Party Crashing, Old Ladyism

Last night me and a couple friends decided to crash an IWP party. I knew these details: it was hosted by someone in the International Writer’s Program, it was from 7-11pm, and it had an open bar. I figured I’d get a little sauced New York stylee and bum around town not having to spend much money.

We got there and the people who owned the house were announcing that the live music was about to start: from what I saw, it was a dude on the house piano going nuts & who looked like he was having a great time. This was the first clue we were out of our league. The second was the mode of dress and third was the hors d’oeuvres. 

Luckily me and Amanda Nadelberg were wearing skirts though our red-bearded Alabaman poet friend was wearing something like a Bama tee-shirt with pants rolled up at the bottoms, looking generally southern and very under-dressed. There was sushi and an array of other tiny foods that I couldn’t recognize. Some people were dancing, but mostly they were talking in little groups with sweet accents and some in other languages. It was the kind of house that had metal pans hanging from the kitchen ceiling, and the wife was standing by in a long flowy dress insisting “oh no no, the caterers made the food, it was nothing really.” 

After hawking the food table and drinking a couple glasses of wine, we knew we were the kids who crashed the IWP soirees. At least no one was giving us blatantly strange looks. I mean, the parties I’m used to involve keg stands and Slap the Bag with boxed wine. First soiree of such caliber I’ve crashed. Go me. 

Today Jane & I participated in the workshop knitting club, which is something I wanted to do in order to branch out from the two hobbies I know so well: writing and drinking. Samantha Cheng, program director, was there, which was slightly unfortunate as I discovered that I am a very angry knitter. Rather, Jane pointed my angriness out. It seems I wasn’t aware of the wordvomit problem until she made me notice. The ejaculations of the mouth, of course, were a spectrum of expletives. 

Tonight I’ll start Master Letters by Lucie Brock-Broido. I heard it’s better to read hers before Dickenson’s so that one’s expectations are lesser. Hmm…

Tomorrow I take p00ter to the doctor. Disk drive is donezo, and Base Port (i.e. wireless iTunes) wont work without it.