Sunday afternoon.

I’m throwing a party in 20 minutes.

If I were my Mom, I’d be re-evaluating whether I ordered enough ham and worrying about where people would park their cars. But instead, I’m sitting at the computer blogging while worrying about where people are going to park (there are some huge melting puddles out there) and evaluating if I bought enough cake. See? We’re totally different.

The party is for a friend. I really didn’t have the energy to throw a big party, some big thing, but my friend Snake deserved one.

Over the past few years, he’s been on a powerful life journey and recently came back to a familiar and new place. I know, I know, I’m being vague but he should get his own damn blog if he wants to tell his story. Point is:  a powerful, golden man, has come back to some beautiful home within himself and deserves recognition for looking hard at himself, the world, and turning himself into a man who is a necessary part of our evolving future.

Since I didn’t have the energy or resources for a big bash, I called him the other day and said, “Hey look. How about I throw you a cake party, say, 1-3 p.m. on Sunday?”

“Yeah.” he said. “That’s nice. Thanks.”

“I’ll send out some emails.” I replied.

“Cool.” he said.

“Great. See you then.”

There. Party planned.

Some days, it’s awesome to be a man.

I sent invites to a bunch of guys I knew, men who love and respect Snake, and appreciate how he lives in the world. I told them to invite anyone who you think might want to come. Anyone.

Did I get enough cake? I should call Mom. She’ll know.

The thing is, I also consider it a party for me as well.

I got my taxes done yesterday by my guy, Tom. Tom has been my tax guy for an uncountable number of years now, except that Tom counts the years and always reminds me in his round, jovial voice. His voice really is round and jovial and he explains all the electronic forms, his own running commentary, while I nod nervously in his home office, awaiting my tax fate.

There are pictures of kittens on the walls, inspirational posters, piles and piles of books and papers, none of which are tax-related. No tax records sitting about. Those are filed and locked. He doesn’t mess around.

He had some news for me yesterday towards the end of our annual sociable.

“You owe the federal government roughly $10,050 dollars, which includes fees.”

“YES!” I shouted, arm automatically clenched in victory and pumping the air above my head.

Tom was confused.

The fact is, 2008 was an odd employment year. I waited the whole year for a job that turned out to be, oh, not what it seemed. I had no authority to influence events, no ability to be more than an Idea Bitch and that was made clear to me. And you know, I’m good at being Idea Bitch. I did that for 17 years as a consultant. But I thought this job opportunity was for something more, so I left with disappointment.

I didn’t pay my federal taxes for most of the year as my earnings were a little slim; I held odd contractor jobs and wrote fiction furiously. The joy of the writing overshadowed those nasty longer-term thoughts like taxes, health insurance, etc. Saturday, I was expecting this horrible tax outcome where I would feel obliged to burst into tears, pleading, “But I don’t have that kind of money!”

I steeled myself for drama.

Wait - perfect timing. It’s 1:00 and the doorbell rang. Cake party. Gotta go.

Okay. I’m back.

Hours and hours passed in the time it took you to leave that last sentence and get here.

So anyway, where was I?

It really is taxing being a man sometimes. Not to complain, because, hey, thanks for the penis and stuff, but I know I have being-a-man issues just because of my gender. I feel an odd extra weight around taxes, car ownership, storm windows, and dripping sinks. I am a decent cook, but I barely fret over my cooking skills the way I have upbraided myself for not knowing enough about the engine of my car. There is definitely man shit that crops up every now and then.

Some of it is not small.

“Only as a warrior can one survive the path of knowledge,” Carlos Castenados said. “Because the art of a warrior is to balance the terror of being a man with the wonder of being a man.”

Recently I complained to a friend my fears around money, and living within a very limited means. I think of myself as Mr. Middle Class Employment. I explained how I am not built for this kind of existential stress.

“Well, that’s one way to look at it.” said Stephen. “Another way to look might look at your financial situation is that you’re living your dream. You’re writing. You produced a novel you love. You’re right now living the life you wanted.”

Holy shit! He was right!

I just didn’t like the price tag. Shadow is that which we deny, hide or resist. I’ve been doing all three. And some of that shadow is just generic man shit.

It’s great to have men friends, guys who can cut through the crap. And maybe any best friend can just nail it like that. My friend Ann nails me all the time. So it’s not that a dick is required to be an amazing friend, but some of the bumps in me are crooked man-shaped nails. And only another loving man with his man-hammer… okay. Forget that.

Time for a new metaphor.

I think my point is, hearing this casual flip from a steely friend made me realize that, I am in fact, living a dream right now. Holy shit. Didn’t see that.

In short, good news:  my taxes were less horrible than I thought they would be.

While I bounced around excitedly about writing the largest check I’ll never see again, Tom my Tax Guy sobered me up.

He told a sad story about breaking news to a young married couple. Tom knew enough from their tax records to see they had been swindled and would now pay for it, financially at least. They looked at him eagerly, expecting a large refund. They had been promised that by the man who swindled them.

Their grief, especially hers, was so heavy that Tom almost quit that day, as soon as they left him. At the time, he worked for that one big tax company, and he told his manager, “I’m done for the day. I’m leaving. I don’t know if I’m coming back.”

I love thinking my tax guy gets upset delivering bad news.

That he almost quit his career, years ago, because he did not think he could bear the grief that sometimes comes being the bearer of such upsetting tidings. Every time he does a tax return, it could go either way:  good news. Bad news. One day long ago he struggled with questions like, ‘Can I handle this burden? Am I strong enough?’

Retelling the sad stories, and celebrating the homecoming are ways to balance that wonder/terror thing.

At the cake party a few hours ago, after a polite 15 minutes of chatting, Stephen suggested, “C’mon. Cut the damn cake.”

Without song or preface, speeches or ritual, we chopped out a few squares and devoured them right away.

The men who showed up (and Snake’s hilarious daughter) laughed and told stories. We teased each other in hard ways, told sex jokes, and recounted some of our crazy adventures doing mens’ work. Anna had plenty to contribute and she gives as good as she gets. We told some sad stories, too. They are also part of the wonder.

And right now, there’s a row of chocolate cake waiting for me on the dining room table.

It was a good weekend.

Congratulationsssssssssss, Snake.