It's been a long couple of days.
The first thing is that, as my mom told me the other night, when you have very good, very close, very wonderful friends, their worries become your worries. I am really really bad at remembering that people don't need me to worry and fuss for them. Which is unfortunate, as I am brilliant at worrying.
The second thing is that I feel sick, but not sick enough to stay home. Hate that. Total waste of sick if you ask me.
The third thing is that I am tired. Super tired. Crazy tired. I attribute this to last week, henceforth known as The Week Where I Cursed The Entire Industry For Willfully Ignoring My Holy Deadline. Why, Industry? Why must you blatantly disobey the deadline? And as of today, none of you have sent me flowers.
My presence was heavily requested, but not required, at the event for which I had this very strict deadline. It's a big fancy schmooze-fest and I am guaranteed to be the youngest person there, by FAR. But people, this event is a TON of work and there was no way I wasn't going to use that comp ticket and get SOME kind of reward for my efforts. (Seriously. Where are my flowers?)
So I spent the previous weekend shopping for the perfect black-tie appropriate dress (it does not exist) and reminding Phillip that if he showed up ten minutes after dinner started like he did the LAST year, I would probably take a sledgehammer to every computer in our house except the TiVo machine, and THEN I would probably use it on him.
Saturday afternoon I hauled my fourteen boxes of event-related crap into the swank hotel and proceeded to fold 400 programs for the next couple of hours. I changed in the committee room (read: the super swank suite the hotel "donated" in return for the 1.4 jillion dollars we paid to use their venue) and totally availed myself of the plethora of Trader Joe's snacks someone had laid out on the coffee table. (Chocolate-covered CASHEWS? Diet shmiet.) (Also, the glorious chocolate-covered high-alcohol-content stash in the committee room? Nearly as well-planned as the event itself, as the major perk of being a committee member means instant access to the committee room afterparty.)
If you are a freakishly anal person like myself and in charge of making sure 400 people have their names spelled correctly, have the right dinner ticket and assigned to an actual table, the secret is this: give them whatever they want and hope to God the hotel has enough extras in the kitchen. This year I only had one affronted guest (oh, the verbal whipping I could have laid on him after he said "They SAID I'd have a NAMETAG". Something starting with, "They SAID they'd have their CHECK in on time" and ending with "WHERE ARE MY DAMN FLOWERS?") I had several guests, however, assigned to two different tables. I have no idea how this happened. I am a triple-checker and I didn't catch that. That's where the hoping it all works out part comes into play. And I must say, it worked a lot better than previous years where I either a) cried b) accosted every single committee member to ask for a solution c) told them "no" and d) dug through my entire fourteen boxes of crap to prove that it wasn't ME who was wrong. God forbid! No, I am now a big believer in Someone Else Will Figure It Out, Right?
I also sent the teenage volunteers' pizza to another building. This, after being thanked all day for being freakishly anal.
Dinner was okay. It tasted slightly of jalapeno and I prefer my food to taste of bland white nothingness. Dessert, however, rocked my world. Chocolate mousse and macadamia nuts? Sitting on a bed of caramel? With a shortbread crust? And covered in a dark chocolate shell? I'd already blown my diet all to hell with the chocolate-covered cashews, so I wasn't about to pass up the chocolate-macadamia-caramel-crusty goodness.
Then there was the dancing. There was a live band, complete with backup dancers and pink feather boas, and shoot, there is nothing I would rather do than be a backup dancer wearing a pink feather boa. Unfortunately, there were many many drunken older people at this point and they all felt compelled to Shake Their Groove Things. Do you know how embarrassing that is? To watch two people in their fifties act like they are at the high school prom? With disgusting public makeouts and... (I can barely type it) grinding. For the love of God, older people! Get a room!
But plenty of them were dancing appropriately and, thank goodness, this group included the people I knew. But still. It's embarrassing to be dancing to "Love Shack" with your husband in the middle of a dozen men with whom you attend board meetings. This must be why they serve so much alcohol. And, OKAY, there WERE younger people there. The demographic seems to be changing. Maybe? I spent some time sitting with these younger people. We picked at our dessert and watched our bosses get down. My eyes, my eyes!
In the middle of all of this, certain committee members were wigging out about committee type stuff and I felt guilty, so I went out to help. I bustled about. I participated in the flusteredness. I empathized and stood around. Basically, I did nothing. Basically, I was a useless nuisance and once I figured this out (and decided no one was going to, like, get mad at me and talk smack at the afterparty about the freakishly anal person who just GOT IN THE WAY) I went back to the dance floor. They were doing "At Last"! I love that song! I will totally croon along as my arms are draped over my devastatingly tall and handsome husband while we are dancing next to my multitude of superiors sucking face with their wives.
I kept my committee room key in a safe place so I could rush up there before the afterparty got started and evacuate my things. Because can you imagine? The afterparty? Where all the older people get MORE drunk and stories are told and drinks are spilled and the person who is actually sleeping in the room can't actually go to sleep until 4 or 5 am when the last intoxicated person stumbles out? Eeuughh! I'm not saying I wouldn't love to be a fly on the wall with a fly-sized tub of chocolate-covered cashews, but in PERSON? With people I WORK FOR?
Maybe I am just programmed with more than the average amount of Awkward, but whatever. You can't convince me that the famed and lauded afterparty would be an actual good time. For ME.
Then my feet totally hurt walking to the car because Phillip got free parking on the street and the street was in, like, Timbuktu. And I don't care that I told him to find free parking on the street, I didn't mean a street in TIMBUKTU.
And now? Now I am TIRED. Yes, I had all of Sunday to recuperate, but Sunday was busy. Sunday I had church and then I had coffee and doughnuts and mangoes afterwards. (Why mangoes? Because people at our sister parish in Zambia eat mangoes and this was our way of identifying. Let me say it was a TASTY way. Having never before eaten mangoes (see above: preference for tasteless bland food), I have now eaten enough to permanently change the color of my skin to Muppet.) After the mangoes I had to buy baby gifts because GOOD LORD there are a lot of babies lately. Then lunch with very good very wonderful friends, dropping off of the baby gifts, arguing over travel arrangements at home, rearranging the living room furniture to accomodate the lovely new rug and watching a TiVo-ful of 'Good Eats'. And watching TV is hard work, people.
Also, we decided to invite 87 people for hot pot next weekend. Because we are insane. One of them thinks hot pot is "that Midwest thing" with "tomatoes and pasta" but no, no no no.
At least I don't have to think about the Event anymore, the event for which I built my beautiful purple database (have I told you about my beautiful purple database? It is SO PRETTY) and I guess I can put it away. Until next year. Oh God, do you think I'll be doing this next year? I do like to make myself indispensable, but I AM NOT KIDDING ABOUT THE FLOWERS, PEOPLE.