A full home is the ultimate sign of a life well lived. Or so I told myself. As an early adopter of the work-at-home lifestyle, I had to leave my cubicle in order to find colleagues. Before Zoom, anyway.
So I enjoy throwing a party. But I let go of the practice when I was young and newly married. It’s not that my husband doesn’t like having people over. He does. In a certain way, with a set number of prescreened people, in small groups that know each other, that he can tempt with copious amounts of food. In other words, he wants to be in control. He didn’t get the memo about how free flowing group dynamics, and the possibility of meeting someone new are part of the fun.
I couldn’t disagree more, but I was busy. I let it go. Or acted like I had.
In terms of hosting, I come from the school that says, an empty platter is nearly as satisfying as the perfect sized container for any leftover. Mission accomplished. Why should I aim for extra if neither he, nor my growing boys would eat them the next day? Which they didn’t until the pandemic when, after months of fresh and ready meals, I was willing to let them go hungry. Or to Chipotle. Okay, I encouraged the Chipotle. Look, I admit it, I got tired. And lazy. He took over the cooking.
My husband comes from a family where the most loving thing you can do is take everything out of the refrigerator every time you show up. Chicken and bagels? Ice cream with hummus? I love you that much. If a person isn’t busting out of their pants by the time they make it back to the car, the party is a failure. Food is their love language, the one thing they either agree on, or can lovingly tease about.
And that is both the heart of and the conflict in my ultimately successful relationship—a yin/yang that’s brought us all this way. Barely enough vs. obligatory gluttony. I know there’s a middle. We’re still learning to compromise. Actually, he’s learning to compromise, I’m just learning to have a more of a forceful opinion. When we had a party recently I wanted to expand the group.
“I’m not mixing,” he said, shaking his head, repeating the mantra.
I appreciate his feelings but to be fair to me, these two groups coming over will enjoy each other, if for no other reason, they are all artists. And they like me. They just haven’t had the opportunity to meet yet. His teeth were gritted. I was determined.
“Come on,” I said. “So what if it doesn’t work? These are nice people. What’s the worst that can happen?”
His head shook like one of the dogs breaking through her chew toy.
I admit there are a few times I thought people would love each other, but instead, those connections fell flat. Yet, without my unshakable optimism, who am I?
“Trust me,” I whined. “It’ll be fine. If it doesn’t work, I’ll never try it again.” It was a lie we both recognized. This wasn’t our first rodeo.
Both groups came, everyone with gifts. They unbundled the goodies and took to their respective corners. The writers were on one side, the fine artists on the other, though there’s an amazing amount of crossover between them. They were catching up, I told myself, genuinely surprised. Nervous as I was, the coquito a writer brought, helped.
Is he right that people are expecting him to give his solid attention to one group and their dynamics? Do I tell him they didn’t only come to see him?
I willed my friends to mingle. Finding different people to talk to, sharing a drink and a laugh, is one of life’s most exquisite pleasures. But as with so much I’ve discovered over my lifetime, like a cartoon rake on the street that hits me in the face, it could just be me. But I was really hoping it could also just be him.
“See,” he said. “Now who do I talk to? I told you this wouldn’t work.”
Even the pups were well behaved that afternoon, picking out the people who are feeders from the chaff. I bit my nails but held strong. It was going to work. After all, who had a chance to introduce themselves while stuffing their mouth full of olives?
I took the plate of mini hotdogs from him and went back to my friends. Come on, I thought. Come on.
At some point I came back from the bathroom—ok I went for a smoke, but who’s watching? I saw that one group, overfed but happy, had sat down on the couch with the other. They began to share stories and places, art and good feelings. My men, all of them, including my husband, mingled effortlessly away. Or they were cleaning. But they’re not the point.
We read some work out loud from things we’d written, connecting, branches from seeds we’d just planted blanketing the scene with good vibes and hopeful future get togethers… Too much? Fine then. We had a good time.
After everyone had gone, while we were clearing the pile of plates, I rested my head on my husband’s back.
“Not bad,” I tried.
“It worked out,” he said. “Everyone was fed.”
“I think they liked each other,” I insisted.
“In this circumstance. But it wouldn’t work everywhere.”
I smiled to myself and took the win, only telling him, I told him so, in my mind. And here, I suppose.
In the morning one of my sculpting friends called me to say, “That nice blonde writing lady told me I should come to all the gatherings!”
There are different types of people. Or maybe it’s more true to say that no one is ever one-size-fits-all. This time my persistence paid off for everyone. Next, I’ll take up his objections to green leafy vegetables.
What kind of parties do you like?
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