Pajama party

It’s an annual event. We bring food, always a ridiculous amount of random food, and sleeping bags and pillows, and CDs to play. And pajamas, of course. Nine of us women gathered this year, talking by the fire as we said goodbye to winter and welcomed spring. We jokingly call ourselves the Wild Women, but really, we don't do anything all that wild. Or at least nothing I'm willing to reveal to my blog readers.

Beautiful Hair usually arrives with some kind of activity in mind. This year, she made us play a game that was a cross between Scrabble and Gin Rummy; each person had to make words out of the cards in their hands. Instead of reading the directions, which were written on print clearly not meant for the over-forty crowd, we made up our own rules. The scores got a lot higher when we started awarding extra points for any words that had to do with sex.

Because I’d been sick with a bad cough, Quilt Artist brought something she called Slippery Elm Bark. She mixed it with boiling water until it made a disgusting-looking paste. Then she dumped in some apple juice and cinnamon to disguise the fact that she was feeding me something that could be used as wallpaper glue. “I shouldn’t have let you watch me make it,” she said when she saw the look on my face. “Just close your eyes, and drink it.” I tried not to gag as I sipped the hot gunk, which tasted mostly like apple juice, and I have to admit that by the time I was done, my throat did feel much better.

Signing Woman had told us all in an email that she wouldn’t be able to make the party this year: she had a work function she really needed to attend. We all cheered when she came through the door and announced, “I decided that this is where I needed to be.” Gorgeous Eyes couldn’t make the party this year because she was out of town, visiting her girlfriend in the City of Sibling Love, but she sent an email to the group, and we ate chickpea salad in her honour.

We did some reiki and massage, and we played some silly games, but mostly we talked: intense one-on-one talks by the fire or in the kitchen or over plates of food and then group conversations that ranged from serious to hilariously funny and back again. In the morning, we drank hot tea and found places to sit in the sun, falling back into a lazy conversation that was as comfortable as a pair of flannel pajamas pants.