but then, who is?
5.3 miles. And they went really, really well, too--so much so that when Darin asked, sleepily, "How was your run?" I answered all-too-exuberantly, "Great!" Makes me wish I'd had my heart rate monitor on.
Yesterday: nothing.
I've always wanted to be a hostess. The kind of effortless partygiver who has the food and decorations arranged with such a perfect touch that guests approvingly say Just so. One who effervescently mixes guests with varying personalities together in a knowing manner. A convivial entertainer who carries everything off with casual panache.
This is a weird ambition for someone who, by all accounts, hates parties.
I try to make things easier on myself by putting all my parties together in one week. Sunday night, it was the Oscars; this afternoon it was Mary's baby shower.
Having a party every so often is good for me. For us, actually. Tidying up for the Oscars forced us to go through the scarily large piles of Entertainment Weekly and Vanity Fair magazines and Company Store catalogues that had piled up on side tables and in front the fireplace. To get all of our financial files off of the dining room table, where they'd nested for--dare I admit this?--months.
Knowing that I'm responsible for hosting a party also throws me into a dither the likes of which you wouldn't believe (unless you know me really well--or, in fact, at all).
And it's Mary's baby shower, so it has to go perfectly! Okay, it's like the fourteenth baby shower she's had, but this is the one I organized.
It must have gone okay: it started at 11, and the guests left at 5. Nearly all the food got eaten. Everyone seemed to enjoy themselves. (Darin fled early, even though guys attended.)
Of course, all I can think about are the ways I fucked it up, but I'm trying to accentuate the positive.
I made a spread of bagels, cream cheese, lox cream cheese spread, sliced lox, tomato slices, and onion slices. Tamar showed up with a bag of the most delicious homemade scones in the world (which I did not manage to keep everyone else away from) and clotted cream, which very quickly disappeared in conjunction with the scones. When everyone was fully disgusted with themselves, I brought out the Ben and Jerry's ice cream cake and make everyone have some.
(It's kind of a wonder, now that I think about it, that I am not the size of a house. I am clearly determined to make everyone else the size of a duplex, at least.)
Joan and her writing partner Mike, Tamar, Daniel, Damian, Max, Terri, and Mike C. all came to the party--in addition to Mary and me, of course. Not a bad turnout. If you'd like to see some pix of the party, click on Mary's smiling face. (Warning: make take some time to load.)
(I will stop focusing on the fact that Terri came at 2, because my original suggestion had been to have it at 2 and then I moved it to 11 and didn't make the time change that clear. I will also gloss over the 3 or so others who said they were coming and didn't. And I didn't plan any shower games--I'm a free-form hostess, as I told them. And I didn't have a present ready for Mary. And...)
We talked a lot about babies--most of the stories had me vowing to get my tubes tied post-haste. Our other favorite topic of discussion was screenwriting and the Biz, of course (we're all screenwriters--I'm surprised someone didn't get Mary a subscription to Scenario...ooo, there's an idea).
Mostly we sat around and talked. I'm very glad Darin and I bought the furniture we did for the living room--most of the attendees could sit on comfy cushions. Except for Tamar and Daniel, who sat on the floor most of the time to keep Damian from his own worst impulses, such as bashing his head against our coffee table--I insisted that if Damian turns to juvenile delinquency later in life, it's not because of our table doing injury to his brain.
Several days ago, Joan had suggested that one fun thing we might do is read a Frasier spec she and her writing partner wrote that focuses on a baby shower, but we never got around to it. Like I said, I'm pretty free-form: everyone seemed enjoy talking, so, dammit, let 'em talk.
Mary looks pregnant. But she doesn't look terribly pregnant. Of course, she's tall, dammit.
She has two weeks to go. She said she's not even anxious for it to be over yet--she's still enjoying it. Of course, she can't put on her own socks and shoes anymore, but she's enjoying being pregnant.
My parents never gave parties. I think they did, when I was little. But not as I was growing up. And I don't remember them going to many. I see how Darin's family is--it's March 27th, you say? let's have a party!--and I understand why he's far more at ease with strangers or in party situations than I am. It's training, I guess.
One of my worst memories is from when I was 9 years old, and I was at new school: the Renbrook School in West Hartford. I wanted to make new friends. I had a party for Halloween. As I recall, 4 or 5 girls came.
They had to go later on. Had another party to go to.
I think this is my biggest fear. That everyone has another party to go to.
I wonder what the appeal of hosting parties is. The desire to organize salons. Which I'd love to do, but it seems so hard. And so unnatural. Of course, nearly everything about me is unnatural, so I'm not sure why that would stop me.
I confessed to Darin (recently? weeks ago? I have no idea) that I've been coveting the Palm Pilot. I've been doing the Personal Organizer/DayTimer thing to keep me organized and it's been great, but so often I haven't lugged it with me and I've found later that I did need it.
So yesterday he bought me one and helped me hook it up and get it started. He had a great deal of fun with it. More than I did, actually.
24 hours later, I'm now a Palm Pilot junkie. What software should I get? How do I delete this record? Should I get a new handbag to make sure it fits properly?
After the party this afternoon Mary, Mike C., and I were total geeks, exchanging cell phone numbers. "What's my cell phone number? I think this is it. Mike, call me." I enjoyed great geekdom by entering the cell phone numbers into my Pilot. Mary and Mike oohed appropriately.
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Copyright 1999 Diane Patterson
Send comments and questions to diane@spies.com