, kind of.  I looked up cocktail recipes.  I put on a dress and a sparkly piece of my grandmother’s jewelry, and shiny red heels. My people dressed up.

It went really well, because my friends are, to a person, really great people, and you want as many of them in a room together as possible, and I love them.  I can’t say I completed a conversation, what with the hostessing and the trying to keep the Dawg from jumping on people’s biscuits and him pulling them around by their dress hems (sorry, Willow, Fletch feels bad about the ungentlemanly behavior at his first grown-up party) and forgetting to DJ every time a record ran out.  Fletch got really quiet, just angelic, for a thirty-minute stretch and everyone complimented his good behavior.  I realized as soon as he stood up again that he had been orchestrating a Shawshank Redemption, and had chewed through his leash down to one tiny thread, because he was not getting any biscuits.  Punk. Now we have to go leash shopping, and he is going to have to take that out of his allowance.

I had fun anyway.  Party bonus, I have enough beer and party food left over for another party.  I always over-prepare, but that way you get to spend the next few weeks saying “Beer on my porch? I have plenty!”  For the record, the cocktails were a success, too.  There were Sazeracs, which are mostly just straight bourbon.  I’m sure it’s good but I am just plain dumb after half a liquor drink, ask anyone, so I stuck to the beer cocktail.  Snakebite and Black might be my new favorite.  We went through three pitchers of that.

And then a bunch of us went out to the show at Deep South with the Ryan Adams covers, and all kinds of great Raleigh folk were playing.  My favorite, hands-down, was Wylie Hunter, and the two songs he did under the disco ball were powerhouse songs.  That man can play.

So, disco balls. All sparkle and glitz and music, so glam.  I love the little twinkles of light they throw around a room. My crowd are not divas about camping, but we always take the disco ball to Merlefest.  I think I’ve told this story before, but nomadic cultures carry a hearth stick with them wherever they travel.  They carefully place the hearth stick at each new home, and the tribe orients its temporary architecture accordingly, and that’s how everyone knows their place in the world.  So it sits in front of the Merlefest tent, and then it was in my car with me all the way down Route 66 to Amarillo and back, and yesterday I swept the porch and put out a big ice bucket for ginger ales and hung party lights, and I put my disco ball back up on the front porch where it belongs.

Glad to be home.

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