This squirming bundle of cuteness was baptized on Sunday. The Husband was appointed Godfather which means I’ve had to endure my fair share of the all time worst Godfather impressions since then. Why do men do this? Is it programmed into their DNA?
There was, naturally, a party afterwards to celebrate. There’s nothing I like more than a loud party full of people I don’t know. (Please note the sarcasm.)
It’s not so much the party that bothers me (although The Husband is such a social butterfly that I often find myself standing somewhere, alone, wondering who to talk to now), but the arriving and departing that I find torturous.
I never know quite what to do upon greeting everyone. Are we going to hug? Shake hands? Swap spit? Grope each other? WHAT SHOULD I BE PREPARED FOR?
And the leaving… having to seek people out to say your goodbye’s and thank you’s and drive safely’s. More hugging. Someone save me.
The chit-chat in between, I don’t mind too much. Although, the camera has become quite the nuisance in that department. Now conversations revolve around what kind of camera is that? How many focal points does it have? Can I touch it? (I kid you not, this is a real conversation I had with another guest on Sunday.)
People, it’s a CAMERA. You have one, too. Mine’s just bigger.
There usually comes a point during most parties where I’ve had just the right amounts of time and tequila to find me feeling comfortable and, I’d even go so far as to say, having a good time. The conversation is easy and relaxed and those dreadful farewells are in the distant future…
Unfortunately, I didn’t quite get there on Sunday. I keep telling The Husband he should carry tequila and candy with him at all times, just in case, but he laughs like I’m telling a joke. (Now I know how Stewie feels.) (You know, because no one ever takes him seriously.) (You’d know this if you watched Family Guy.) (Please watch Family Guy.)