Last night 6 o’clock found us unexpectedly at a rather lovely dinner party with our kids in tow. We hadn’t expected to go at all, since two separate childcare options fell through. But the host’s ladyfriend and a small cadre of other partygoers put in a few calls during the day and begged us to come. Who can resist such sweetness? We cleaned up ourselves and our children as best we could and headed out to Cape George.
I do well at parties. I am comfortable talking to anyone. I don’t always introduce myself to everyone, which I really do think I should. And it’s easy to be intimidated by venues such as the one we were at – the house is expansive, spotless, Sunset-magazine material, built over a pond with little waterfalls and a beautiful open deck. Am I the only one who secretly hopes that at midnight the huge, gleaming hot tub will be unveiled and I’ll be able to hop in in my panties, a martini in one hand, while still entertaining the sixty-and-up members of the Board with my witty and urbane conversation? Probably.
Here I was with my choice of wine to drink, a lovely catered meal (delicious, gourmet food that I didn’t have to make) that included a chicken alfredo lasagne and hot banana bread pudding with rich cream and caramel sauce. The funniest part was our kids, who were in parallel experiencing equally Roman-esque entertainment: being cared for in the back guest wing by three teenage girls with giant bowls of chocolates and chips. Every once in a while one of these young girls, rail-thin and all eyeliner and dangling earrings, would come out with a child on a hip to find some milk. My kids attempted no eye contact with me or my husband – they looked like little waifs being taken into the arms and care of a brothel on opening-night celebrations.
At nine o’clock our son is looking red-eyed and dazed – his calling card for getting sleepy. He can’t bear to miss out on what’s happening around him, but his body is shutting down. We pack up the girl (so stoned on teenage girls, Muppets, and chocolate that she is whirring and hovering) – and head home.
A lovely, pampered evening.