The holiday party invitations are starting to arrive.
Don’t get me wrong. I love to be invited and included. I just don’t really want to attend.
See, the thing is you’re going to want me to participate and I just don’t feel like it.
I remember this one party where the hostess thought it would be super fun to go into the kitchen and make our own individual pizzas for dinner. We could select our toppings… slice and dice and chop and then put them in the oven. So, this would be like every other night of my life when I have to make my own dinner? This sounded like zero on the fun scale and it was.
Gosh, I sure love a potluck... Not! This again will require me to make something. That means shopping for fresh ingredients because I don’t think the moldy cheese and limp veggies in my fridge are going to cut it. So, drag out the cookbooks and attempt a casserole. You have to do it twice. Once for the rehearsal where you test it out on yourself and the family pet before you spring it on unsuspecting strangers. Don’t tell me you don’t do this because we all know there is the burnt version and the edible version of each dish.
Plus, you better know the ingredients. “Is this gluten free?” “How many carbs?” “Did this come in to contact with any nuts? (Well, not until you touched it, lady). I do not know any of these answers, but I’m pretty sure you’ll find a cat hair or two.
Not only is the cooking a pain, but you have to buy a decent bowl. (something like looks like it was handpainted in Italy). Yes, because they judge you by your dishes. At the end of the night, they always hold up the serving dish and yell out in a certain tone...
“Whose is this?” Trust me, you don’t want to be the one who brought the overused plastic container with the ill- fitting lid.
Potlucks also tend to be buffet style. So, you load up a plate (well, I do but, the gluten and carb lady don’t) and you balance a limp, slightly soggy plate on your knee while trying to juggle plastic knives and a teacup. If you have a v-neck top and ample room, this is a good location for a couple of buns. I also keep a salt shaker down there in the case of bland food. Thank goodness for long sleeves as I have inevitably dropped my napkin and can’t bend down to reach it.
(Insert hours of lame small talk and fake chuckles here while everyone gushes about the delightful recipes and how it is so utterly amazing how a potluck always works out so perfectly)
“Yup, sure is a festive miracle!” I reply sarcastically.
Let’s be honest. There are party-throwers and those who endure parties. The control freak, organized party-throwers should stick together. They could be happy together. However, life dictates they must be liberally sprinkled in with the party-poopers among us.
Here’s the thing. You’ll never know I hate the party. You will think I adore it. I will dress up and wear jingly bell earrings and show up early with my nice red painted bowl of whatever it is I concocted and I will participate and laugh and you’ll think I never want it to end. This is called being a good guest! I really hope YOU have a great time. I do!
But truth be told—I can’t wait to get home, turn on the tv, put my feet up on the couch and take my bra off.
“Hey, bonus–found an extra bun and some salt for my margarita!!!!” Now, we got a party!
