Hostess with the Mostess

With the long days and warm weather, our social calendar is in full swing these days. Which means that I'm getting the opportunity to do something I love: PLAY HOSTESS.

Really, I love to plan and throw parties (and dinners...and bridal/baby showers...and intimate get-togethers...and brunches...) the way other people love to stand by the buffet and chow down on free food. And our new house and - perhaps more importantly - our brand new dining room furniture are affording all sorts of fun chances for entertaining.

Last night, we broke in the new furniture. (Actually, Basil broke it in with some work buddies.) It was poker night at our house.

We added a leaf to the table, bought a new tablecloth to protect our fine wood from the elements and put together a spankin' card game buffet: Italian sausage and brats, sub rolls, sauteed peppers and onions, chips/ranch dip, pretzels/honey dip, roasted peanuts. (We also had plenty of beer, though - oddly enough - it didn't really get drunk.)

To toot my own horn a bit, I think Basil and I are generally pretty good cooks. However, I find that in hostessing, the food is only part of the game. A huge key to a successful party is making sure everything is set up well, that traffic can flow freely to food and booze and, in this case, around the game table. A little furniture movement can go a long way in good access to the action.

Also, guests should be able to put their plates and drinks together with ease. Last night, putting the buns in a bread basket saved everyone the trouble of reaching in the bag and fumbling around. Having a wooden tray to hold condiments and serving tongs gave people the opportunity to dress up their greasy sausages and brats without fear of getting gunk on our buffet. Having bottle openers handy and empty beer boxes for recycling placed next to the cooler meant that the transaction of trading an empty bottle for a new beer was a no-brainer.

But I think the biggest part of throwing a great soiree is making it all look effortless. I really hate going to someone's house and having the host or hostess running around like a chicken with its head off, frantically cooking or putting finishing touches on a buffet or scrambling to find serving pieces. I feel like I've arrived early, or my being there must be a burden.

(I once attended a bridal shower where the hostess spent the ENTIRE party in her apron, rushing into the kitchen between every gift to check somethingorother. It made me tense just being there; I felt so sorry for the guest of honor.)

Now I'm not saying that once our guests arrive, we never darken the door of the kitchen again. But there is a big difference in having a casual get-together in which you greet your guests and invite them into the kitchen to have a drink and chat while you finish up dinner versus being stressed out because what you planned to cook is taking way too long or turning out to be too complicated and you realize you don't have any clean serving spoons and OHSHIT the trash is overflowing.

I don't care whether I'm hosting a potluck BBQ or a slightly formal dinner party...early planning is the key to a good event.

So it's no surprise that my inner Martha Stewart is already in full swing for some sort of housewarming party with our friends (locals, be on the lookout for July/August) and a bridal shower brunch for my sister at the end of August.

Watching everyone mingle, eat, drink and generally have a good time without feeling that they're in my way or each other's way...well, it gives me a feeling of great satisfaction. I love knowing that my hard work has been the source of other people's enjoyment for a brief while, and I have contributed a happy memory ("Oh, that was a GREAT party!") to someone's life.

My friends teased me about the anal-retentive planning I did for my wedding, keeping track of everything in a giant 3-ring binder and making a 3-page timeline for the wedding day. But you know what? Basil and I have people tell us ALL THE TIME how great they thought our wedding was...the food, the music, the walking to the reception site. Everyone says how much fun they had that night, that they remember our wedding even four years later, when they have forgotten other weddings they have attended between then and now.

So I'll put up with the good-natured abuse about my Virgo nature as long as no one starts complaining about getting an invitation to one of my parties. Cause there's always one in the works!

Blah Goes Fear

I try to keep up with a number of blogs on a regular basis, most of which are listed on my blogroll. (Yknow, that thing over there on the sidebar. With links.) In perusing Elizabeth's latest entry, I was really struck by the survey being conducted by MIT and the question about how much posting is about "newsworthy items."

I've noticed that when people write about or evaluate The Blogosphere (like it is this plexiglass-sealed place in the Arizona desert with a variety of plantlife to sustain the humans who live there), they are almost always talking about content in terms of how it impacts news and current events, informs critical thinking and evaluates pop culture.

YAWN.

Big yawn. Bo-ring. I just can't get all fired up about who's saying what about President Bush's social security plan and which blogger is in the hotseat this morning because of a flaming post about Howard Dean. Debates about intelligent design don't get my blood pumping.

But I feel like somehow blogs that address those subjects are seen as more valuable or legitimate...a more important part of the blogosphere, if you will, than people who tell terrific stories or make funny observations or share their lives in a beautiful, touching, hysterical or thought-provoking way.

(Of course, those of us who mention our kids - occasionally or often - are lumped into the category of 'Mommy Blogs' and either addressed as an interesting social phenomenon or summarily dismissed.)

I can't help but wonder if I wouldn't get more readers or TrackBacks or comments or whatever if, every once and awhile, I wrote a thoughtful treatise on our nation's energy policy. Or a long, link-ridden post about childhood obesity. Maybe then I'd be part of the Serious Blogosphere, where people discuss Important Issues and have Debates. (They also link to each other back and forth, back and forth, if you haven't noticed.)

But I have had more than enough of being around people who take themselves too seriously, thankyouverymuch.

As a kid, I got good grades and did well on standardized tests. I wasn't a suck-up, but my teachers liked me nonetheless and encouraged my development in lots of areas. I competed a lot, in foreign language competitions, speech/drama tournaments, essay contests...blah di blah di blah. I won a lot of things, including a National Merit Scholarship, that attracted the attention of college honors programs. I ended up at Ohio University and its Honors Tutorial College.

Modeled after the Oxford tutorial model (as the school's literature likes to point out so often it makes my eyes bleed), HTC provides students in a variety of disciplines (science, liberal arts, communication, performing arts) the opportunity to craft a unique course of study that gives lots of flexibility in terms of degree requirements, one-on-one access to a number of top professors and the ability to take just about any course in any area.

Also, Ohio University is a monster fun party school in one of the most beautiful places on earth.

So, I had everything I wanted. It was a terrific three years (another part of the HTC program is that you can graduate in three years, no summer school, if you choose). I really felt like a learned a lot, that I had exposure to some terrific professors and challenging courses, and I didn't have to spend any time doing general education requirements or slogging through prerequisites to anything.

(HTCers get first shot at registering for classes, even above grad students, and all prereq's are waived.)

But man, were there some self-important assholes in the HTC program.

Don't get me wrong. They were smart. SMART smart. International award winners. Future gagillionaires. The thing was, they knew it. They loved to make clever references to history, science, philosophy, obscurity. They had shirts printed with 'Top Ten Things About Being in HTC' and basically all of them boiled down to being better than everyone else. And they could never get enough of themselves...of their thoughts, their writings, their opinions, their accomplishments.

And now it feels like they're running The Blogosphere, at least in terms of driving traffic through links and comments. It's like a big circle-jerk of smart people who know they're smart and know all the people they know are smart, and they all LOVE IT.

I'm not saying that thoughtful posts on politics or policy don't have a place online, but I hate it when people who are purportedly examining blogs or 'spreading the love' through links focus in on the smarmy, the intellectual, and the high-brow to the exclusion of the interesting, the colorful, and the personal.

To that end, I've decided renovate my blogroll soon...with an emphasis on great writing (on original topics) from interesting people. Suggestions are welcome.

Hairy Love

I feel like a rock star. Thank you, internet and real life friends, for your outpouring of support for my breasts. They feel much better about themselves, and when they're happy, I'm happy. But most of my contented self-assuredness tonight is because of my bod-rockin' hairdresser.

I just got possibly the best haircut of my life.

My lovely Greek stylist, whom I'll call Costas, has been with me as long as my husband has. (Literally, I saw Costas just a few weeks before my husband and I went on our first date.) He has done many amazing things for me over the years, taking me from almost black to basically blonde, dyeing my eyebrows when I ask him to, styling my hair for my wedding and helping me feel fresh and cute when I was a dumpy postpartum new mom.

But tonight, Costas outdid himself.

The back is shearred to my hair line, but the front is just past my chin. Everything slopes somewhat dramatically to the front, and everywhere are these gorgeous, wild layers that show off my fabulous color and give my 'do all this great texture. I feel summery and cute and young...ready for the beach, for sure.

As Costas was adding some styling paste for a finishing touch, he said - in his Greek accent - "I want this to be crazy...this is some crazy shit right here, and you look hot."

Now, I love this whole experience because while he's putting on the finishing touches, his wife (an ex-Southern belle who always offers me some of her fabulous cooking) is watching and smiling and telling me how cute I look, and there is a United States Senator cooling his heels in the living room upstairs.

See, I don't go to a salon to get my hair done. No, I go to this guy's house out in the Virginia 'burbs, where half the basement has been turned into a little hair studio, complete with two barbers chairs and a hair-washing sink. He's got a full-length mirror on one wall and a cabinet full of Biolage products on the other. There's a little table with magazines, and a small couch/chairs/coffee table setup nearby.

At the other end of the giant wood-paneled room? A fully stocked bar and pool table.

Costas used to cut hair in a regular salon, where he had a lot of bigwig clients like Senators and Congressman. But my problem with the bigwigs was that they always took precedence in Costas's busy schedule. I would often show up early for a first-thing-in-the-morning touchup, to have the receptionist tell me that Costas was with Congressman So-and-So who had just shown up.

That got old. So I broke up with my beloved Greek god, and tried out a neighborhood salon once or twice. But Costas missed me. And he called...twice. The first time he got my voicemail. Imagine a Greek voice cooing, 'Hello merseydotes. I miss you. I hope you come back. I love you, merseydotes.'

(The 'love' thing doesn't freak me out, because the guy still has a special grasp of the English language even after, like, four decades in the States. Also, he's married with two kids who are roughly my age and have kids of their own.)

The second time he got me on the phone and convinced me to come to the 'salon' in his house. He told me LOTS of his clients did it, because he could see them after hours and on weekends. So I gave it a try.

It turned out to be farther than I would have preferred to drive for a color and cut, but the price was amazing (everything is paid in cash, presumably unreported to dear Uncle Sam) and I ended up loving having my Costas all to myself.

Eventually, Costas retired from his professional salon and moved his most loyal clients (including a number of Members of Congress, though I swear you'd never believe they had their hair done by a L'Oreal genius if I pointed them out on C-SPAN) to the 'burbs with him.

Because of the one-on-one nature of getting a haircut in the basement of a Greek immigrant's home, I usually don't run into any other customers. But tonight, I was running a few minutes late, and an esteemed Senator was running a few minutes early. I was pretty antsy about getting out of the way, but Costas wouldn't hear of rushing my new cut.

"He is early. He can wait for beauty tonight."

And beauty it is. I feel like the hottest girl going right now, like I could toss my locks around in music video or get salesmen to give me expensive merchandise for free.

This is definitely some crazy shit right here, and I LOVE IT.

Boob Job

This morning, I am minding my own business in my office. A woman I work with comes by to give me an update on her daughter, who had breast reduction surgery on Thursday afternoon.

She had stopped by Thursday morning to tell me about the scheduled surgery, how amazing this doctor was, how he will get the whole thing paid for by insurance, how much shorter the recovery time is compared to a few years ago, etc. It felt like maybe she was recommending him to me unsolicited (????) but that seemed so random and inappropriate. This woman, whose daughter is not that much younger than me, has taken a bit of a shine to me, and I just figured that she was a little nervous about the surgery and wanted to chat it through with someone.

Well, this morning, after she finishes telling me how her daughter is healing beautifully and is back at work and practically ready to wear her new tank tops and bikinis, she leaves my office by saying, "So if you ever want his number, just let me know and I can put you in touch with him."

To say that I was flabbergasted would be putting it mildly.

I felt an embarassing flush creep up on me, like finding out that I've been walking around a party with toilet paper trailing my shoe. Am I really so out of proportion that an acquaintance from work feels the need to give me the name and number of a breast reduction surgeon?

In full disclosure, I am on the big side. Not just my breasts, but everywhere.

(I'll never forget in grad school, when one professor passed around his class roster for everyone to fill in their email addresses, and it was a copy that he had marked up with one-word descriptions of the students, presumably to help him remember names. Next to my name was the word "large," and everyone who signed the roster could see it. Thanks a lot, asshole!)

I'm 5'7" and at my thinnest, I'm a size 10. And that includes when I was in high school. I mean, I never, ever fit an 8. Most of my adult life I've been somewhere around a 12-14 (or - sadly - even larger, harkening back to my pushing-the-obesity-line days).

However, I am pretty much a perfect hourglass. Everytime I've ever had measurements taken, my bust is significantly larger than my waist but a couple inches small than my hips. 36-24-36 I'm not (sorry, Sir Mixelot), but I've got the curves working for sure.

And while I'm not in love with my body these days (as all readers here should know by now), I've been working out almost every morning lately and am happier with the way I'm looking. The poochy belly is getting flatter, and I think I'm getting a little leaner - even if the scale isn't moving the way I want it to move.

So after Ms. Inappropriate basically tells me that I need a reverse boob job, three thoughts rush through my head:

1. Why am I even bothering? Fuck it. Why not just get really fat, get really big boobs and quit killing myself to look better? Cause clearly, I don't look that great right now.
2. I need to do more. Work out twice a day, eat less, do more toning. Really step it up so that I will see some results and quit looking like an idiot.
3. I should crawl inside a muumuu and hide my body from the world.

Now, those thoughts run through my head in varying levels of frequency and intensity without having people nudge them along. I realize that my body is not society's ideal. I have enough skinny friends around me to see all the flabby, fleshy places where I fall short (you know who you are, with your size 6 asses). I have tried to shop at fancy stores, only to be just a little too big to fit into the haute couture.

I GET IT. I'M A LITTLE FAT.

And I realize that fat spills over into my bra cups. Yes, when I was 10-12 pounds lighter and more toned up, I was one full cup size smaller than I am these days. Right now, I've got a lot of mammary gland in action. But is it so awful that you need to get in my face about having a reduction surgery?

As you can tell, I'm pretty cheesed off by the whole experience. After my mind raced through the three thoughts above, I think I settled on, "Fuck you, lady. God gave me big boobs, and he failed to give you a filter for offensive, tactless or inappropriate thoughts. Them's the breaks."

But even though she mentally got the bird from me, this coworker succesfully chipped away at my self-esteem and made me (more?) self-conscious about the way I look. Now, whenever I'm in a meeting with her, I'm going to wonder if my blouse is puckering or if I'm showing too much cleavage or if my sweater is too tight.

So thanks a lot, bitch. Hope your daughter enjoys her new bikini; I'll muddle through in my tank suit with what God gave me. If it pains you to see me in it, just do me a favor and don't tell me.

Growing

I've decided that I'm going to learn about gardening. I'm kind of intimidated at the idea of going outside and just ripping things up and planting new things, so I'm going to learn first.

But then, then...I'm going to actually garden.

See, our new house has this great patio out back, a mix of wood decking and slate, with wooden stairs that go up to a smaller deck off the kitchen. In the two corners opposite the stairwell, there are two small planting beds. One is really nice...there's a little dogwood tree that was blooming when we settled on the house and an azalea bush that started flowering not longer after we moved in. There also seem to be some other plants that are thriving and one that's getting ready to flower. It looks really pretty against the back gate, and it's pretty weed-free and well-kept.

But the other bed...it's a mess. As best as I can tell, it was an herb garden one year, during which everything failed but the mint. Which is slowly taking over the whole area. It's kind of nice to be able to go outside and snap off some fresh spearmint for cooking (and I keep imaging how refreshing it will be to have a mint julep in hand all summer), but really the whole patch of dirt is pretty aimless. There are some flowers blooming now that look a little like daffodils (but isn't it too late???), and there are some other things that appeared to have died.

It's crying out to me for help and guidance.

Perhaps because it seems to fit in so well with my new deliberate tranquility, gardening is calling me. To develop a plan for our patio, which has sooooo much potential. To sink my hands into earth and get a little more connected with my new environment. To create a lovely, peaceful slice of nature at my doorstep.

Our next door neighbor has turned her back patio into this amazing little paradise. She has a trellis and a swing and candles, and everything is sort of wild and lush. And koi. (Did I mention the koi pond?) It's pretty calm back there.

I'm not sure that's the look for us; I think I want something that's better for entertaining. But I want color, texture, good karma.

Peonies are definitely on the list for next year.

I figure I have a few months to read up and ask around, and this fall will be prime time to gut the old bed and plant for spring. Next spring, I'll hopefully buy some planters for the decking, and maybe think about a potted herb garden. (Perhaps I'll keep a cutting of the mint to start the ball rolling.)

Next year, I plan to be sipping those mint juleps outside amidst the fruits of my labors...in an amazing little paradise of my own.

Saintly Works

Since it is Wednesday and no one else has talked about it...My friends and I had a rousing good dinner conversation at a wedding reception this weekend. The question posed was, if we were all to miraculously shed our sordid pasts and move up the canonization channels, of what would we be named the patron saints?

Some friends were given more than one area of life to safeguard. After all, if someone as obscure as St. Giles can be the patron saint of as many varied causes as blacksmiths, breast cancer...Edinburgh (Scotland), epilepsy...hermits, horses, insanity...spur makers, sterility and woods (just to name a few and notice that Buffy the Vampire Slayer is not on the list!?!) then we figured that some of us could have a few titles of patronage after our names.

I was on my second or third gin and tonic by then, so I don't remember everyone's exact designations, but here is a sampling:

• Patron saint of irregularity and great hair
• Patron saint of hyperbole and unnecessary crotch shots
• Patron saint of puffy pastry, Ann Taylor, advance planning and always having the right outfit
• Patron saint of always getting what she wanted
• Patron saint of absolutes and Yuengling Lager
• Patron saint of leather pants and grilling

There were also those among us whom we deemed would show special favor to everyone associated with the Library of Congress organizational system, hangovers, and obscure pop culture references.

Aside from making for terrificly fun dinner conversation, it was a really interesting exercise. What about you stands out to the people around you? What topic makes them think of you? What rings true? What is constant?

We were, of course, pretty nice about the whole thing. No one was like, "Hey, you're the patron saint of being an asshole when you're drunk!" or "Ooooohhh...you are totally the patron saint of flat-chested women" or "You definitely would be the patron saint of boring people to tears." It was a generally flattering dose of reality.

Now all I need to do is figure out how to earn that halo...

(And, no, I'm not telling what I will be patronizing in the afterlife. Let's just say I was flattered by my designation.)

The Dawning

For the past several mornings, I've been dragging myself out of bed at 6:20 to work out (and combat the Goldfish crackers, M&Ms and wine). Mostly, I've been taking nice brisk walks around the neighborhood, taking advantage of our new hilly environs and wide sidewalks.

The world is a different place at 6:30. There's not a lot of activity in suburbia at that hour, and I generally see three types of people out and about:

1. Dog-walkers
2. Working-class people getting into cars or walking to the bus stop, usually in uniforms (there is some Section 8 housing mixed into our development, which is part of my route)
3. White-collar professionals pulling out of their driveways in Corvettes, Audis, Mercedes, BMWs, etc

The dog-walkers aside (let's face it...they're up to take care of another living thing's biological needs), I've decided that successful people are early risers.

People who get up and go to work before 7:00 either seem to be people who are pulling themselves up by their bootstraps - come hell or high-water (to quote my mother) - or people who have achieved financial success and stability - judging by their homes and cars anyway - by putting in long hours.

The 'long hours' debate is brewing on one of my working mom listserv's right now. Do you have to put in long hours and sacrifice some of your personal time (and presumably time with your family) to get ahead in life?

If the folks on my walking loop could answer, my guess is they would say, 'YES.'

There was an interesting article in the Washington Post this week about the federally funded voucher program currently underway in the District. I'm not sure how I feel about vouchers, but I felt nothing but awe for the young single mother profiled in the story who got up at the crack of dawn to Metro and then bus her kids to a good private school far away from her home. It was a hard routine, for sure, but she said she didn't care what it took for her kids to get the best education.

That woman is DEFINITELY up and out at 6:30.

I'm not saying that you can't be happy or be financially stable without putting in a long day, whether that be chained to a PC or commuting 90 minutes each way via public transportation, but it seems like the people who are bound and determined to change their life situations for the better have accepted early mornings and long days as part of the equation.

I wonder what I would learn if I started getting up before 6:00!