Hostess With the Mostess

Okay, considering that the holiday party season is in full-on swing, I’m here to help (as always). So I present to you…

The WildHearts Guide to Entertaining: How to Be the Host(ess) with the Most(ess)

  1. Stock up. A good host/hostess has enough of everything. And I mean everything–yes, Mr. or Mrs. Mostess should ensure everyone’s cocktail glasses remain filled and the h’orderves are a-plenty, but that’s not all a good host thinks of. Band-aids for the clumsy guest who manages to slice herself with the cheese knife. Vicodin for your friend with anxiety issues (or yourself–parties get stressful, and no one likes a snappy host). Extra toilet paper and tampons hidden discreetly in reachable tins in the bathroom–trust me, no one wants to ask for that accouterment, and they will root around in your stuff.
  2. Be flexible. Your best friend shows up with her gross, loud boyfriend? Greet him with grace. A snooty vegan refuses to eat the vegetarian options you thoughtfully prepared (see Rule 1)? Offer to run down to the corner store and grab that bitch some lettuce. Your power goes out? Why, a candlelit dinner would be ever so fun! No matter what catastrophes threaten to ruin your big night, you are the best host ever, damn it, and your feathers won’t ruffle.
  3. Look stunning. I don’t care if it’s a casual margarita night (although, come on, it’s Christmas or Chanukah or Kwanza–pizzazz your get-together up a little). No one wants to go to your house to find you still wearing the outfit you tossed on to clean the house–a good party should appear effortless. Your sweaty gym-bun and flour-dusted sweatpants are just a gross reminder of how much work you put into your fiesta, and then everyone feels guilty and weird and over-compliments your canapés.
  4. Make plans (but don’t be afraid to break them–see Rule 2). Now, most people are content with sitting around in your pretty house and drinking, but sometimes a little more effort is required. Maybe you’re having a weird mix of guests who don’t know each other well enough to dive right into dinner-and-drinks chitchat, or maybe your friends just suck. Either way, if you’re afraid your party is going to fall apart like a badly-baked souffle, you need some backup plans. We’re adults here–Twister is not an option. But nobody said you had to leave drinking games at college–card games are a classy means of getting your guests wasted, and no one will be bored.
  5. Outsource. If you want to do everything yourself, fine. There is nothing wrong with that. Make sure you get extra of everything, clean your house like a madman, and have a fabulous outfit hanging on the back of your closet to pop into. But if the host task seems a little daunting, well, that’s only because it is. And the bigger the party, the more stressful your Lone Ranger routine becomes. So outsource! Caterers are by far the most helpful resource–mmm, delicious food that you slide into homey-looking pans so it looks like you did all the work, et voila! But if you’re really lazy, a maid can come in handy, and you can even hire sous chefs or servers to make yourself look like Donald Trump (with better hair, let’s hope).

So, that’s it! Now you can host a great party in 5 not-so-simple steps! I could drone on about location and presentation and why trying to make everyone lobster solo is sure to be a tragic failure, but really, I have better things to do. And for those of you who aren’t having a bash this year: here’s how to be the perfect guest! Arrive a little late, look great, pretend you love everything even if you don’t, try not to incite any arguments, play your host’s childish game of Kings, and above all, look like you’re having fun.

Good Gifts for Your Hairdresser & Manicurist

I picked up a copy of the December Allure last night, and it was a real treat, like all magazines. Magazines are like candy that you read. They’re so glossy and shiny and beautiful, and, just like candy, you enjoy them for a little while and then they’re gone (read: you threw them out because you got sick of the cover model’s face staring up at you from your coffee table).

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But one little segment in Allure caught my eye. It was a section–a whole section–on good holiday gifts for your service people. Specifically, your hairdresser and your manicurist  “Why, how marrrrrvelous!” I declared. “I was looking for a good gift for Mr. Fekkai!” Oh, wait, no I didn’t, because I don’t have a hairdresser or a manicurist  The suggestion was probably written by one, actually, since they suggested you buy them a wallet or a cashmere scarf.

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Now, I am all for gifting to the people that help make your day a little brighter. And I am sure that hairdressers and manicurists deserve a lot of cashmere scarves considering the insufferable people they have to make small talk to all day. But who the hell does Allure think is reading Allure?! I’m sure some richies do pick it up, but since it also sits next to the Reese’s Cups at the Wegman’s checkout, I’d say a lot more non-riches are regular readers. And who really needs advise on what to get their hairdresser? If you’re swank enough to have your own (which is now a personal dream of mine, after reading that article–it sounds pretty fab) and have the resources to buy them luxe presents, I think you–or your personal shopper–probably already have that on lock.

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That being said, I will do anyone’s nails for a cashmere sweater.

Things I Hate, Part Hatey-Two

Sometimes I hate things. These are some of the things I currently hate.

Not tigers. I love tigers.

1.) People who call women “females.” A girl cat is called a female cat, a bitch is a female dog (or your mother), and a chinchilla with lady parts (ew) is a female chinchilla. A female human is called a woman, or a girl, or any-fucking-thing you want besides female. It sounds weird, and kind of degrading considering the only other time it’s used is for animals. This fellow, Mr. Treat Women Right of Twitter fame, posted a tweet that said, “#Females have a bad habbit of holding on too long, #Men have a bad habbit of letting go too easily.” Dear Mr. Treat Women Right: First of all, I don’t know what a “habbit” is, and second of all, tweeting “females” and then “men” instead of “women” and then “men” is retarded. Would you say, “I’d like a peanut butter and preserves sandwich” or “Bread and margarine”? Well, you probably would, because you’re a weird freak who reads Cosmo, turns the advice section into mushy tweets, and then probably gives STDs to one of your 314,116 followers.

2.) The ridiculous, overgeneralizing, sappy, feel-bad-for-me quotes on Tumblr. SHUTUPSHUTUPSHUTUP. I am not really sure when teenage girls are going to realize that 100% of people–even other teenage girls–would rather be around happy people than miserable people, but for the sake of my brain, I hope that time comes soon. I would just unfollow every single Tumblr who posts that shit, but then I would offend a lot of friends and also be following no one.

3.) Stare-ers. Put your eyes back in your head or else I will do it for you using something spiky. I absolutely loathe being stared at. I know that I am a ridiculously sexy, gorgeous person, but when people look at me for longer than, say, ten seconds, their eyes have worn out their welcome. The world is a large and glorious place with much more interesting things than me to look at. This weird girl who looked like the Michelin Man stared at me for so long her head kind of turned around like an owl’s. I hope it got stuck that way and now she has to spin in a circle to do her full creeper stare.

4.) Not coming during sex. This only happens in circumstances where being interrupted or cockblocked is involved, because the Boy knows how to do his job, but I firmly believe there is a lady version of blue balls. Blue boobs, maybe? It makes me feel like a tingly pent-up bomb. (Except diffusing me is a lot more fun…ooer.)

5.) Feeling like a dick because I hate things other people like. I don’t like feeling like a ranty neurotic nitpicky weirdo. So now I double-hate all the things I hate!

I still love you, though, my faithful delicious readers. If I could I would send you all bonbons for Christmas, although I have never have bonbons, because they sound delightfully French and fancy, and those are two good adjectives.

 

Have a Miraculous Christmas

Guess what, Internet? It’s two days before Chrimbo! If you don’t celebrate that holiday, well, then, I don’t know how many days it is until yours, but have a good December 25th anyway!

As a present to myself, I want a new bra.

This bra, to be precise, although probably without all the Swarovski crystals because that will set you back a cool $250. The regular version is “only” $50. See, somehow, I have never bought a Victoria’s Secret bra. I own a bunch of clothes from them, and a drawerful of underwear (I am wearing a VS dress and VS cheekies right now, since I know you were wondering), but I am a cheapo and I can’t bring myself to pay that much for a g.d. ta-ta holder.

But. This, my friends, is not just any bra. This is the Victoria’s Secret Miracle Push-Up Bra, which promises to make you go up two sizes. And I’m pretty sure it’s true, because I have seen Miss Candice Swanepoel sans bra (I’m not a perv; blame Google) and she looks decidedly like a B (as Wikipedia says she is). Long story short, that bra works.

Firstly, that picture reminded me I need to paint my nails. But anyway. I am also a B, although I really can’t image myself having that level of cleavage, but then I got to thinking…isn’t that kind of false advertising? Imagine if you were fooling around with a guy and grabbing what you thought was a super-impressive boner, only to find out that it was like a flashlight or something. When I take off my bra, I don’t want the reaction to be disappointment. Au contraire, I would prefer a happy kid-on-Christmas (hey! That’s soon!) face. So if I walk around with a super-stacked looking chest and then take my clothes off, it’ll be like my ta-tas deflated. And that is definitely not miraculous.

So, fuck it. I will probably just keep buying eighty-seven pounds of underwear and wearing Aerie bras, since they keep the girls a normal size and aren’t sneaky little tricksters.

I’m sorry, I just had to put another Victoria’s Secret picture in here, because it looks so Christmassy and adorable. Also, I want her hair.

Happy Holidays, Internet!

A Heartfelt Drunk Letter to Santa

So I just watched the Glee Christmas episode and it definitely put me in the holiday spirit. Mostly because it was about Santa, and I love Santa. But then it reminded me that I have to go Christmas shopping, and that killed my deck-the-halls buzz.

I. HATE. CHRISTMAS. SHOPPING. I mean, I’m not a dick. I love buying people presents, and I love shopping, and I love Christmas. It should add up to a full-on orgasmic mall experience. I even love stores around the holidays, because they have twinkly window displays and the mall has a big tall tree and a chubby mall Santa.

But. Buying some people gifts is SO HARD. Take my dad, for instance. His interests include Boring Things and Other Boring Things. And he has all the equipment necessary to take part in said Boring Things. What am I supposed to get him? A pencil holder made out of a soup can? A hand print turned into a reindeer? I wish I hadn’t used all those brilliant ideas back in my youth, because now I’m fucked.

I mean, I am easy to shop for. I like almost everything. You would almost have to try to find a gift that I wouldn’t like. And even if you managed (say, by purchasing a life-sized Hitler doll that can raise its arm and sing holiday songs) I would still pretend I liked it, so it wouldn’t matter anyway. But it seems like everyone I know has such weird specific interests, and I have such a tiny amount of money, and it is just basic math:

(No $$$) * (Friends w/ Specific Interests) * (Family w/ Specific Interests) * (# of Gifts) = FUCKED

If only everyone I knew was super jonesing for things I am good at making. Like origami cranes, and bad jokes. At least with guys it’s easy, because you just dress up as Super Slutty Santa and do things to them that you’d do to a candy cane. (Unless you’re a freak who bites candy canes, and then you are in trouble, because not only will that be a really shitty gift but you will also scar them for life as far as the holidays are concerned.) Although I actually don’t go that gift route with guys, because unless you’re a frigid bitch that’s the same kind of thing they’re getting on a regular, except that you’re dressed as Santa. So fuck, there is yet another present I need to buy.

I’m just going to drown my tears in a vat of heavily spiked eggnog and write Santa a heartfelt drunk letter asking him to buy all my presents for me. Cheers!

Gaelic Is Obviously What’s Up

I kind of wish I had a cool cultural background with lots of weird traditions. I feel like that’s the one place where Whitey really gets the short end of the stick. I was watching Modern Family (so sue me, I have a soft spot for family-oriented comedy shows) and Sofia Vergara’s character talked about some Colombian tradition where you “scare” the food to respect the dead, or something. And my friend eats twelve fish for Christmas, and my other friend has these giant magical family get-togethers with all their native food. And a blogger I read (Doe Deere) has all these awesome, weirdly specific Russian traditions (don’t give scarves as gifts and don’t take out the trash at night).

Do you know what I have? MTV and macaroni.

Not really. But I’m just your typical Eurotrash (mostly mostly Mick with some English), with a pinch of Ottowa Indian (seriously) and French Canadian. And when I say “pinch” I mean like one drop of blood running in my veins. So I don’t know any cool rain dances or how to stretch deer hide. Also people usually mistake me for Norwegian, so I obviously am not really repping the dark-skinned heritage.

My family’s traditions include opening one present on Christmas Eve, andddd…um. Yeah. That’s what we do.

Basically I’m just going to learn a bunch of Gaelic and pretend I grew up with it to add interest to my life. That’s what’s up.