Putting It Out There
Every party needs a pooper, and sometimes that's me.
On my tenth birthday, I had a “Backyard Hat Party.” The party of the moment was the roller skating rink party, but I don’t remember having any second thoughts or concerns about my weird theme. I had a vision for miniature hat crafts I wanted to make, and we had an incredible swing in our backyard. Even at ten, I knew how to play to my strengths. The giant rope swing was fastened at the very top of a large oak tree, a spot accessible only because my grandpa suited up in climbing equipment from his former job at a telephone company to get there. The backyard dropped off rapidly into an impressive hill, meaning that you gingerly wiggled onto the swing’s plank seat at the very top and then, with a push, flew unbelievably far and wide out over the whole expanse. Instant rush. If you were brave enough to lean your head all the way back, a kaleidoscope of oak leaves and sky would swirl past you. To tie it all together, I invited my guests to wear a hat (mine was a hot pink bucket variety) and they all did and the party was a total blast.
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At 14, I went to church camp with my best friend and my crush. There were other kids from the youth group there, of course, but let’s be honest, those two were the ones who counted. Just a few hours into our first day, we went swimming in the lake. While splashing around in our mandated t-shirts and shorts, I watched as the first kids—all teen boys—lined up for The Blob, a neon inflatable pillow of sorts anchored way out in the middle of the lake. To get there, you rode a high zipline and dropped to make your big landing. Confident I could do it—and secretly thrilling at being one of the first girls to do so—I convinced my best friend to line up with me. My turn came first. I grabbed the slick steel bar and pushed off the platform, fearlessly. Two exhilarating seconds passed before the drag of my body weight caught up: I dropped as quickly as if I’d been shocked.
The water came fast, and I met it face forward, although my thighs took the full sting of the impact. The zipline platform was so high and my fall so shocking that when I came up for air, people on shore were still half-gasping. I clambered through gunky lake algae to get out and marched straight back to the Blob line. My friend refused to join me. My head throbbed and my body stung and I was mortified. If I could just do it right this time, I could right the ship, restore my reputation, erase the embarrassment of failing. My belief I really could do it — a laser beam of pure confidence. I reached for the bar, gripping extra tight this time. A click, a whoosh, and exactly two seconds later I fell again, hitting the water just as hard as before. Dark purple, squash-sized bruises eventually bloomed across my thighs as a souvenir of the experience, but I didn’t need one: everyone at camp knew me as “The Girl Who Fell Twice.”
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I just had a party recently, a neighborhood gathering of sorts. It wasn’t a flop, but it wasn’t a wild success either. More of a fizzle. I’ve thrown a lot of parties since the Backyard Hat days, since I became an adult, which in my mind, was hosting. I couldn’t tell you where I acquired this vision of adulthood, exactly; my mom hosted people for dinner frequently where I learned all about table setting and “company” dinners, but our family wasn’t a party family. Still — I rolled into adulthood with an absolute itch to entertain. And I began with an anti-party. The ugly Christmas sweater party was the holiday party in 2011, and I was sick of it. What I decided people wanted was not more solo cups and tacky sweaters, but sparkles, formality, a change. An excuse to step outside the routine and put on a costume of sorts without having to be—God help us—ironic about it.
A great party transports you. That’s the gift. Like a ship, a good party leaves the shore of everyday life, sail through some sort of breezy, liminal space where anything can happen, and assures your eventual return home. Maybe changed, maybe not. All kinds of parties can spirit you away like this: big, rowdy, crowded ones with lots of people and high-energy dancing; intimate dinners punctuated by flickering candles and low laughter. And if you’ve been to one of those marvelous parties, you know what that magic feels like, how rare it is, how extraordinarily it comes together, like a chemical reaction. Everybody wants to be at that party. But I want to host it.
In early December 2011, my roommates and I invited everyone we knew to ditch the sweaters and dress up. We were newly roommates, so our circles of friends barely overlapped, and we were all young enough that people we invited actually had space in their December weekends. Everyone came—in skinny ties and sequin dresses. Everyone danced. Our floors grew sticky with spilled punch, and I got dizzy off the exhilarating sensation of giving people an amazing time. It felt so good we had another one the very next December, and it likely became the template for success stamped on my subconscious.
Unfortunately, there is no recipe for a really great party. Common elements, sure, but ultimately, how it comes together is the alchemy of chance. In the years since Classy Christmas, I’ve dreamed up and hosted many parties for many occasions. A few of them—a few perfect, unforgettable nights—have achieved that enviable sparkle. Others….have not.
Here’s some math that doesn’t make sense: for me, the cumulative effect of a decade of giving parties is less confidence, not more. It turns out that you don’t age out of insecurities, just as you don’t age out of problems. New ones present themselves to you eternally! What a treat! I was not expecting to feel this way in my 30s. Remember: adulthood = hosting. Generally, as experience grows so does confidence. So where is mine? I am more settled than in any decade before: I know who I am; I’ve mostly made peace with my body’s strengths and limitations; I’ve put down roots; I’ve somehow acquired a cabinet full of serving platters. But every time I plan a party, I am filled with a mixture of anticipation and dread.
Because what I fail to remember about Classy Christmas is that I was not the only host. I may have brought the initial creative vision, but my two housemates brought the bulk of the guests and the sparkling host personalities to make all the elements coalesce. Creative vision is still what I bring to parties. A theme, a mood, a vibe — I love to set it. Does it need a clever name or a carefully considered menu or a dramatic spread of moody taper candles? I am your girl. Will I research traditional French desserts from Normandy to ensure my Bonne Année dinner party is on theme every course even though not a single soul would notice if it weren’t? Absolutely. But the charismatic, connecting, confident energy of an excellent host? That has never been mine.
What I want to do is set a very special scene for a very memorable time and fade into the background watching my guests enjoy it. Which, yes, sounds like an event coordinator, not a host! I am quiet, I am not gifted at connecting people, and I will never ever find it easy to grab the attention of a crowd. If the party magic does come, I probably won’t be the one to bring it. For some reason, I keep on giving parties anyway. Every party I dream up is an attempt to strike the match again. Some parties find it and some don’t and I manage to take each one as a personal referendum. You are over-thinking this, my best friends tell me. They are right.
But I keep getting back in line to try again.
I didn’t understand why I couldn’t stick the Blob until the bus ride home from camp when my crush explained that it required not just hanging on tight, but actively pulling a chin-up for the duration of the zipline.
I like that I tried again. That dreadful nickname swamped me with embarrassment for a week of summer camp, but looking back, I think my earnestness was tender and pure. I put myself out there. I am still putting myself out there. Entertaining is a vulnerable act. Perhaps that’s why my generation doesn’t do it much anymore. The work of hosting has not really changed, but the societal obligations to do it have mostly faded. We aren’t expected to have our boss and his wife over for dinner anymore, so why in the world would we? At the same time, if for some reason we do feel like celebrating a child’s birthday or a friend’s life milestone, the aesthetic expectations are wedding-level, which is to say completely and entirely insane. Easier by far to sit entertaining out.
Opening up our world to others to share our space, our food, our ideas feels intimate. It sweeps away the veil of image or illusion for the real thing. Image can be curated, controlled. A party is real time, three-dimensional. What you have created, what you have to offer is just going to unfold right there. I prefer to fail in private. If I’m going to stumble, I’d like to do it when no one’s watching and serve up the finished product only when it’s perfect, please. A party doesn’t let me dress rehearse it. A party asks me to leap blindly. And that is its gift to me.
I’m sure there are people who can just have a party without a single hang-up. Hats off to you. You are probably not discussing your over-thinking tendencies in therapy. You probably are the party!!! And I love you. But I — I will obsess over the details. I will question if we should have the party at all. I will agonize over the guest list and worry that it won’t be fun. And ultimately, I will press send on that paperless post invite. Because everybody loves a party. Most of all, me.
current status
reading :: “Can Men Be Friends?” (New York Magazine) // Zak Cheney-Rice gives us a tour of his life playing fantasy sports that really turns out be an examination of male friendship. He explains that fantasy sports are “a rare platform for the kind of sustained contact that gets taken for granted when you’re young but dwindles as you age.” I’m not married to a man who plays fantasy sports, but I have observed that the men in my life need some sort of activity to anchor their relationships around. Cheney-Rice pulls back the curtain on the pomp of men’s elaborate fantasy sports rituals to reveal their true purpose: a reason to connect.
listening (reading?) :: “I Lived the #VanLife. It Wasn’t Pretty.” (The New York Times Magazine) // I felt a thrill of delight when I saw Caity Weaver’s byline on this trend-report-turned-roadtrip. She is a master of a very particular kind of hilarious, insightful exploration of American culture’s strangest or most passionate corners. Any deep dive into the insufferable aesthetic fantasy of #vanlife was bound to be good, but her writing makes it so much better. I listened to it via The Daily’s Sunday Read while I prepped 16 pounds of carnitas (!!!) and it made the task fly. Don’t skip this one if you want to laugh.
drinking :: espresso tonics // I’m late to this party, if there ever were a party to begin with, but I am very into this cold coffee sipper for hot summer days. It slices right through the midday fog with a little sparkle. So far, my favorite iteration is: espresso, tonic, soda water, honey, and lemon peel. You can probably order one at any trendy coffee shop, even if they don’t list it on their menu.
reading :: East of Eden (John Steinbeck) // Not sure how I made it this far without reading Steinbeck, but I was immediately entranced by his masterpiece. The character development, the sprawling philosophizing, the lively plot, the breathtaking landscape of California’s Salinas Valley—I vanished into this world and was happy to do so. Summer is an ideal time to tackle the classics, and Steinbeck’s epic account of the ordinary struggle between good and evil, between destiny and individual choice is worth your time.
cooking :: It’s the right moment for giant salads and dinners on the back deck. Here are a few all-star summer standbys: Kale & Chicken Salad with Jalapeño-Lime Dressing, Beautiful Basil Salad, Charred Scallion & Chicken Salad, Mint, Peach, and Kale Salad, Grilled Cobb Salad, Shrimp Po’ Boy Panzanella. Serve them as is or with grilled chicken on the side (if applicable), plus crusty bread and cold wine.
reading :: “White Churches, It’s Time to Go Pro-Life on Guns” (CT Magazine) // Don’t let the horror of Uvalde—and all the other mass shootings before and since—fade. If you consider yourself a Christian and pro-life, read this from Charlie Dates, a Black pastor in Chicago: “You have asked us to join in the fight for pro-life legislation, and now we ask you to do the same. Be pro-life by urging your congressional leaders to protect the lives of school kids who die at the force of weapons too easily placed in the wrong hands. Urge your senators to pass morally upright gun legislation. Be true to the same book you preach on Sunday.”
listening :: Fall Again (Duval Timothy & others) — I’m into the moody drama of this song. / It’s Been a Long Day — Spacey Jane. Discovered this song on a Spotify playlist and I’ve listened to it a million times since. The sound reminds me of being a college student with a lot of feelings (honestly, what’s changed) and blasting music with the windows down. / 80s babe — Big mood, big hair, big sweat. With a little help from my friends, I made a very specific 80s-inspired playlist for my runs, but I think the vibes are great off the trail too. / The Cheek of Daniel — I was listening to this while writing in the kitchen and after a few minutes, Jivan was like "omg WHAT are you on hold for???” so uhhh take this one with a grain of salt.
reading :: “Epiphany in the Baby-Food Aisle” (The Cut) // Immediately after reading this powerful essay, I bought Klein’s book. Here she explores motherhood as the hero’s journey, along with the frustrating fact that motherhood is never portrayed as the hero’s journey. “In trying to process it, I wonder why I’ve felt such inner resistance to accepting that anything I do as a mother might actually be a page in a book. And really, it doesn’t take long to connect that feeling to the fact that in popular culture, at least in America for the past forever years, what mothers do is seen as so unremarkable it’s not just an unimportant story but not even a story at all. To illustrate, I invite you to investigate your gut reaction to the term “mommy blog.” Personally, I’ll confess, it always strikes me as mosquito-ish, something small and trivial. If this rings true for you as well, don’t feel guilty; we’ve all just internalized that the word “mommy” automatically diminishes whatever noun comes after it.”
cooking :: Picnic Chicken Marinade // What makes me feel like a person who has a handle on things is having a go-to marinade. Last year, my standby was this herby number, but so far this summer, I’m really loving the picnic chicken from Blue Hill Cafe at Stone Barns (via Jenny Rosenstrach). You can make it in about 60 seconds and it’s very forgiving (i.e. never once have I squeezed fresh orange juice for it….Tropicana does just fine). The recipe calls for baking the chicken, but so far, I’ve grilled it every time and love the results. Store the extra marinade in your fridge and you’re that much closer to grilling next time.
loving :: “Cheek Heat” in Coral Ember // I dipped my toe into the cream blush trend with an inexpensive drugstore brand and wow, it delivered. Maybelline’s “Cheek Heat” gel cream blush is the best thing in my makeup bag rn. It gives a pretty, dewy flush that looks natural but wakes my whole face up. I also learned from Gen Z TikTokers to apply blush higher than we were all originally taught to look younger, fresher. News you can use!
the real feel
Swimsuit and sports bra manufacturers, I beseech you: sew the lining cups in. Sew. Them. In. Over the years, as I have angrily twisted and shoved and bent that stupid rounded triangle back into its rightful place, I have tried—with an open mind—to imagine why they would come this way. Now maybe I am missing some critical wardrobe insight that my ticket on the SMS Flat Chest has not afforded me. Maybe. But what I lack in bosom, I make up in imagination and I still can’t fathom why anyone wants to do the twist and shout with their swimsuit every time they wash it. I have to conclude that some women truly do not want the liners. Well, I have a message for the free-nip population: you are ruining it for the rest of us. know I am raging to a wall. I know this rant will accomplish no change. But sometimes you gotta draw a line in the sand anyway. Women deserve better than this.
gas in my tank
sitting on the front steps at dusk / BLTs / good morning kisses / Desi’s humid, saltwater summer curls / freckles / running past the same people on the trail every Saturday morning / letting our kids stay up late / cheddar + scallion, what a combo / a few good mustaches / cold, ripe cantaloupe / treating sore legs with epsom salt baths / summer clouds / beach meals dreaming / leaving my gold hoops on to swim like i’m an italian grandma / top gun maverick / coming home from an early run to coffee waiting for me and all my boys curled up watching the tour de france / letting myself sleep in
Tell me what’s putting gas in your tank….reply or comment.
Until next time — lie flat on your back on a still-warm-from-the-sun driveway at night, add a sincere squeeze to all your hugs, go see a movie.
I was once again late for work as I lay in bed, under the covers this morning scrolling through this perfect Wednesday morning read.