Parties in Las Vegas are a scary occasion, right up there with the 2000 and 2004 elections. When I get an invite, particularly from someone I don’t know well, or someone under the age of 40, I often find myself making excuses. “I have friends in town,” was a once oft-used excuse until hosts started saying, “oh hell, bring them. We have plenty of Cheez Whiz for everyone.”
I grew up in the South, the place the rest of the world thinks as white trashy and redneck, and granted, there is a lot of that. But one thing any Southerner knows how to do well is throw a simple party. Southerners are friendly people by nature, and they like to please. I don’t know why we are that way, but in an area where racism is more in your face, the need to please divides racial lines and results in one of life’s most coveted talents: the ability to throw a damn good hootenanny.
Even if the alcohol is bad, the food simple and the conversation focused on Church and George W. Bush (damn those Southerners for help electing him twice), any Southerner knows that the moment your guests walk through the door, you have food waiting and you shove a drink in their hand. There’s music playing in the background and the lighting is not too bright as you don’t want your aging female guests to feel like they need to cower in a corner hiding their crow’s feet (okay, that’s just me, probably).
I have been to three parties in a row in Vegas in the last month. At the first party, I waited a half hour before I was offered a drink, and then it was a Coke – not even diet, mind you – or Fetzer wine ($6 at the grocery store). I may be Southern, but everyone knows I lived in San Francisco for 20 years. For God’s sakes, I have standards when it comes to wine.
There was nothing to munch on while we waited for dinner, which consisted of ribs, rice, corn and potato salad. So no care was given to the beauty of the meal (all yellow and white, unless you count the bloody ribs I didn’t eat) much less the variety, all starch. There were kids running around screaming, and no nice background music -- just some annoying DVD playing for the toddlers. I left as quickly as I could.
The next weekend, at another party, there was music and thankfully, no kids. There was a bar set up and food laid out. However, the only thing the host served was red wine. I poured myself a glass (the hostess had directed me to the bar) and after taking a few sips, I set it down on what I took to be a secure surface, but it wasn’t. The wine tipped over and spilled all over the white carpet. I immediately started apologizing and trying to sop up the stain with a napkin. The hostess ignored my apology and laughed only when another guest suggested that she serve her guests wine in a sippy cup. She then implored the other guests to go outside while me and her husband were left to tend to the mess I had made. Granted, I was not going to leave the mess, but those were her words about me, “the mess she made.”
He had a steam cleaner and the stain came right up.
Last weekend there was a good party with good food and good wine, however the lighting was bad and everyone was asked to take their shoes off. The host allowed the guests to huddle off in their clicks, rather than encouraging mingling. A good Southern hosts will drag you by the hand if she has to and get you involved in a conversation with a stranger by starting off with an funny story to break the ice: “Hank here once got so drunk that he didn’t realize he had parked on the train tracks. A train came along and when Hank woke up, he was ICU! He didn’t know how the hell he got there! Isn’t that funny?”
So last night, it was my turn. I threw a party. I deliberated over the menu and the guests list. It had to be people who would get along if brought together, or if clashed, would clash in interesting friendly ways, sort of the opposites attract theory. I fretted over the musical selection and lost sleep trying to come up with one perfect drink that would do well in 107 degree weather (at night) as well as compliment the food.
I invited my friends over. The lighting was good. The food was good. The music was good. The mojitos were great. I had several of those. The guests clicked and talked. And then I noticed something. I wasn’t talking. My guests were doing all the talking. They clicked too well and I was too pooped from all the planning and preparation to join the merriment. I tried to interject a funny story, but the dialogue was flying back and forth rapid fire, like a Gilmore Girls episode. I couldn’t get a word in. I was Luke, the dull boyfriend. Everyone else was Lorelai, the cute mom.
Then, I realized one of my guests was staring at me. Actually, she was staring at my mid-section. I looked down. My shirt had hiked up and a fleshy roll of belly was sticking out over the top of my skirt. I pulled my shirt down and thought to myself, “gee the lighting in here is a little bright.” So I waited another ten minutes till there was a tiny, microscopic pause in the conversation and I moved everyone outside by the pool, where there the pool and yard light gave the night, and me, a soft illumination. I hid in the dark, nursing my mojito and watching my guests have a great time.
Even the best laid party plans have their downside. You can throw a party where everyone is having a great time, but you’re left feeling exposed with your belly fat hanging out. You’d complain, but everyone is too busy having fun to listen, and all you want to do anyway is sleep.
