I looked at my boss, sitting next to me in a hanging acrylic bubble chair, and then at my project manager, enthusiastically showing off her astoundingly large tiara collection, and back at my boss. “Sometimes,” I began, and shook my head. “Sometimes I’m pretty sure my life is actually a sitcom in another universe.” He chuckled and sipped more champagne out of his plastic cup. Twenty minute later, he had not a tiara, but a small crown on his head — on top of his ball cap.
It was, in retrospect, exactly what I expected the evening to be like.
I’d arrived at Kaitlen’s apartment three hours prior to help decorate for the surprise party her boyfriend had decided to throw her. When he asked me for help, I hadn’t had the heart to tell him that I’m a lousy party planner. So he bought cupcakes, and I attempted to get crepe paper to stick to the walls in a decorative manner. This was made far more difficult by my attempts to not stop every five seconds and pet the kitty at my feet.
As the guests arrived, we started trying to decide how to surprise her. (One friend’s idea, hiding in the shower, was promptly struck down. Another, all crowding around the door so that our faces were the first thing she saw upon opening the door, was vetoed in favor of the traditional, lights-out, everyone-yell-surprise tactic. It worked: She jumped six inches. And promptly brought out the box of tiaras.
I didn’t don one until I’d eaten an entire malted chocolate cupcake washed down with a shot of bourbon. It was a good party.