So every year for I don’t know how many years (I’d have to look it up) we’ve had a Chinese New Year party. It’s something my husband, Tenzin, and I always wanted to do before we had kids but never managed to pull together. Then we tried to do it after kids and could never muster enough energy. And then finally, when the kids were old enough, they heard about it, thought it was a grand idea. So they pushed us into it.
Now that it’s become an annual tradition, we can’t stop. It’s mandatory. Don’t get me wrong — I love seeing our friends and having an excuse to get everyone together. But every year, about a week before the party, I start getting this sort of hoo ha from Tenzin:
- So, I think I may drive out to Wadsworth (near Egypt) to buy fireworks — they’re legal there.
- So, do you think live boa constrictors could get out of the dog crate?
- So, how mad would you be if I made a 30 foot long snake out of paper mache?
And no, I’m not being hyperbolical.
Just to give you all a glimpse into my world, this is what our house looks like right now…
I think this is sort of his version of Burning Man without the heat, playa dust, and nudity, so I try not to say very much. People need their creative outlets. It’s why I get psychotic and throw ridiculously complicated birthday parties for the kids that involve neighborhood treasure hunts complete with costumes and clues that rhyme.
But this year, the Year of the Snake, I’ve been in a place where I’m happy to order some crap from Oriental Trading Company, get food from the restaurant up the street, and call it good. Meanwhile, Tenzin’s experimenting with sauces and buying material at the bulk fabric store.
I guess that’s why our marriage works. One of us is usually scouting ahead and dragging the other one up the hill. And the one being dragged may not be that thrilled at the time, but when we get to the top, the draggee is always glad the dragger decided they should come up to see the view.