On Monday, the wife will have a wonderful gathering of social misfits and other people you wouldn’t normally invite into your house (except you, of course). This is called a candle party.
How do you prepare for a candle party, astute readers might ask. First the wife sends you outside. This performs two functions. One, it gets you out of the wife’s hair while she tidies up the house. Two, it gets you to perform the arduous yard work you have been putting off for…what…7 months now?
This is how I found myself raking into the dark hours of the night last night. Yes. Raking. What about the tennis elbow, you ask? A candle party is not a respecter of persons. No mere physical infirmity is enough to stop the rolling tide of the candle party. Remember this, men, the next time your physician says it’s OK to be discharged from the hospital following your open-heart surgery.
The clincher, of course, is that our house is already redolent with a mélange of candle scents from every room of the house. It’s almost like Yankee Candle went out of business and shipped us all their back-stock. It’s as if the neighborhood had a candle thief and everyone brought their precious valuables here for safe keeping, since anyone who took one glance at our house would see that it’s not worth breaking into.
But, I digress. And I will get in trouble for hyperbole in this one, you mark my words.