I moved the guest list to the back burner and forged ahead. Major mistake. Interesting guests and copious amounts of alcohol should be at the top of any hosts’ “To-Do” list. My planning continued to go south while all I wanted was to fit in up North. The menu was long and complicated, my chosen outfit, Junior League and stuffy, the table linens, monogrammed and pressed, the serving pieces, awkward and silver. Everything screamed pretension and inexperience.
By the time my virtually unknown guests and I (friends of friends of friends) were on to the third course, I had dark circles around my armpits and under my eyes. Everyone was miserable and there was no more wine to soften the edges of the disastrous picture I had painted.
The cheese platter was the end. It groaned with half a dozen imported wedges that the inevitably body-conscious (anorexic anywhere else in the US) guests would not touch. “Murray's Cheese” was $60 richer and I was infuriated by their finicky eating. My saving grace: the patio mouse that scurried around the table and their absurdly over-priced Jimmy Choos. Horrified, the ladies exited stage left. Wisened, and still a little hungry, I stayed out in the warm August night and dreamed of the day when my New York would make sense, when friends of friends would smile sweetly and try to secure an invitation to my dinners and cocktails.
Is this my time?