The Dinner Party Trap

Being forced to eat at parties does not take a vacation with the cold weather. No, no, no. No. In fact, the spring season presents an even trickier set of obstacles to avoid at social events. You might think you’re in the clear because Organic Jericho Lettuce is finally in season again, but you’re wrong.  Life comes at you quick when the sun is in your eyes, so I thought it would be a good idea for all of my readers to be aware of the scary party risks that will be arising over the next few months.

You will be in attendance at a shitload of outdoor dinner and cocktail parties. Your dad’s girlfriend will be launching her skin-care line at Soho House and there will be passed hors-d’oeurves that look small and dairy-free. Your lesbian dog-walker’s lesbian mom will be hosting a seance on the beach and not only will you need to eat at least one seaweed croissant as a courtesy, but you will also be stark naked.

This weekend is my bestie Roman’s birthday. Or maybe it’s his half birthday. Or, actually, I think his birthday was last month, but whatever. He’s having some sort of huge dinner party and I’m already starting to stress about getting super stressed when I get there about the food situation and ending up stress eating my way through the night.

The party is at his house, so it’s not like I can order my usual “side of spinach spine, hold the leaves, with a squeeze of lemon.” I begged him to change the location because dinner parties at houses are simply not safe. I’ve told him this so many times, but he wants to unveil his newly renovated closet to 150 of our other besties. I don’t understand my gays some times. This cruel world pushes them so far into the closet, and then as soon as they break out of it, they go right back in for a remodel.

So, in prep for Roman’s dinner I’ve planned a super simple meal plan that should get me through the night in one piece, no fuck-ups. Last time he hosted a dinner party, I ended up splitting an entire pork chop with Brad Goreski. So, here’s my plan: tomorrow, I’ll tell Romie that I’m sick in bed puking and there’s no way in Hades I’ll ever make it this weekend. I won’t answer anyone’s texts all week. Then when Saturday night’s din-din rolls around, I’ll show up and shock everyone by looking fabulous but still “feeling kind of wrecked by the whole ordeal.” And of course I’ll respond to any inquiries from friends and/or wait-staff that “No, I will not be eating tonight. I’m still getting over a stomach bug that I picked up in the valley.”

So easy, right?

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