After Scott moved into our South City pad last August and I followed in February, we finally got around to throwing together a housewarming barbecue over the weekend. Now, a bbq in the Bay Area is risky at any time of the year, because you never know if it’s going to be 40 degrees in July or go all schizo on you and hit 90 in January. This bipolar-personality weather constantly has me in a state of stress—do I wear boots and a winter coat, or is it more of a strapless dress and flip-flop sort of day? One just never can tell. (On a side note, I use to mock all these natives who would make such a big deal if the mercury dropped below 50 or rose above 70. They’re used to mild, steady temps, these crazy San Franciscans. But now I fear I’ve become one of them. “72 degrees! Quick, put on some sunblock and invest in one of those portable mister fans. We’ll perish in this heat!” As a matter of fact, it’s currently EIGHTY-ONE FREAKIN’ DEGREES and sweltering, and I’m working from my backyard—yes, that’s right! I have a backyard! In San Francisco (well, the ‘burbs really)!—in my bikini, with my part-black lab of a companion for the day hastily chewing a bone at my side. I’m thinking of even purchasing a baby pool to dip my feet in so Sweetie Pie and I don’t get too overheated. How’s that for high maintenance?) So boy was I surprised when I woke up Saturday morning to a glorious 70 degrees. It was already the perfect day.What wasn’t perfect was that Scott and I had left everything to the last minute. Not true, completely, I guess. I had tried to get some stuff done earlier in the week, but one night he had a headache, the next our friends Dan and Tina unexpectedly dropped by, the day before the party, I was summoned to CubeVille in Sausalito, then Scott decided to go to a show in the city shortly after I got home that night (and then call me at 2am to come pick him up since he missed the last BART back; you haven’t seen cranky until you’ve woken me from my much-needed slumber the night before I’m hosting a soiree). So Saturday morning came around, and a few details had gone unaddressed. Um, like the fact that we were having a cookout but there was no grill in sight. And no one we knew had a functioning one to contribute even. The thing I love about the Internets is a few minutes of browsing can change that completely. Scott just happened to find a dude in Brisbane, about two miles away from us, who was moving back to Australia and selling his electric grill for the bargain of 60 smackers. So half an hour later, we were the new owners of yet another toy. Craigslist rocks.
Then, there was my montage of 18 travel photos I’d gone to the effort of printing but had yet to frame. I thought that was going to be a process, having to place each one and measure where to hammer in the nail, but luckily double-sided tape does wonders (until one fell off a few minutes later and shattered all over the living room. Oops). By 1:30pm, a mere hour and a half before the party was to begin, I still hadn’t even gone grocery shopping for food and booze. Another slight panic attack later, and I was back with six bags of groceries, and still had enough time to shower, look presentable, and prepare the snacks (thanks in part to the earliest guest arriving 45 minutes late).
At the end of the day, the party was a success. Twenty-four adults, two children, two dogs, a cat and a Mexican Hello Kitty—how could it be anything but a barrel full of fun? The Hello Kitty pinata alone was a hit, especially after Roy busted her open with one swift move and we had to perform reconstructive surgery on various body parts.
And can I just ask who else’s boyfriend gives a SEWING DEMONSTRATION in his workshop at a party to a handful of very enthusiastic participants?
It truly amazes me that when I moved here four months ago, I didn’t even have enough friends I could count on one hand. And my birthday dinner just weeks after the move was pretty meager (while still a whole lot of fun, thanks to SVV). But now, I’ve met so many great people, through the blogsphere, through running, through Scott, at media events—people that were willing to drive or BART it out to the ‘burbs on a Saturday to celebrate with me and Scott!—and while it may sound slightly cheesecake-y, I’m extremely grateful how this whole move has worked out, and for all the new friends who have landed in my life. Unfortunately, I didn’t take too many pictures (hostess with the mostess doesn’t have the time for such trivial matters), but I do think this one pretty much sums up the day:
And unfortunately again, someone here was recovering from a two-daylong headache and decided to heed her boyfriend’s advice when he handed her half a pill of codeine for the pain. Someone had also been generous with the jungle juice, and apparently the combination doesn’t mix. That same someone would be the one who passed out at 7:30pm in the midst of her own party (granted, the shindig started at 3 and there were only stragglers left at that time) and woke up comatose the next morning at 8am. So in essence? If you need someone to plan your next event, don’t call this someone. Unless, of course, it’s dry, or you keep her far from the wet bar.