A true story about throwing a gingerbread house-making event no one shows up for. No, really.
The weather in Los Angeles has taken a drastic turn for the worst as a torrential rainstorm has replaced our once famously arid and sunny climate. It’s quite comical watching Californians dramatically dodge the bullet-like downpour as we dash outside for last-minute holiday shopping, shielding our precious Brazilian blowouts with nothing more than two copies of yesterday’s newspapers. Owning an umbrella is such a faux pas around these parts. Like, toh-tally.
Two weeks ago, however, we were basking in our usual December sun when it was spontaneously decided by my young entrepreneur club that a last-minute gingerbread house-making party HAD to be on our social calendar before year-end. “Sure, why not?” I seconded the proposal. “And Patrick and I can host it!”
We’ve done similar parties in the past and have had plenty of people show up for the candy-studded festivities. Putting together this particular fete seemed it would be a slam-dunk of a success as friends old and new gather around our non-existent fireplace to sip artificially flavored eggnog and reminisce about the good old times had in college. A guaranteed success. Yep.
I should have known better when out of the 40 or so Evites sent out, we received only a handful of “maybe’s” and not much more. No, that can’t be right, I tried to justify in my head. Hot cider, mulled wine, and spiced cake galore—I mean, who WOULDN’T want to come? I began to obsessively refresh my browser in the weeks leading up to the event but it didn’t make much of a difference. The numbers never budged. Except that one time a “maybe” changed his response to a “no.”
Like waking up on your birthday and seeing only one friend had remembered to wish you a “Happy Birthday” on your Facebook wall, I then started to make excuses for all the people that hadn’t responded yet. The Internet MUST be down in a lot of places, I told myself. “Or people just aren’t coming,” Patrick, ever my voice of reason, interrupted my thoughts.
This morning, the day of our fated soiree, Patrick reminded me again we probably wouldn’t have much of a party if no one has confirmed they were coming. “No, you don’t understand,” I explained. “People in L.A. just don’t RSVP for anything anymore. But they will still come,” I was all too sure. So graham crackers and candy were bought, sangria and hors d’oeuvres were made, and we even whipped up a big batch of edible cement to glue the gingerbread houses together.
And then…drum roll please…NO. ONE. SHOWED. UP. Like that miserable scene from Valentine’s Day, waiting for your own party to start is worse than having your teeth pulled at the dentist. I’ve had it done so trust me, I know.
|I tawt we were having fwends over.|
Almost an hour and a half later, we had two brave soldiers come to our door and we welcomed them like an over-zealous puppy left alone at home too long. Oh how we fussed and fussed over our two sole guests as if they were kings and queens. I was so thankful they came if I’d not had a baby yet, I would have promised my first-born child to their tender souls.
So this year is really turning out to be a year of first’s for me: First time I’ve had a baby, first time I’ve been laid off from a job, and first time I threw a party (almost) no one showed up for. But, I keep telling myself, it’s all that nasty rain we’ve been getting.
It MUST have been the darned weather. It must be. It...