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.

Wow, They Really Straightened Up the Place

Last night, I went dancing at a fine establishment known as a gay bar. Now, for any girl who likes to dance and doesn’t like 400 horny guys trying to rub their dicks on her, a gay bar has always been the perfect solution (gay girls are a lot less pushy than straight dudes). You get to dress up, break it down, and have fun with your friends without having boners shoved everywhere.

Or so I thought, because apparently, some giant asshole TOLD STRAIGHT GUYS. Yeah, that’s right. Some giant douche decided to spill the beans and whisper, “Psst! Pass it on! Tons of straight girls go to gay clubs–it’s the perfect place to meet the ladies!”

I mean, clearly, if I am a straight girl at a club with rainbow flags everywhere and bouncers who look like they just walked off a gay bondage porno, I am there for a reason. And the reason is not that I love listening to gay icons blare through speakers at 5,000,000 decibels. The reason is that I want to dance all night without having to awkwardly reject people. Nothing against guys who mack on girls at clubs–I mean, it’s a club. That’s like going to an opium den and being like, “God, what a bunch of drug addicts!” But come on! Sometimes, I just want to dance like a slut for me, you know?

Instead, I was assaulted last night by 387 straight dudes asking me to dance and following me around the club and totally trying to rub their creepy penises on me. And I’m not a bitch–I didn’t say, “Fuck you,” I said, “No, but why don’t you dance with all of us?” and gestured to my lovely friends. At which point the straight-man infiltrator would then proceed to shake his head to that request and then superglue his crotch to my butt.

This happened the entire night, including guys who just kept. Coming. Back. I would let them do their exciting little boner grindy dance for about two seconds, and then very smoothy lift their hands over our head and twirl around so we were all dancing together. Which worked for a while, until the Ted lookalike (of How I Met Your Mother fame). But I’m pretty sure he was gay (maybe? Do gay guys get boners when they dance with girls, because that was not a wallet pressing on my ass), so I just went with it.

On one hand, I can’t complain. They were all actually totally decent-looking, and three of them could even be classified as something approaching “hot.” And they were all, with the exception of a seriously misguided lil’ dude, taller than me. On the other hand–listen, dolls, if I was single, I would rub against you like a kitty cat and then do something a little naughty outside the club, BUT I’M NOT. So go back to a straight bar where one of the girls you dance with might actually sleep with you (but she probably won’t).

Hip Hip Hooray…For Belly Dancing

I have taken up belly dancing.

Okay, so I am not exactly a pro, and I am also not exactly taking classes. Or learning from a professional. Or anything that that sentence made you think. By “taken up belly dancing,” I mean I watch belly dancing “how-to” videos and YouTube and learn from there. Judge me a little more; it’s not like there are dance studios out here in the Middle of Nowhere, Canadia-America-Land.

Seriously, though, it’s really fun. The one thing I can’t do yet (well, fine, one of many things) is the belly roll, though, and that’s exactly what everyone thinks of when they think of belly dancing. So I kind of feel like a fraud, saying that I belly dance but I can’t do that. But I swear you need a little bit of a tummy to do that, because part of it involves pushing out my lower abs, and when I do it doesn’t look like anything is pushed out. Not that I’m complaining (and this isn’t bragplaining, I swear, just an observation), but I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to do it.

Also, it makes me feel sexy (sexier, that is, because come on, people). And I already own belly dancing bracelets (not that I know how to use them yet; they just jingle around uselessly while I do other stuff), which make me feel cool and exotic and less white.

But you know how they say there are seven kinds of intelligence, or something? Like cooking intelligence, and color-coordinating intelligence, and knowing-the-brand-of-someone’s-perfume-with-one-smell intelligence (maybe–I’m not too clear on what the seven types are)? Well, if there is a dancing one, or a “body awareness” one, I don’t have it. I’m not a klutz or anything, but I just can’t learn dance routines. It’s really hard for me and I have to practice over and over and over before I remember the steps. That’s why I love belly dancing–for some reason, it’s way easier for me than other kinds of dance. I still suck way more than the average person and have to put in way more concentration, but it’s better for me.

Yeah, this is ballet. How many belly dancing pictures is one little blogger expected to find anyway? (Ew, I just called myself a blogger, gross.)

In short: go wrap a scarf around your hips and dance ’till you have less of them, because it’s super fun.

Prom, Anyone?

There should be proms for grown-ups.

I mean, seriously. Why is it that once you graduate high school, there aren’t special parties for no reason? Being an adult is great, don’t get me wrong. But there is a big difference between wearing a little black dress out for cocktails and feeling like a princess in a giant gown. And yeah, you get to do that when you get married, but you can only tie the knot like ten times, and around number five, people aren’t going to RSVP. So there should just be like a yearly Big People Fun Dress Up Party Dance Night (or BPFDUPDN).

Besides, teenagers can’t appreciate prom. Half of them are totally ruining their photos with hideous braces-covered smiles, and the other half are too busy making out with awkward boys/girls in braces to really soak up the moment. And they can’t even drink during–some shots would really make it easier for the awkward high school set to hold each other’s clammy hands while they “dance.”

Long story short, I would like an excuse to wear a ball gown. And since I’m not friends with anybody who throws “balls” (well, I am, but not the kind of ball you’re thinking of), I would like someone to create this event.

And if you’re saying, “Fuck that, my high school prom sucked,” well, don’t you think it’ll much better with booze and girls who actually put out? Plus, you don’t have to worry about your parents hearing you come, which is always a bonus.

WHOOOOOO, I’m gonna start online shopping for my BPFDUPDN dress. Someone else take care of the pesky details like the venue and the invites, ‘kay?

I think I'm buying this one.

Tiny Dancer(s)

Ballet is so pretty. Even when people grow feathers and get red eyes and stab themselves and look generally insane, it’s still gorgeous.

Long story short, I loved Black Swan.

Put This in Your Cookbook

How to Have a Good St. Patty’s Day: the Recipe

Ingredients:

  • Slutty green clothes (1 pair)
  • Alcohol (6 shots/3 mixed drinks; add more to taste)
  • Loud bar with grindy dance music and strobe lights (1)
  • Friends (any number; must be flavorful)
  • Money (a lot)

Directions:

  1. Put on slutty clothes with friends.
  2. Go to bar.
  3. Buy mixed drinks. Mix them liberally with friends and bar.
  4. Buy shots. Shake vigorously on the dance floor.
  5. Black out.

Seriously, it’s foolproof. Way easier than whipping up some souffle or whatever-the-fuck with Martha Stewart-level difficulty and weird foreign ingredients.

The Skinniest Fatty

Dun dun…dun dun…DUN DUN! You know what that scary sound is? (Don’t read it like, “Dun dun. Dun. Dun.” Read it like, “DUNDUNDUNDUN” all Jaws style.) Something is coming. And that something is…swimsuit season.

I’m stupid. But anyway, that retarded intro to this post aside, I need to Get My Fat Ass Into Shape. Or should I say, my skinny-fat ass into shape. If you haven’t heard that cute little term, it describes people like me. People who look decent (okay, fine, awesome) but are actually not really in shape at all and are just possessed of one kickin’ metabolism. And if you’re thin and you’re reading this right now, it probably describes you, because most people just don’t work out. But do you know what happens if you count on that metabolism holding out for the rest of your life? YOU GET SUPER FAT AND KIDS POINT AT YOU IN THE GROCERY STORE BECAUSE THEY ARE AFRAID YOU’LL EAT THEM.

Okay, maybe not. But you will get fat. And even if your poor body somehow manages to keep you skinny while you wolf down Hungry-Man dinners and Keystone, it’s still not as sexy as being skinny and toned.

I mean, don’t let me cramp your style. There is nothing wrong with being whatever size you want to be. But just speaking on a personal level, I want to be thin and in-shape, not some gross tube of Cheetos and fattiness or whatever. I used to run track, so that’s obviously back on the menu to get myself looking extra-spicy (what? Fuck you. How many synonyms for “sexy” do you know? I’m not gonna go grab a thesaurus for this), as well as dancing, because it’s fun and it’s supposed to make you less chubbsy ubbsy. And some weight-lifting, because every fitness thing I read is all “blah blah blah calories blah blah don’t forget WEIGHTS weights weights weights weights!” And yoga, since that’s part of the daily hullabaloo anyway.

I mean, I’m sure I have a few good years left before the skinny-fat thing stops working for me, so I could just sit around eating Ben & Jerry’s instead. But that’s not my jam. (HAHA food puns.)

Oh Honey Honey

There are certain things I’m just a sucker for. Like being kissed on the neck, or fuzzy dogs, or…dance movies. I love dance movies. They’re kind of like superhero movies, in that I love them all, regardless of who is in it or the specific plot. If some inspired genius makes a superhero movie where they dance…well, either Earth will implode or I’ll be one happy camper.

Secretly, he's Batman.

Today, I watched a famous dance movie that I have never seen before–the cinematic masterpiece known as Honey. I will fully admit that I loved it. Why? Obviously you skipped ahead, you naughty Internet you. I don’t care if the actors are holding the scripts in their hands and mumbling every single line in Farsi (okay, I probably would, because that just sounds confusing) as long as there is lots of dancing.

This is Jessica Alba in Honey, as (wait for it) Honey:

Usually, though, she looks more like a ghetto Bratz doll in, like, giant cargo pants and tiny tank-tops. I just had to use that picture to get the attention of the perverts, and also because when I Google “Honey” there are like three pictures that aren’t the movie poster or Pooh Bear. Anyway. That’s her, and she does a lot of dancing.

You know what else she does a lot of? This.

Not that I mean she just puts earrings in for two hours. I mean that she pretty much just walks around looking pretty and talking with a hilarious faux-ghetto accent. (There is seriously a part where she says, “Their flavor is hot!” And she is not kidding. Or talking about food.) But I think Honey was just one of those cases where I like the actress so even though her part is kind of dumb  I don’t care and I like it anyway. (Whereas Natalie Portman could play a role called Everything WildHearts Loves Ever Times a Million and I would still hate it.) Also, it’s a dance movie, so I auto-love it.

I love dancing. I am not good at it, but I love it. I’ve always wanted to take a class or something, but I’m a ridiculously slow learner and so I would have to learn with the five-year-olds and still get extra help. Whenever I do dance workout videos, they’re like, “Okay, step, step, and half-turn, do a magic-twisting-donkey-spiral, and jump, shake-shake, left hand behind head, right arm sweep up and over and switch! Now do it backwards!” And I’m just standing there working on “step.” Do normal people pick that stuff up? Long story short, I’m no Honey. But I think everyone can naturally just dance to good music, so that is the kind of dancing I do.

Also, I want to learn to pole dance.

Before you call me a slut–actually, fine, call me a slut–it’s supposed to be a great workout.

This is one of those posts that was supposed to be about only one thing, but I just keep rambling and rambling and rambling. And rambling. Did you really read all the way down here, Internet? Kudos to you, kudos.

Hold Me Closer, Terrible Dancer

I sure do love to dance.

It’s a shame I’m so terrible (not that that stops me).