I had a fabulous party this weekend, which made me happy.  I’ve finally started to gather a group of friends–some kinky, some not, but all really brilliant and funny.  There were ten of us drinking wine and snacking on a huge, smelly, runny cheese until long past when the party was supposed to end.  And, in the universal sign of a party gone crazy, there were  broken glasses.  (I prefer going Greek and just busting them all, but my chaotic side had to be satisfied with two accidental breakages.)

So this morning I woke up and was traipsing around my house in a robe before plopping myself on the couch, where I had the following thought: “Oh weird, I just stepped on a dried cranberry.”  God’s honest truth, that’s the sentence that crossed my mind as I finally notice that a minute before, I’d stepped on a glass sliver which iwas now in the process of causing a very pretty, cranberry colored drop of blood to pool on the bottom of my big toe.  After a minute of admiring it, I plucked it out, cleaned up my toe, and pondered, not for the first time, that attempting to deny I’m a masochist is really a losing battle.