The day of the dinner passed quickly in a flurry of house cleaning and food prep. Now it was time to get ready.
First, what to wear. My wardrobe was weighted heavily in jeans and sweaters at one end - the kind of garb I wear to walk the dog and take out the garbage- and, at the other end, two business suits circa 1986, shoulder pads and all, a little black dress and my stand-by dress in case someone dies and I have to attend a funeral.
I threw on my "good" jeans and a sweater and made my way to the bathroom mirror. Time for some makeup.
I figured I had things aced in the makeupdepartment. Having recently purchased some new, mineral-based powder foundation I was ready to project a healthy glow. Unfortunately, the powder had a way of finding and falling into every wrinkle going. In the bathroom mirror, the finished result was something reminiscent of the Gobi desert.
On to the ambiance. I did a little better in this department - how hard can lighting a few candles be, after all? With just two minutes to go until the guests were due to arrive, my husband offered to put out some nuts until the appetizer was ready.
I felt I had things, more or less, under control when the doorbell rang. We received our guests, got them settled before the fire with a nice glass of Merlot and were getting on swimmingly when I remembered the hors d'oeuvre. The smoke alarm was just starting to beep as I entered the kitchen. Thirty-two canapes dumped in the backyard snow. How popular we would be with the raccoons that night!
The evening unfolded on more or less a fun note. But as we bid our guests goodnight and turned to the mountain of dishes in the kitchen, I turned to my husband and said, "We need to go out more."
