Maxigumee

So, this past Friday, Carianne called me and asked me if I wanted to go to a 1950s party. All of my clothing is so basic that I can pretty much pull off any decade after like the 1940s, so I put on a pair of khakis, a red sweater, and a tie, and left to meet her at her boyfriend’s house.

Her boyfriend has been in Argentina for the past week or so, so Carianne took the opportunity to become little Ms. Imaginary Housewife. “I wash the sheets like every three days,” she said in response to my jealousy over the fact that the house has a washer and dryer, two things that I miss terribly. The house is also equipped with a massive kitchen (at least in comparison to my miniscule kitchenette) and Carianne and I decided to put it to good use and cook dinner.

I hardly ever cook. Unless you count making peanut butter sandwiches and scrambled eggs as cooking. I nearly died from excitement when we went to the neighborhood grocery store to pick things out for our meal. We ended up purchasing two loaves of fancy bread, organic whole wheat pasta, pesto, baby tomatoes, carrots, sun-dried tomato vegetable dip, and chicken. As we prepared the dinner (and by we, I mostly mean Carianne, as my culinary skills pale in comparison to hers), we listened to old Latin and jazz music on the kitchen’s stereo. It was one of those orgasmically domestic moments when you wish you could fast forward a few years and own a house of your own to make fancy dinners in.

A little later, Adrienne and our friends Amelia and Rebekka from out of town came over. It took a little while for everybody to get into their 1950s getups (Carianne insisted on researching 1950s hair-styles and watching clips of Grease on YouTube before she settled on anything). We finally left to catch the bus at about 11pm and looked like a pretty ridiculous group considering the chilly temperatures.