i am your ideal guest. if i went to your gig, i did because of you, to be with you, to talk with you. i couldn’t care less if there’s a layer of dust on your shelves, or if i have to tiptoe through your place because your kids’ toys are strewn all over the floor. i don’t give a whit if you’re serving buttered toast on paper plates or canapes-and-champagne on noritake dinnerware.

so i can’t understand why i am so exacting on myself when i host get-togethers. no matter how simple, i stress and sweat over it for days. i agonize over the menu, partly because there’s just about 5 dishes i know and i feel i have to come up with something cordon bleu for something as casual as a brunch or merienda. our flat gets a hasty once-over, which eventually turns into a great big make-over: no more sticky splotches of apple juice on the floor, the window panes become transparent again, and you can actually sit on the sofa without wading through a load of laundry first. at the last minute, i concede defeat and seek help from exactly the same people who’ll be my guests. cordon-bleu my foot. pot-luck’s more like it.

when everything’s over, the last fork wiped and stashed away and the left-overs (pinoy parties are never without left-overs) frozen for nuking on a rainy day, i slump on the now-clean sofa and rewind everything. i’m exhausted, but my mind’s hyper-active. i can still hear the laughter ringing in my living room, the buzz and hum of conversation, children’s shrieks and singing in the background.

it’s been so much fun, i start fooling myself into thinking i could and should do this more often. nuts!

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