We threw our first honest-to-God actual dinner party in the new house this weekend -- a party where we invited multiple people whom we are not related to, where we cooked multiple courses and I was in the basement frantically ironing dinner napkins as our first guests arrived because heavens! To Betsy, even! WRINKLED DINNER NAPKINS = FAILURE AT ADULTHOOD.
And here is some more math for you:
Seven adults - not enough chairs + three designated drivers x one pregnant woman + two toddler moms who drank all the wine and would not stop talking about birth and labor and mucus plugs + two toddlers + one tumble off the back deck and another damn bloody mouth in front of the SAME PEOPLE who saw the LAST bloody mouth and who now think parenthood is pretty much one bloody mouth after another. And also mucus plugs, which the poor pregnant woman never even heard of until last night but now knows everything you could possibly know about mucus plugs, including the size, color and consistency = ONE FREAKING AWESOME DINNER PARTY.
(Seriously, that equation totally adds up right. Just carry the one.)
He will hike up his shorts leg to show you his "abooboo" on his knee, which he got last week and is REALLY IMPRESSED WITH. The new one on his mouth? Eh. He's seen worse, you big pussy.
Getting ready for this dinner party was an experiment in terror for Jason and me, since we've been living in our new house for almost six months now, but until yesterday the place looked like we'd just moved in last weekend.
We're about to replace all the windows and...da dada DAAA!...put hardwoods down in the whole entire damn house, but these are projects we've been "about to do" for many months now, and I put a lot of other projects on hold until "after the floors are done."
Some of these projects included:
1) Assembling office furniture
2) Hanging things on walls
3) Cleaning anything, ever
I tried to talk myself into the Pergo, y'all. I TRIED SO HARD TO LOVE IT. And I tried to be okay with the old grody carpet and our plan to not replace anything until we were done with toddlerhood once and for all, but then the DC-area humidity hit, and oh my fucking lands, every latent smell and stain in that old grody carpet came to the surface and OUR HOUSE SMELLED LIKE MILDEW AND PEE.
We now have one of these things puffing away in every room right now, like it's a public bathroom or something, although that's exactly what Ceiba thinks several rooms are, apparently. And Max decided that he likes to poop in this one corner of the basement rec room, even though his litter box is in the other corner.
I'm seriously about to ship these pets to China. In a box labeled "wheat gluten."
Anyway. What was I talking about? Oh, the dinner party. And all my efforts to mask and disguise the carpet pee smell for my guests, which I have probably rendered null and void by telling the Internet about the carpet pee smell the very next day.
We made deep-fried risotto balls, fava bean crostini, figs stuffed with marscapone cheese and Greek yogurt and brined chicken. And by "we" I mean "Jason," except that I shelled and peeled fava beans for HOURS AND HOURS on Saturday and I also made some awesome herbed potatoes. Which we didn't serve because I forgot to ever cook them.
I am awesome. However, my dinner napkins were flawlessly ironed. They still are, actually, since I made everybody use paper ones.
But look! I assembled my office furniture! I have an office! Where I do a lot of very important professional writer-type things!
(Think anybody noticed there isn't a chair?)
Where I actually do all my work, since it's closer to the kitchen, the TV and my US Weekly.
Tire: NOT INVITED TO PARTY.
See? I told you the party totally ruled.