“Hospitality is making your guests feel like they’re at home, even if you wish they were.”
Unknown
Shelley and I love having people over.
Big Christmas parties, Friendsgivings, summer barbecues—it’s our thing.
We like feeding people, making the house smell nice, and pretending the guest bathroom stays that clean all the time.
But every so often, one of those events reminds me that hospitality is a beautiful idea—until humans get involved.
Like the time we hosted a couples’ wedding shower for our friends, Chris and Melanie. They’re great. He’s a little grumpy, she’s delightful—basically your classic sitcom couple, if the sitcom had way more cheese boards.
Anyway, we had about thirty people over. Which is too many people. I didn’t even know we knew thirty people.
But somehow, it worked. Everyone was having a great time. They were laughing, talking, pretending to admire our throw pillows. You know, adult fun.
Now—I had done my part. I stocked the fridge. I was proud of it.
Twelve Heinekens, twenty-four Shiners. Just a regular, blue-collar beer lineup. I even made sure there was Topo Chico, because apparently we hydrate now.
But in the back… behind all that… there was one bottle.
A Peroni.
The last of a six-pack I’d been saving. Not for any real reason—it just… survived. You know how one bottle just makes it through like it’s outsmarted the others? Yeah. This one had a story.
So I tucked it in the back. Way back. You’d have to dig for it. You’d have to move, like, four Shiners just to make eye contact.
The night goes on, people are happy, and then, when things quiet down, I start cleaning up.
Plates, cups, bottles. Pretty standard cleanup.
Then I see it.
A Peroni. Sitting on the ledge.
At first, I thought, Oh, someone brought one! You know, like maybe another kindred spirit had arrived—some classy, Italian-beer person who gets me.
Then I got closer.
And that’s when I realized… this wasn’t a Peroni. This was the Peroni.
And for a second, I tried to talk myself out of it.
Like, “No, no… it can’t be. Maybe Shelley bought more?”
(We didn’t.)
So I pick it up.
It’s cold. Which somehow made it worse.
Like, it was trying to say, “I was loved once.”
I look inside—
and it’s almost full.
Almost.
Like, someone took one sip, thought “eh”, and then just… abandoned it.
Didn’t even set it somewhere respectful—like the counter or the sink.
Just left it on the ledge. A tombstone for manners.
I stood there in silence, just staring at it, like I’d stumbled onto a crime scene. Shelley walked in, saw my face, and just goes, “Oh no.”
She knew.
Now, I’m not saying I wouldn’t have shared it. I would’ve. Happily.
But that’s not what happened. This wasn’t sharing.
This was… betrayal.
And here’s the thing—I’ll never know who did it. And that’s worse.
Because it means every time I see one of those guests, I’m gonna think, “Was it you?”
A reverse Santa Claus situation.
And that, my friends…
is why people use ice chests.
