So it wasn’t quite the Hef sort of pajama party, with love in the grotto and bunnies and a cast of thousands. It wasn’t even rated pg-13. But I had a damned good time New Year’s Eve.

We started with the concept of a dress-up cocktail party, classic hors douvres (Hell, I’m never sure if I’m spelling that right), martinis, classic cocktails, you get the idea.

But several people bagged out, we had kids in tow, and our holiday week wound up busier than expected; we all wanted to hang, but couldn’t quite manage the full party we’d visualized.

So someone called an audible at the line of scrimmage, and full-dress cocktail party became pajama party.

Now, normally, I don’t do PJ’s. I don’t even own pajamas. But I kept thinking Hef. So I agreed. Though the best we could do at Target at the last minute was some too-long black silk pajama bottoms with a black thermal shirt. But it worked; and oh, does silk feel good against a shorn scrotum.

So it may not have been Hef, but I still had the world’s most fabulous babes:

And a good time was had by all. Silk, you know! Plus look who I’m cuddled against.

RIP Chibi.

We expected the last one, Addison, to go. This was a shock. Chibi seemed fine two or three days ago. Addison was old; Chibi was barely a year.

We found her cold and struggling to breath, and it was like a re-play. But once she was warm, Chibi started to move around and I thought it would be ok. Weak, sick, but I thought we could save her. Olivia and I bundled her in a tee-shirt of mine and raced across town to the emergency vet.

We handed her to the woman at the desk, who said “Oh, guys, I think it might be too late.”

Chibi had died on the way there, warm and bundled on Olivia’s shoulder. She left our life as she entered it, in a car, kept warm under Olivia’s chin.

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