I like the Gulbenkian, and try to get there every time I'm in Lisbon. There is a Museum of Modern Art, as well, and the both are set in grounds covered with gardens and small woods, with secluded benches here and there, a decent collection of modern sculpture, and winding paths that would have been shady if there had been any sun. As it was, there were puddles, and a security guard explaining that I had to splash my way back the way I came in and go all the way around to get to the main entrance, where I was supposed to be meeting the rest of the women for our tour.

The tour was excellent. This is the first time I've been on a tour there, and I enjoyed it very much. We had lunch in the cafe, which, unlike most museum cafes, has decent food that is reasonably priced.

Our party went well Friday night. I never did get my groceries delivered, but I managed to do the next best thing and get Popeye and Pooka-Boy to bring extra beer and wine.

We still have a lot of it left, too, despite the fact that by the time the party broke up around 2:30 in the morning, we were all well-lubricated indeed. Amongst our new group of friends, there are no slackers in the booze department, that's for sure.

We ended up with about 25 attendees, despite the fact that I managed to send out the email invitations without an actual date on them. Oh, the time was there, and detailed directions to our apartment, and what to bring (ie. Booze). And the truly sad thing is that I got responses-- sorry, we're busy; yes, I'm coming-- with no one pointing this out to me until yesterday, when an Irish friend said she'd love to come, just tell her when, please.

Oops.

I feel really, really bad about that one. A lot of my friends already knew when it was, because I'd run into them, or they'd called about something, and I told them in person. They probably didn't notice because when you expect to see something there, you usually do. They probably looked for the time, and the exact address, and some even sent off a response that they were coming. No one seems to have noticed that the date was missing.

I saw my observant friend today at the Gulbenkian, and she said she'd been meaning to send an email asking all weekend. She even asked her husband to remind her, because she was so excited that there was finally a party close to home that they didn't have to drive to, which tends to adversely affect your drinking, don't you know. She didn't get around to it, however, until yesterday evening.

Which means we pretty much have a lot in common, come to think of it.

Next party we have, I'm inviting my Irish friend first, by phone, and by email that will damn sure have all the information. One, because I feel bad. Two, because she is a hoot. It takes her about forty-five seconds to send me into hysterics, and from what she's said about her husband, I fully expect the same from him.

But other than that, the party was good. The beef turned out wonderful, despite my psycho oven. I know that it's common for the actual temperature in the oven to vary from the setting on the thermostat: that is, after all, the reason that I have an oven thermometer. However, this oven has numbers that do not appear to correspond to anything, and furthermore, the temperature at any given setting varies each time you use it-- not only each new time you set it, but while you are actually using the damn thing.

One batch of brownies got a bit overdone-- well, burned on the top, but still moist inside. Other than that, everything turned out fine. Everyone ate, drank, and was merry. The dartboard stayed on the wall, and gave every impression of being solidly in place for the duration. Which is good. I put it up, and I had to get creative because there seems to be a layer of titanium about an inch into the walls that I couldn't manage to drill through, so I was a bit worried on that score.

There were no fights, although apparently Popeye kicked Olive out of the house after they got home over something she said while she was here. Or something related to that. I'm not sure, and neither is anyone else. We saw him on Saturday night, and he was not exactly a happy camper. None of us know what she said, or did, or anything, really. We all missed it, whatever it was. Hopefully, I'll see someone tonight who will know what is going on, and if they've patched things up. I've been told they've had their problems before, so we'll see.

Still, kicking her out of the house in the middle of the night? Pretty harsh, wouldn't you say, given that he didn't find her in bed with someone else or anything.

After the party broke up, some of us went to Ferdi's. Hey, it's half past two in the morning, what else are you going to do? I just bought a new guidebook for Portugal. It describes Ferdi's as not so much a bar, but a lifestyle choice. (I should add that Popeye and Olive did not come with us, as apparently they needed to return home to argue.)

Sounds about right to me.

Saturday, I lazed around on the couch, listening to Elvis do dishes all day. I would have helped, even tried to help, but he insisted I get back on to the couch and let him do it. His rationale is that I did all the work before the party, and during the party, so it was his turn.

Sounds about right to me.

We have decided no more parties until the dishwasher gets fixed.

We'll see if we can hold out that long.