It all started with the rain—
–When we had planned to party on the lawn.
My partner Sara had been planting and pruning, purposefully piddling in the garden for months. I had joined in on weekends away from blogging, before participating in full-time party prep last Thursday.
I had cleaned our huge home from almost-top to almost-bottom, omitting only attic and basement from my frenzied scrubbing.
Sara had been reading recipes and planning menus, everything from growing herbs to grocery shopping.
We were exhausted but nearly ready, when we woke up Sunday morning to rain—lots of rain—rivers of rain. We prepared to launch the ark but decided we’d be better off praying for it to stop and proactively setting up inside instead. (I exaggerate here only a little.)
Sara continued to cook, while I went into frantic but festive over-drive—rearranging and setting up the indoor option—keeping the outdoor one in place, just in case God decided a ceasefire was in order and our pummeling from heaven should come to a quick and less-wet, happy ending.
Once I’d gotten the inside done, the heavens parted, the rain stopped, and we were whiplashed into outdoor mode once more.
To make a long story more mercifully short, the party proved amazing; the blog has been ignored—our outside party on the lawn a huge success.
But I woke up this morning post-less and sick as my Maltese when Mommy’s gone. (And I don’t even drink.)
So the blog and all my blogging buddies have been sacrificed to party success and ensuing partied-sickness.
But I promise to get back on track tomorrow—a real mental illness post in my bloodied blogger’s fist or housing piece complete and ready for prime time.
In the meantime—please forgive my break from blogging.
Death by dinner party is more than it’s cracked up to be, and I don’t even have the pictures to prove it.
See you in a less-partied, more stomach-settled day or so . . .