The Inevitable Fight for My Right to Party

What with all the snow and the fact that I took the third section of the CPA exam on Tuesday, I’ve been busy neglecting the Internet all week. I’ve also been ditching work. Monday and Tuesday, I’d scheduled to have off so that I could study and then take the exam. For Wednesday, other circumstances came into play that forced me to take the day off.

On Tuesday, we were hit with a lot of snow, which led to the celebration of my favorite made-up holiday -- the first snow party. My friends that are native Chicagoans have apparently been doing it since long before I moved here and began enriching their lives whether they liked it or not. As the name implies, the first snow party occurs just once a year on the evening of the day that we receive the first (minimum of three inches of) snow. On this occasion everyone gathers together at the same cozy ski-lodgesque bar at approximately nine in the evening. The bar at which the snow celebration occurs is a place that I rarely frequent. I’m glad it’s the designated spot, however, because it’s conveniently located right across the street from where I live.

So. On Tuesday evening after arriving home from the exam, I put on my snow boots, my fluffiest sweater, ear muffs and a mismatched pair of mittens to prepare for my short trek. Outside the mounds of fresh snow sparkled gaudily under the influence of the street lamps, and my exit down the front steps was impeded by the fact that the snow had rendered them indefinable. I skipped the bottom three by jumping down to what I was pretty sure was the sidewalk. I was pleased at the large indentation my crash landing created in the otherwise uninterrupted drifts.

When I reached the middle of the deserted street, I glanced south and saw two of the other revelers tromping down the road towards me. One of them raised a yellow-glove in salute. I waved back and started walking in their direction. As we approached each other, I could hear the icy scraping of the plows already busy a few blocks over.

Inside the bar, another snow party attendee was waiting alone at the front table sipping a Guinness. Last year he’d brought a gingerbread house to celebrate. This year he’d brought his laptop bag. I plopped down next to him and took a sip of his drink without asking.

“What’re you having?” the guy in the yellow gloves asked while pointing at me.

I glanced over at the chalkboard detailing the specials scrawled out in messy, unpretentious handwriting. It was an easy choice.

“Stella,” I said.

Half an hour later, I was forlornly moaning Stella in my best impersonation of Elaine from Seinfeld impersonating Stanley from A Streetcar Named Desire. As the minutes wound on, more snow party people filed in, and we mostly greeted each other with hugs.

“You look like a lumberjack,” I said craning my chin upward to look at the flannel clad guy I used to and still often have a crush on. The guy that I’d made out with during last year’s first snow party. Then again during last year's New Year’s Eve party. And later again at his Christmas party.

I noticed his hair.

“Your hair’s getting freakishly long.”

He rolled his hands around his head until it stood up at crazy, disheveled angles, and he looked like a Greek Einstein. I laughed and messed it up some more.

My ex-neighbors showed up, and we hugged as if it had been years since we’d last met instead of days. After introducing them to everyone, I wandered away to talk to my friend that’d just gotten out of the hospital.

“It all started with food poisoning,” he explained.

“From where?”

“That Thai place down on Diversey. I had the Tom Yum soup, and I asked them to add chicken to it. They brought the chicken out in a bowl, and I noticed that it looked like it’d been sitting out for awhile. I ate it, and started getting sick before we’d even left the restaurant.”

“I love that place,” I said sadly, “and I always get the Tom Yum soup.”

Something had happened to his intestine afterwards right before New Year’s, and he’d had to go into surgery so that they could remove part of it. Now he’s worried about the scar.

“It’s huge,” he said, “and dark.”

“It’ll fade,” I promised.

The bar was empty so we had uncontested reign over the juke box. Elvis. The Cure. Red Hot Chili Peppers. The Beastie Boys.

Before I knew it there were only four of us left. Me, my ex-neighbors and the guy with the yellow gloves. The bar had run out of clean Stella glasses, so we’d started drinking it out of pints.

“No. You don’t understand,” I responded in an overly-animated manner, “It curdles in your mouth. It’s lime juice and baileys. That’s why it’s called a cement mixer.”

“Let’s do one right now,” he said slapping his hand decisively onto the bar.

“They don’t taste very good. Besides it’s funnier as a joke when the other person doesn’t know what’s going to happen.”

“We’ll do one right now. All four of us. Let’s go.”

The bartender placed two shot glasses in front of each of us. One filled with a cloudy, summer colored liquid and the other with something resembling chocolate milk.

“Okay,” I said instructively, “first shoot the baileys, but don’t swallow it. Hold it in your mouth. Then shoot the lime juice.”

I took a deep breath and glared down at the two glasses while I mentally prepared myself for what was about to go down.

I picked up the first shot. The baileys tasted good, and I didn’t mind holding it in my mouth. I inhaled noisily through my nose and lifted the shot of lime juice. The simple concoction solidified in my mouth to the consistency of pudding just like I remembered.

This time it tasted a little like key lime pie.

To my right I heard sputtering coughs from the others. One of them groaned.

“Disgusting,” they all agreed.

The bartender started laughing.

Wednesday morning I woke up to a strange alarm emitting from my cell phone, and an uncomfortable denseness in my head. Like maybe my brain had outgrown my skull. I blearily glanced at the time and considered starting to cry. Six-thirty. I had to get up or else I was going to miss the train. I lay back against the pillows and closed my eyes for a minute.

After awhile, I sat back up, reset the alarm and fell back asleep. Later, before getting out of bed, I mentally compiled a list of things that I had to do in precise order to ensure my survival:

1. Brush my teeth,
2. Wash the smoky smell of the bar out of my hair,
3. Drink about five gallons of water, and
4. Call in sick to work.

“It’s food poisoning,” I told my admin assistant.

“Oh no, sweetie! How? From where?”

“This Thai restaurant that I love. I had the Tom Yum soup with chicken. It was the chicken.”

“Get some rest and feel better. Drink lots of water.”

I settled onto the couch with a full glass of water next to me. I’d brought a pillow and the oversized comforter out of my bedroom like I always do when I’m sick. My wet hair smelled like oranges now and felt good pressed between my cheek and the clean pillow case.

‘Never again,’ I thought to myself, ‘never again will I go out during the week. I’m too old. I can’t handle it anymore.’

I turned on daytime television and began feeling drowsy. Before drifting off, I admitted to myself that ‘never again’ could be too strict of a declaration. Maybe it should be refined to ‘only once per year.’ After all. The first snow party is my favorite made-up holiday.

-EEK