by invite only

We spent last night at a retirement party for the firm. I was the +1, which allowed me to sneak into the soiree with minimal problem and free valet parking. It was an event that gave insight into the folks that my love works with: each and every one in the small place are a type of Sitcom character. A load of smart and energetic lawyers who care for each other - even in debate - and then go about their business. An enjoyable evening all around.

Now, the club. There is no way in hell I'd ever be at this place without my escort. We're once again talking about a level of clientele that I'll never be on my own. I've never been to a gig where people were walking around offering hor d'oeuvres on trays and filling my drink whenever I choose. I felt like I was living in a Jane Austen novel and was sorely tempted to sit down at the baby grand and knock out some classic 19th century sing-a-longs. I looked all about for Elizabeth Bennet or Mr. Darcy. I must have waved away at least $400 in canapes, crudites, zakuski, amuse-buche, and meze; oh, for the want of a big, reusable bag. I probably would have stood out if I was wrapping each piece in foil and stashing it in my saddlebag.

We've done yeoman's work around the house this weekend. The boys have been hard working in moving everything into one room so that Laurel can move into the other when she arrives on Thursday. All the holiday gear is put away and our new (double) living room is back in order. I'm all about back in order so I'm quite happy. X is sitting over by the fire in in her slippers, allegedly reading some work; I think she's happy.

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