Because THIS is the only thing that is going to keep me sane through Thursday night. You see, people, I raise money. And this year, I have to raise a BUTTLOAD of money for the hospital I work for. No one has ever had to do this before. I’m the first one.
We have a very high-end, highly-anticipated, chic, killer restaurant that is opening in my part of the world. The people who own this restaurant are “the” restaurateurs around here. I happen to know the architect who was designing the space.
Somewhere in a drug-induced delusional moment, I had this hair-brained idea that we should team up with the new restaurant during its opening weeks to have a fabulous fundraiser…and they agreed!
So, the past several months have been a blur of invitations, guest lists, party favors, florals, more guest lists, and more details than I ever knew could exist.
I hate details.
And they hate me. You see, details and I came to an agreement WAAAAY back in my career. They wouldn’t bother me, and I wouldn’t bother with them. We were free to see other people. We got along swimmingly. It was the perfect “open relationship”.
But now! I’ve gone and broken our cardinal rule of engagement. I have to deal with them. There is no one else. And we are both pissed.
I have a sold out event this week. That’s considered a success. Especially at the $250 per person ticket costs. And I’ll agree when it’s over.
But right now I have to go tie a marinara recipe on 140 packages of pasta with some raffia. And then put some stickers on some tiny jars of olives. And more raffia. THEN I have to figure out what the table cards will look like to thank our underwriters. Oh, and then I shall call my florist (again) to redesign the flowers because, well, because the concept of the restaurant doesn’t actually lend itself to flowers. Then I get to figure out which guests at which tables can be seated next to each other because G-d knows certain people couldn’t POSSIBLY be seated next to some other people or all hell might break loose and I don’t need executives, elected officials and socialites going batshit before dinner is even served.
But at least I know what I’m wearing. And it’s fabulous.