Ms. Poshlust has a Party

I'm a bit of a perfectionist. So when we decided to have our friends over for dinner on Friday night, I started cleaning the house on Tuesday. My poor B. couldn't walk on his own kitchen floor. But, I have to admit, our apartment was beautiful, the flowers (thanks to Artworks and the lovely Stephanie) were perfect, the candles were lit, the artfully mismatched settings and flatware just so, the musicmatch set to an ideal playlist and volume.

Ah. The best laid plans.

We never checked the propane for the barbeque. That is, as far as we can see, our first mistake. The second was supposing that our somewhat decrepit and extremely ancient barbeque would have made it intact through another summer. Oh fate, how I cried. Looking somewhat lost in my own very smoky kitchen, entertaining a surprise 4 year old girl with various tubes of sparkles and the select few pencil crayons I had, peering through the smoke of my broiler ruining my meat.. I think I smelled a little fire and brimstone of my own personal hell.

I don't know if any of you have 4 year old children, nieces, nephews. But who knew that pork sate and garlic green beans weren't a hit without ketchup and being chopped into minute pieces. I do now. And hell, if we don't eat until 8, who'd think it would be a bad idea to stuff the kid with a few banana's and wheat free crackers. Sometimes I wonder how I'll ever mother a child.

Believe it or not, we made it through dinner with the help of two and a half bottles of wine, one Mike's Hard limonade and the extreme grace and beautiful smiles of our very hungry guests. Desert was lovely, not even leaving the cake in the car for an hour could ruin it. My wonderful fantastic mother is an ideal host. No problem too big, no food too burnt to save, so request to big to acquiesce to...All the while looking stunning, wowing all the men and winning all the women. I remember sitting at the top of the stairs when I was little, listening to the laughter, the food smells, the whispers of jokes and gossip, the clink of wine glasses, thinking of when I would be able to do this.

At the beginning of the evening, sashaying through downtown, cake box and flowers in hand, I wondered how come I didn't do this more often, the taste of success and crinkle of thank you notes racing through my head.. At the end of the night I realised that while perhaps I had inherited only the ability to set a beautiful table and win all the men, next time I would hire a bartender and cater the food.

And leave all the children in the car.