Remains of the Day

Dear Mr. Baby:

I have thrown some parties, memorable mostly in their occult and cryptic aftermath, that I call vaguely to mind today.  There was the Halloween party of 2005, where, inspired by recently watching Breakfast at Tiffany's, I sauntered around my university apartment encouraging everyone who came to smoke cigarettes in holders and wave their arms around quasi-elegantly like stage actors on a movie set, and woke up to thousands of explicable but still improbable yellowish holes burned into the sides of candles, a shoe I did not own, and the plastic frame of an Ansel Adams photograph that had been in the closet.  In 1996, I could not find my coffee maker to ward off the ill effects of a social engagement involving the first and last keg of beer I will ever buy, only to find it (the coffee maker) several days later, dripping Coors Light onto a bed from the ceiling fan where it had been placed with intricate and almost engineered care.  The night I refer to as The Saki Night, the remnants of which trapped newspapers and trash in a sickly sweet death grip for weeks to come, all over the house, I assume because I declared at rather imbibed and uninhibited point in the evening that all saki must be drunk hot! but did not have the equipment, experience, nor sobriety to properly execute such a plan.  Interestingly, most of the saki seems to have been spilled in the bathroom.

March 2011, one of many days indistinguishable from others:  there is a trail of wheat-free snacks on the counter dribbling away into large, tongue shaped splotches on the floor.  The dog is wobbly and disoriented.  Everything the kitchen is half-done; drawers, in various states of aperture, ooze things like dishcloths and cleaning products and duct tape, partially unrolled.  My keys are in the refrigerator, dangling into an open jar of pickles. There is a destroyed stick in the middle of the living room.  I lost my phone (but found it, in a fortunate turn of events, prior to restarting the dryer.)  A variety of blankets and shirts are everywhere covered in splotches of vomit.  A plant has fallen over, from a perch where nobody can even reach to water it.  There is underwear all over the place, just all. over. the. place.  It looks as though a carnival of socially irresponsible people, with a penchant for brightly colored junk and an obsession with the words Oink! and Chirp! came through here.

It's just like old times, Mr. Baby, except nobody is drunk (except maybe the dog) and nobody really had quite that much fun.  Furthermore,  and I find this to be the most illusive aspect of the condition of my house - nobody who has properly functioning appendages, aside from me, was even here, which, by default, makes me irrefutably responsible for the mess.  It's 8 o'clock, and I have no idea what happened with this day.  Or why, given that the kitchen looks like the midnight snack preparations of a drunk, I didn't eat lunch or dinner. 

I'd ask you what happened, but you just say phleble and aaaaag over and over and over.  To be frank, you're as useful for intelligence gathering as a concussed parrot.

Here are some things I do know happened: 

I let you play with a plastic bag, because I distinctly remember thinking about that.  I remember feeling rather seasoned at that point, like one of those soldiers on their third tour somewhere, who just walk around in a nonchalant dispassion, ostentatiously not ducking even though there are grenades exploding everywhere.  I just thought, rather lethargically: Oh hey look at that. You're so definitively, quintessentially, being a Bad Mother right now.  (For the record, you just really showed a lot of interest in it.  It's yellow and crinkly, which are two of your favorite qualities in people and stuff.  Also, I eventually took it away).

I made a list of all the things I would buy if people would just give me two actual cents instead of universally useless hypotheses as to why you scream a lot. On it, a lifetime supply of earplugs. 

There were blithe times too, kicking your crib critters and singing great songs of my own ingenious composition, like Who's awake and chewing on his blanket? and What's wrong with the baby now?  That may have been yesterday.  Today may have been more of a Tough Times for Tiny Guys day.  Either way, there was probably a lot of all that and I'm sure it was the height of tedious fun.  It's best if you do it in a variety of styles and somewhat accurate accents.  Tone-deaf Australian Raised In Germany Rap, Operatic Indian Who Learned English In Jamaica, Proto-European Country and Western.  

Beyond that, who the hell knows what happened here for twelve hours.  I can only see the aftermath, and ponder the wonder of it all.