Spirit Lights The Way

How NOT To Throw A Dinner Party August 20, 2010

The Only Cin’s recent posts on Table Etiquette inspired me to share this true tale of how NOT to throw a Dinner Party (unless you desire to have guests throwing Dinner Plates back at you):   

A few years ago, some friends invited us over for sit down dinner.  Having been there once before, shoehorned into an allotted space at the dining room table, a space so small that even a midget wouldn’t have been able to fit without the liberal application of WD-40 to smooth the way, I told my husband (and BFF), “Absolutely not!  Tell them NO!”

BFF politely declined the request, only to face increasingly urgent pleas from the host and hostess, “We’d really love to see you.  It’s been so long since we had everyone here at once.  It’s going to be a small gathering, just family and . . . a few friends.”

Stop right there!  What do you mean, “just a few friends”? 

Based on previous experience with this host and hostess, if I had been on the phone, I would have launched into litigation mode upon hearing those words:  How many friends?  Are they clean?  Do they have any nasty habits that are going to detract from our enjoyment of the meal?

If BFF had asked these crucial questions, he would have received the following telling replies: 

Q. How many friends?  A. Twenty-three. 

Q. Are they clean?  A. No, they are not known for meticulous hygiene. 

Q. Do they have any nasty habits that are going to detract from our enjoyment of the meal?   A. Yes. 

Without having the necessary litigation background to ask these types of pointed questions, BFF caved, “Sure, we’d love to come.”

Flash forward to Party Day.  We walk into the house and are accosted by  “aromas.”  No, not delightful aromas.  Odors.  The house smelled like a gym locker room . . . during a janitorial strike.  I glared at BFF through the stench.

It took us twenty minutes to walk ten feet from the living room to the kitchen because the place was packed, elbow to elbow, with all manner of unwashed and unshaven humanity. 

I stared at BFF and mouthed, “You did this to me.  You will pay.”

When we reached the kitchen, I saw the problem ~ everyone was milling around in the living room in order to avoid a mentally challenged guest who was intently picking his nose with gusto.  He had a good three to four inches of his index finger shoved up there, scouting around for morsels to tide him over until dinner was served. 

What’s that?  Did he eat it?  Of course, he did ~ right before he reached out to shake my hand, which I pulled out of his reach faster than a cobra eating a mongoose.  Or a mongoose eating a cobra.  You know, lightning fast.

With equal speed, I turned on my heel to begin my laborious return to the front door, wading again through all manner and mass of humanity.

BFF, who is much more PC than me, jerked me back, “We can’t leave.  They’ll wonder why.”

“I won’t leave them in suspense, BFF.  I’ll tell them to take their misguided notion of togetherness and stuff it right up their . . . ”

Just then, the hostess appeared to announce that dinner would be served and eaten in the basement.  All the obedient girls and boys in attendance made a mad bee-line for the basement stairs, leaving BFF and me in the now empty living room.

“C’mon, BFF.  Let’s just go.  I’d rather have a Big Mac at Mickey D’s than eat with this crowd.”

“NR, we can’t leave.  Be charitable.  Everyone is miserable.  As soon as we’re done eating, we’ll go.  I promise.”

I headed over to the bar to pour myself a stiff one.  I was going to need all the liquid courage I could muster.  Quickly draining the glass, I handed the now empty glass to BFF, and said, “Please, sir, may I have some more?”

BFF was torn.  I could see it in his eyes.  He knows me.  He knows that I get even more outspoken, and less politically correct, after imbibing that golden elixir known as Maker’s Mark.  Yet, he felt beholden to me for dragging me here in the first place and wanted to make it as painless an experience as possible. 

He reached for the bottle, and filled my cup until it overflowed.

As soon as we reached the bottom of the stairs, I did a quick U-Turn and started up again.  BFF dragged me back.  From the aerial view provided from the stairs, I stared in horror at the scene before me. 

There were at least twenty people crammed around a table for twelve, and only two empty slots available ~ one next to a screaming child and the other next to the friendly nose picker.   

Buggers!

This time, I jerked on BFF’s arm, and motioned up the stairs to freedom.  He waited, debating what to do. 

Now that we are older and wiser, and fully cognizant of the fact that we do NOT need to be manipulated by public opinion, we would not hesitate to proudly and courageously march up those stairs, singing “Freedom.  Keep walking.  Keep on your toes and don’t stop talking . . . ” 

Back then, we were young and inexperienced and, sadly, more easily manipulated.

BFF’s pause gave the hostess an opportunity to direct everyone’s attention to us, as she gaily cried out, “BFF, NR!  Come join us!  There’s plenty of room and plenty of food!  We’re just about to say Grace.”

She motioned BFF toward the screaming child, whose facial coloring at the moment resembled that of Barney, the purple dinosaur. 

Me?  

Exactly.  Right next to nose picker, who shall hereinafter be referred to as the guest with special needs, or special needs guest.

Turns out that our special needs guest really was mentally challenged.  And, through no fault of his own, he had not been taught, despite his advanced age of 20 or so, to use a knife and fork.  Or a plate.  Instead, his caregiver piled his food indiscriminately into an enormous bowl which, when she was done,  resembled a pig trough filled with “slop.” 

Looking into a bowl of food that appears to have been regurgitated before serving is a decidedly unappetizing way to start any meal.  Having said bowl sitting two inches away from my cutlery, due to the inhospitably close quarters provided for guests, impacted my thoughts during Grace:

Dear Lord, thank you for these gifts which we are about to receive, but if it’s not too much trouble . . . could you get the host or hostess to switch places with me?  I know that our special needs guest is here to remind us of the many blessings in our own lives, but I didn’t want to come to this party in the first place; I’m feeling packed in here like a sardine; and I’ve never met the guy before in my life.  I don’t know who he is, and I don’t want to sit next to him. 

Please remind the host and hostess that it is their job, not mine, to see that the needs of ALL their guests are met.  Thanks.  Amen. 

God ignored my plea, as did the host and hostess, and I remained in close proximity to our special needs guest, whose development had arrested slightly before he gained the manual dexterity of a toddler.   

His table manners left something to be desired.  He snorted, and grunted, as he shoveled his slop into his mouth with his hands.  Like a toddler eating spaghetti, he clapped his hands in delight, spraying folks within a two foot radius with mashed potatoes, yams, and peas.  

If something made him laugh while he had a mouthful of food, no matter.  He just let fall the food from his mouth back into the trough to be scooped up again moments later. 

After a few minutes, both disgusted and ashamed at my lack of charity, I stood up, and stepped up onto the seat of my chair, to get out and away from this unsanitary insanity. 

I know it was rude, but climbing over the back of my folding chair was the only way to maneuver in those close quarters ~ and removing oneself from sticky situations is better manners than staying seated while having a melt-down. 

With infinite grace and finesse, and feelings of great relief, I stepped over the back of my chair onto the floor.  As I leaned over to pick up my plate, the  caretaker angrily intoned, “Where do you think you are going?”  

She sounded like she was talking to a child, or a special needs guest,  “If you need something, we’ll be happy to pass it to you.  All you have to do is say the magic word, please.” 

Obviously, she was a master at the art of manipulation through public opinion.  Her comment, designed to shame me into submission, had exactly the opposite effect.  It bolstered my resolve to flee the premises, post-haste.

I slammed my plate back onto the table, realizing that the food on it had been contaminated by sprayed spittle from our special needs guest anyway, and reached for my drink . . . which I had carefully placed outside the spray zone.  Then, smiling sweetly at the hostess, I made my get-a-way speech:

This has been absolutely wonderful.  Such a treat.  But I’m starting to feel nauseous.  I’m sure it’s nothing serious.  Certainly not the food.  Or the company.  Probably just a bit too much togetherness for one day.

With that, I made my way up the stairs, glancing over at BFF to make sure that he was enjoying his dinner as much as I had enjoyed mine. 

Sure enough, his dinner companion was still screaming in his ear.  “Good,” I thought, “you ain’t heard nothing yet!”

* * * * *

BFF is a marvelous man who earns my gratitude on a daily basis by taking care of my every want, need, and whim.  

When we got in the car to go home that evening, I simply said, “You realize, of course, that we are now even.  Every brownie point that you have earned in the past is gone ~ used to cancel out the debt for this single meal!” 

He agreed, negating the need for further discussion.

No rules.  Just write!

Related posts:  Fantasy Dinner Party * Sunset Dinner Party * Scrubbing Up Nice (The Only Cin) * More Table Etiquette (The Only Cin)