Party Pooper

I'm not good at hosting parties. Some people are. I can plan the party, but I'm kind of dreading it the whole time. I can make the food, clean the house. I have a husband who works hard to trim the yard and hang plants. He sets up tables and canopies. Still, I have this feeling of dread within. The whole time, I can't wait for it to be finished.

Here's one of the canopies set up before the party

If I'm having a small party with friends, I enjoy it while they are here, but I still dread it ahead of time. For a big party, like the graduation one, I don't even enjoy it in the middle. There's always ice to get from the freezer, coolers to restock, pasta salad to fill from the bowl in the refrigerator, sangria to pour in the bowl from the refrigerator. I try to greet everyone but feel like I have no quality time for anyone. All of those things make me a bad hostess.
We held Spencer's graduation party with two other families. One of the families has twin boys, so we had a total of four graduates. We estimated 130 people might come. I think we had more than that.
The day was incredibly hot -- in the 90s. Although we took no pictures of the graduates or their friends during the party, for some reason, we got a shot of the window thermometer to remember how hot it was.
Before the party, the house was a chilly 72. Once people started coming in and out of the doors, and the house filled up with people, the air conditioner worked non-stop but couldn't cool things off.
Outdoors, we had canopies and fans that mist along with a spritzer to stand in. We blocked off the alley behind our house and had beanbag games, along with hula hoops and sidewalk chalk. I never even made it out to the alley.
One of the dads is a chef. He cooked chicken wings in a deep fryer outside, along with grilling burgers and hot dogs.
I hugged people who I didn't know and welcomed people who wouldn't have spoken to me in public.
At one point, the house was so crowded with high school students that a boy standing by the back door lamented, "I have to get all the way to the front door to leave." It probably took him a good 10 minutes to get through the crowd, and our house is small.
It was only later, as I was sitting in the living room with my brother, sister-in-law, niece, and my daughter Grace that  I realized, I didn't take a single picture during the party. I can't believe it!
I did get a shot of the four graduates before the party started. Here they are.

Hayden and Spencer, the two on the left, are best friends. Jacob and Tyler, the two on the right, are best friends. Hayden and Tyler are twins. Thus, four grads, one small house and a crowded party.

Spray Cheese? Anyone?

My running friends are egging me on to continue rembrances from my past life. I want to tell the story of the Argentian sailor I met at the Louvre, but first I need to get some photos scanned into the computer. Instead, I'm going to tell a story about my halcyon days as a young reporter when I shared an apartment with my friend Pat, who masquerades as Suburban Kamikaze now.
Pat grew up in a Greek area of Florida, so her idea of hosting a party leaned in a different direction from my own Midwestern roots. I thought people should be fed, offered drinks and made to feel comfortable. She thought the guests should feel envy and admiration when they arrived.
This is what led to an interesting trip to the grocery store where we argued whether we should buy the spray cheese. I knew for a fact that spray cheese is always a hit at parties. She argued that it was too Midwestern and akin to our parents' cheese balls. I prevailed on the spray cheese, but she made a stand herself as we wandered through the alcohol store. She found a thin white box wrapped in cellophane that held small chocolate liqueur cups.
"These would be perfect," she murmured. I could see in her mind that she pictured the crowd of reporters sipping Bailey's Irish Cream from their chocolate liqueur cups before nibbling on the liquor-infused cups.

Here's a photo of five of us who were in attendance at the party and had a little reunion two years ago in Chicago. I'm sitting between Pat's husband Dave and our friend Steve. Pat is wrestling with my husband. Not a liqueur cup in sight.

Now, I know it wasn't a competition as to who performed better as host, but history can attest that the crowd preferred the spray cheese to the chocolate liqueur cups.
How can I be sure?
I stood by and watched the reporters grasp a shot glass filled with tequila spread a string of cheese along the area between their thumb and forefinger. They downed the tequila and licked the cheese into their mouths as a chaser. The spray cheese ran out before the tequila did.
As for the chocolate liqueur cups, unfortunately, they hadn't been big sellers in the liquor store. This cellophane-wrapped box of edible liqueur cups must have been on the shelf for quite awhile because they tasted like rubber. Our guests agreed.
How can I be sure?
We found the cups hidden in our plants afterward by guests too polite to throw them away in front of hostess Pat. Instead they stashed them in the ficus pot and the green corn plant. As we cleaned up the next day, the number of cups seemed to flourish. Could it be possible that we found more cups than were actually in the package?
The party was further Midwesternized by a friend who threw glitter as he greeted people and later gathered friends around to tell the story of the Yule Log. But, that's a story for another time when I need to perturb Pat.