I'm a lady, and so are you

Alright then dear readers, you had homework. Use the comments to tell me about your guest feeding experience. Did you use any of the tips? What went well? What might you do differently?

Did I have a dinner party?

Oh, You want to hear about mine.



If I give you all $5, will you go away?


these blog people are very nosy Sure, I'll tell you.

So, it started out kind of badly. The guests we were supposed to be feeding prime rib had to cancel. Something about surgery. (like *that's* any kind of excuse!)

So, I was having coffee with a friend, and I thought I'd invite her to dinner. She's a close enough friend that she wouldn't mind being a replacement. I was a bit anxious about what I'd tell the blog about my dinner party. I figured I'd better have someone over. Mr. Spit and I just aren't that exciting.

Mrs. Spit feeds Mr. Spit pizza! Or nacho's. Or porkchops! And the dogs get raw ground chicken! Wow!

So, on Thursday the 22nd, I invite the friend for dinner. On the 30th.

On Monday, the 26th, I phone and mention that we didn't settle a time, could she call me?

On Tuesday, the 27th, I phone and mention that I still need a time, 7 would work for us, but let me know.

On Thursday, I'm getting a bit anxious, and I phone and say that I really do need to know what time to expect them, could she phone? If I don't hear from her, I'll assume that something has come up and she's not coming.

I'm a bit surprised, just because she's not like this, and she would never dream of being, well, this rude, and I really haven't met her new husband, and I'm looking forward to it . . .

On the morning of Friday, the 30th, I decide they aren't coming.

So, I'm standing in the kitchen, cooking up perogies and Mundare sausage. We are discussing our week. The house is tidy-ish, but certainly not company ready, and the floors are decidedly furry around the edges. It's about 7.

And there's a knock upon the door. I go and look out, and there's my friend. With her shiny new husband.

And I'm in my ratty t-shirt and old jeans, with crud on the jeans. I look down and there's a tuft of pet hair stuck to my sock.

I open the door. I usher them in. "Oh, your cell phone wasn't working. Funny that."

I see Mr. Spit open the freezer back up, pull out the rest of the sausage, and start slicing. . . .

Please, dear blog readers, tell me your event went better!