Of people. At my
front door. As soon as the outside temperature
drops to my age or lower.
You see, it’s like this: parties are not my thing. Never have been and never will be. I’m an introvert, a wallflower, a loner. Being a hostess is the very last thing
anybody would ever expect me to enjoy. But
here I am, thinking of having an open house at my new home.
It’ll be after Labor Day, when all the children will be back
in school and most folks will be home from wherever they spent their
summer. It’ll be on a weekday, because
most of my friends are retired or self-employed. The weather will smile on us. The house will finally be unpacked and the
walls won’t be bare of artwork. I swear I
can smell cinnamon in the kitchen just thinking about it.
The other day I counted up all the chairs I own. I had already made my guest list and wondered
how many of them could actually sit down.
I know, I know, it’ll be an open house and people will be coming and
going, but still – I have no idea how to be a hostess. I told myself it’s high time I learned,
because I want to show my appreciation for all the people who have helped me survive
this past year.
So, if you helped me in any form or fashion since the Hill house
hit the market, during the Possum Event, the fender-bender fiasco, the apartment-duplex-rent
house-assisted living search, the fall, the walker(s) the packing and moving
from Dumble or the unpacking and settling in … you are on the guest list.
Heck, since this is probably going to be my one-and-only
experience of being a hostess, I might even put on some lipstick and wear a
dress. We will see.
