At my core, I’m a party girl.
I’ve declined dozens of invitations in the last many months, and I had put my hostessing skills on the shelf for a while. But in my heart, I love a party.
(I discovered many months ago that this was yet another – small but important – piece of my brokenness over Robb’s death: he was partying without me.)
I love the conversation, the energy, the music, the hospitality of it all. If I’m hosting a party, there will undoubtedly be too much food. That’s intentional, and the reason behind it is this: if there’s only one dinner roll left, then you might feel hesitant to take it. And on a grander scale, more importantly, you might feel like an unwelcome afterthought, like I didn’t plan for you when I invited all these people. And I simply won’t have that. So, I’ll freeze or share the leftovers. But, by george, there will be food.
I’m not so much all about the details. I give them a passing glance, I choose the most important ones, but mostly I recognize that the heart of the party lives with the guest list. So I believe in my heart that the rest of it will come together. It just always does, I tell myself, with that incurable optimism and grandiose mental picture.
I kind of thought Robb was being dramatic, Type A, and excessively introverted when he would act like he was so undone by my party planning. But in retrospect, the problem may not have been entirely his.
On Wednesday night, as the Tuesdays gathered around my dining table, they said, “So, T, what’s left to do for this party on Friday night?”
Together, we were having a party called ‘A Book Is Born,’ hosted by Tricia and the Tuesdays.
“Well, I was thinking we should make a list.”
“A list of what’s left to do?”
“No, a list of action items to plan this party.”
“Tricia. Are you kidding? This party is in two days… we’re talking T-52 hours. Are you saying not much is done?”
“Well, I ordered bookmarks as party favors.”
I added a cute smile that said, please still love me.
One of them said, “My name is listed on the team of hostesses. This party has to be good.”
One of them said, “I’m in task mode. Not stressed and snippy mode. There’s a difference.”
One of them said, “Could we not do it this way, next time?”
All of them said, “Let’s do this thing.”
Out came the lists, pens, and flurry of activities, ideas, assignments, and tasks. And let me tell you, those girls whipped together a magical party with paper lanterns, white lights, a veritable feast of appetizers, a million cupcakes, and a joyful, giving spirit.
All in 52 hours or less.
(This party planning team is currently not for hire. I have them retained for my last minute needs.)