Hostess Tips
I recently was able to access old writings from about ten years ago on my old computer, which certainly will come in handy when I’m too lazy or drunk to post… Here’s one from October 1999.
Entertaining in a Politically Correct World: Pitfalls for the Modern Hostess
The Politically Correct era has, as we all know, ushered in such a
stiflingly censorious atmosphere to ordinary social occasions that the
already busy hostess must often drive herself to distraction
attempting not to offend what is sure to be a roomful of delicate
sensibilities. Indeed, the only way one can be entirely certain to
avoid eventual opprobrium is to smile quietly while passing the canapes
to guests tiptoeing gingerly around “food” and “football.” A far
better approach is to Offend Early and Offend Often. And remember,
offensive behavior begins at the front door, where socially untenable
correctness often first rears its ugly head. Or in this case, feet.
A distressing trend has lately manifested itself of removing one’s
shoes upon entering one’s home, an apparent addled attempt not to
need, then, to clean one’s home so often. Worse, and this trait’s
intrinsic P.C. pedigree, is that such peculiar and vulgar behavior is
EXPECTED OF OTHERS. While being asked to remove one’s fabulous new,
carefully chosen shoes is mortifying enough for a guest, to have one’s
own guest so disrobe in one’s foyer is nothing short of nauseating,
but occurring with alarming frequency. It can be checked so easily,
however, and with such a wide variety of icebreaking offenses that a
hostess might find it hard to choose. “What’s that smell?” is
perhaps my favorite. Three little syllables that check, punish, and
even possibly prevent repetition can only be admired for sheer
economy. If the guest is dressed poorly enough already, a helpful,
“You can change over here in the powder room” can never hurt. ”You
brought other shoes? Oh, good,” is a sure crowd-pleaser as well.
Always have a few showy furs in the entry closet, this little display
being so deliciously rewarding to the offensive hostess that she
should borrow some if hers are in storage. And depending on the
season, a little fox or something staring off one’s shoulder, tail
swinging, never ceases to nip leftist fundamentalism in the bud, but
one must make sure it is a new fur, as its recent death contributes to
both its charm and its structural stability. Even politically correct
guests don’t need to find a toe in their drink.
Smoking is another wonderful opportunity sneer at the sanctimonious,
while giving your party that decadent charm that seems only to exist
in old movies. Even if one doesn’t smoke, walking around with a
cigarette all evening is recommended, since one never knows when
someone will require a cloud in their face or a burn in their
backside. If it’s raining, explain that your windy terrace is the
nonsmoking area.
One area in which political correctness has actually benefitted
today’s hostess is in its stigmatization of meat. Meat dishes are
notoriously expensive and difficult to prepare and serve, particularly
as an hors d’oeurves, but the commitment is well worth it. Exotic
garnishes like squids (eyes up), quail (legs crossed), can be used
with great effectiveness with any dish, but the possibility for vastly
wider variety of offenses definitely lie with mystery meat. One can
simply invent the most horrifying possible origin for that pate’,
sausage, or meatball, depending on one’s sense of the particular
guest’s orthodoxy and how much they just ate of it.
Drinking to excess is of course an enviable luxury of entertaining at
home a hostess is foolish not to enjoy, but if she is “maidless” it
can pose problems. If one must keep some semblance of control over
one’s faculties, however, that is no reason to reveal this misfortune
to one’s guests. Pretending to be drunk affords one priceless
opportunities to say and do increasingly offensive things as the
evening progresses, should circumstances make it necessary to do so.
In situations where correctness becomes such that one must break
something, it is easy and natural to do when one is “drunk.” Having
a great deal of cheap but delicate glassware is perfect for this, and
will be all the more astonishing and glamorous to the PC, who only
have thick tumblers at home.
All these valiant displays of excess, however, will be for naught if
the hostess fails to create an environment of sexual tension and
debauchery. Flattering semidarkness, freely flowing drink, and every
promiscuous friend she can think of are of course at the top of her
list. Nothing is more effective at eliminating the tiresome bossiness
of the true believer than sex. One will be fretting over harassment
and objectification, the other over sin and damnation, while the
hostess need merely plant a kiss on the nearest married man and go on
about her business. And the gossip she can spread later can make her
parties notorious for years.
Which is all she really wants.
Oldies but goodies! Can’t wait to read more.
I’ll try to roll them out sparingly…..
At the little blog I run, I had 5 years worth of posts until ondelette wanted to promote a certain date in regards to torture. I deleted the whole damn thing to accommodate him as I did not want folks at UT looking thought it like certain stalkers used to do to others.
I read a few first. I was saddened at how little things have changed over the last few years. The same topics, and the same lack of hope. Well, I am glad it is all gone. I should have done a P. J. O’Rourke parody like you did.
Good post. What does the 2009 hag think of the 1999 hag?
Well, the 1999 hag wrote longer, funnier pieces, typically, on less serious subjects. Of course, that was before Bush II came along, so there was less to be serious about. They also tend to reflect the fact that my life was considerable wilder back then…
I usually like more onion in my dip. Your fern looks a bit dry. Oh! – too bad about that cigarette burn on the rug, right in front of the hutch. How old is that TV? – looks like a Philco! – do you always have the ball game on? You want me to straighten out that painting of the cows going into the barn? – it’s tilted, just a smidgeon. Oops, these saltines are a bit soggy. Sure, I’d lovvve some more ice – got any larger cubes? You know, I found the turquoise tiles in the toilet fascinating – haven’t seen that color in years!!! Matching salad utensils! – imagine that! Salt and pepper shakers too! My dog never gets up on the furniture – shedding y’know – too bad about your pouf – is that yellow stain what I think … ohhhhh, well, those glass figurines dooo go well together on the side table – is that Snow White in the middle? My mother always said: get a place with a view – too bad you don’t have a larger deck.
I’ll just take some air for a moment …
Ah, Guest Tips! Why didn’t I think of that?
A year or two ago I helped a friend cater her garden party. There were supposedly a number of vegetarians coming — this was an Arizona party attended largely by retirees from California or New York. (I was reminded of my youth in red states, when us local bohemians — the arty and the gay, the sociology teaching assistants, people with negro friends, and scruffy types who were inevitably reading Kropotkin — blew the pot smoke out the bathroom window, lest a police raid catch their hosts in flagrante,)
Anyway, since I’d done a lot of vegetarian cooking in my California days, my job was to prepare the vegetarian dishes, and, paradoxically, the barbecued tri-tip done chimichurri style, ’cause the hostess liked the recipe, and thought that a single animal dismemberment, even if it was in the center of the buffet table, wouldn’t be too offensive.
Well, to make a long story short, when I got back from the grill with my two tri-tips done to perfection if I do say so myself, no one had touched the vegetarian dishes. I went to the kitchen, did my slicing and carried the large, deliciously bloody platter back to the table. Then I found a glass of wine and headed to the patio.
When I came back in 15 minutes later, there wasn’t a scrap of meat on the platter, and people were actually mopping up the juices with odd bits of bread. Needless to say, the vegetarion dishes were still untouched, except for a single furrow ploughed through the middle of the ratatouille, as though someone had been testing the structural strength of the sesame crackers before committing them to the paté.
Let that be a lesson to all of us. If there are Americans present, there must also be meat. Never mind what they tell you, darling — trust your instincts.
I’ve always found that to be the case as well, WT. Like a lot of things I wrote back then, this piece was meant to skewer specific people without mentioning them by name. At the time, an insufferable couple lived upstairs who had a list of forbidden foods, goods, etc. as long as my arm, and it drove me crazy. I eventually moved to escape them.
One would expect such couples to be more of a problem in Portland than in, say, Dallas or Phoenix. Sadly, given our peripatetic natures, this isn’t always the case. Since moving here, I’ve had to cope with blood-of-the-lamb Christians and Vegans at the same gathering more times than I would have thought possible.
Thank God for European expatriates and ample supplies of gin-and-tonic. Nothing lifts the spirit like a discussion of the artistic merits of the recent Reichstag renovations, or the environmental lessons to be learned from ancient Dutch polders. (Especially when accompanied by lots of the aforementioned gin, of course.)
The gin is the key, I think. Portland has gotten much more granola in the past 10 or 15 years; due to an influx of people like that couple, but it wasn’t always that way. I remember how shocked I was when I went to college in Eugene in the early 80′s, and it was as though the hippie era was still in full swing. I developed a loathing for alfalfa sprouts from which I’ve never recovered.
Well, after we discovered that there’d been more cases of e-coli infections from alfalfa sprouts than from McDonalds’ hamburger patties, the number of salads containing them dropped way off. (How do you wash a nest of sprouts, etc., etc.)
I actually used to like them in certain kinds of sandwiches, but my gag reflex was always triggered by avocado and sprouts in close proximity. In the Eighties in California, the combination was more common than moussed hair, and far more unsettling, at least to me. It was something about incompatible textures, I think, but I never wanted to find out badly enough to do the requisite testing.
In Eugene, you couldn’t even get an omelette sans sprouts, much less a sandwich. And the quantity! Mounds and mounds of the icky things.
No matter what I was ordering, saying “no sprouts” at the end became a habit. I wonder if that’s changed by now; I haven’t been to Eugene for twenty years…. No desire to revisit my alma mater, especially since I found out that my old fraternity house is now a part of Northwest Christian College.