A wrinkled party is better than no party

As new homeowners during the past year, we’ve had two kinds of get-togethers: Impromptu, and pre-planned.

As stress-inducing as it is for a perfectionist to think about an impromptu party landing in her hands -- “Wait … no over-analyzing of the perfect menu depending on who’s coming with the perfect amount of snacks, side dishes and accompanying beverages? How scary!” -- these have actually always turned out the best. Or the most fun, anyway.

Thinking back to just last year – our first summer of homeownership – I can still feel the topsy-turvy stomach feelings that would overcome me whenever we were getting ready to have a party, or even just one other couple over for dinner.

My thoughts went a little something like this: “Oh no. The floors are covered in dog-hair tumbleweeds. The kitchen’s got a ton of crap in it, the bathroom needs to be cleaned, the living room needs to be cleaned, the whole house, actually, needs to be straightened up! And we need groceries!”

Thinking back to what I must’ve looked like on a typical pre-party trip to the grocery store, holding every kind of grill meat possible with what I’m sure was a panic-stricken look on my face, I could’ve been standing there working out a calculus problem in my head for all anyone knew. Picking between burgers and steak tips really isn’t that complicated – unless you’re on a perfect party quest. Then it can be paralyzing!

Sometimes, my poor husband would be there, too, allowing these overly analytical thoughts on burgers to be released from the safe space of my mind for all the world to hear.

“How much should we get? Do you think that will be enough? I don’t want to get too much and throw it away. Do you think we need burgers and chicken? What about dessert?”

I would literally become paralyzed by indecision, all in the name of perfection. I just couldn’t handle the pressure!

Pushed to the edge of his own sanity on one such occasion, my husband actually made this shocking declaration in the midst of one of my frenzies: "That's it. No more parties. This is insane." (And he loves having parties. I quickly got a hold of myself ... sort of.)

Which brings me to today.

One year later, while I still teeter on the border of this insanity sometimes (I think based in part on the amount of sleep I had the night before), I’ve been thinking more about it, and wondering, “What the hell am I so worried about?”

The people coming over are always our friends, or family. Are they going to disown me if we don’t have three kinds of chips, and a whole veggie tray instead of just the baby carrots I have in the fridge? Um, I hope not. (And I know not … well, they won’t disown me, anyway.)

Will someone complain of a lack of selection? Maybe, though I doubt it. But even if someone did, perhaps someone else would complain about too much selection … or the use of paper plates when we could wash and reuse. Who knows what I’m not even aware of that I could be worrying about.

The point is, I realized all this craziness I’ve been putting myself through – and my poor, patient husband – was not so much about what I thought would be a nice (or even perfect) party, but what I tried to imagine each and every guest would think was a nice party. I was literally trying to be a mind reader, a mood reader, an appetite reader – trying to please everyone with only my imagination to guide me. Hello? Nut job!

While I’m not necessarily cured of this perfect-people-pleasing-party desire – don’t we all want to make our friends and family happy? – I am toning down the over-thinking, little by little. The more gatherings we host, the easier it gets. And, you know what they say -- Practice makes, err … perfect. Great.

No slave to the iron

I came up with the name for my blog when I was making my bed last night. Finally, I was putting on the clean sheets and shams I’d washed three weeks ago – having had every intention of putting them on that day – and noticed how embarrassingly wrinkled and creased my “hotel-esque” bedding was looking.

I was kind of annoyed at first, but then I realized, and this made me laugh, “They don’t make homemakers like they used to!”

Not that I’m a homemaker. I work fulltime and have only a husband and dog to take care of. But since my husband wouldn’t notice dirty sheets if they started disintegrating beneath him, I’m as close to a “homemaker” as this family’s gonna get.

So back to the wrinkles. Seeing that the duvet and sham set for which I’d searched for months to get that clean, crisp hotel look – on a budget, hence the search – had turned into “rumbled-hotel-chic,” made me realize how much I hate wrinkles, and as a result, have managed so far to avoid anything in life that would make me have to deal with them.

Let’s start with my job. I'm a newspaper editor, and lately, I’ve been working from home a few days a week and, therefore, wear whatever I want – I won’t get into details, but it’s a pretty comfortable, ironing-free wardrobe. When I’m in the office, it’s also all about comfort, because I’m rushing around a newsroom like a harried maniac either on deadline, just off deadline, or approaching deadline and still stressing as the days near deadline.

I do have to look professional when I’m covering events or government meetings, or when I’m interviewing people in person. But even then, I’ve somehow managed to find the most professional-looking pants, shirts and dresses available for a person who both hates wrinkles but even more hates ironing.

So, as I looked at my rumpled bed last night, wondering where I went adrift during the “dress for the job you want” lesson, I realized, I have the job I want. A freshly pressed blouse versus a nice, wash-and-wear shirt really doesn’t decide that. I do.

So, my long-winded point is that even though my bed’s not as crisp as that of the hotel I can’t wait to check into next weekend (thank you TravelZoo.com for showing me the Sunshine State sale!), and even though I was petrified wearing a wrinkle-prone silk dress to a friend’s wedding this weekend – so much so that I wouldn’t put on my coat in 30-degree weather and held the seatbelt away from my body for the hour-plus ride – I’m doing just fine here in my iron-avoiding world. And if having wrinkled sheets and avoiding all iron-required clothes means I’m doing it my way, than that’s OK.

It’s better than OK. It’s my imperfect life, and I’m starting to like it.