Essay: Party-planning perils

Throwing a party is a good idea — at least, before the date draws nigh, at which point I often want to throw the occasion, and myself, out the window.

Don't get me wrong: I love hosting parties. Bringing my friends together to talk, laugh and have amiable arguments is deeply satisfying. And because I know everyone, I don't have to reveal how embarrassingly inept I am when confronted with strangers ("Erm, delicious cheese, isn't it?").

Start with a list
But party prep should be right up there on the stress scale along with moving house and divorce.

First, there are the lists, starting with guests and moving on to food, wine/beer, plates, cutlery, glasses, serving dishes. Lists give me a deceptive sense of control until I actually attempt to tackle one. I forage in the basement for spare wineglasses, to find only dusty Lego and — wow! — the tax file I thought I'd lost! But no glasses. Sweating, I call friends, who volunteer to bring over extras. Whew.

Then there's the shopping (surely hauling huge bags of groceries counts as a workout?), cooking and worrying. Inevitably, I become convinced I won't have enough food.

It's like one of those Grade 3 math problems coupled with existentialist concepts only a philosopher could untangle. If 35 people are together for four or five hours, some of them hungry, some only wanting a snack, calculate what you should prepare, given they will become either more or less hungry the more they drink, depending on the individual.

So when the doorbell rings, I'm a wreck. I'm usually taking frozen sausage rolls out of the oven with one hand and trying to put on earrings with the other.

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