Solo cups? Check. Ping-Pong balls? Check. Cases of beer? Check. Ice? Check. Keg? Check. Pigs in a blanket? Check.
One of these is not like the other. And yes, the answer is pigs in a blanket—not only because it has a ridiculous name, but also because it isn't a typical college party essential. That is, except for gatherings held at my house.
A year ago, back when I was a young lass at the age of 21, my mom called on a Friday night to ask what I was doing that evening. Whenever my mom wants to know my weekend plans, I answer with caution. I tell the truth, but I don't offer up too many details. I told her we were hosting a party. She asked what we'd be serving.
Me: Beer.
Mom: And what else?
Me: That's it.
Mom: What do you mean, that's it?
Me: Well I also bought a handle of...
Mom: What food will you serve?
Me: Food? Nothing.
Mom: Kathleen Quinn Brosnan.
(Aw crap. She used my full name. What did I do now?)
Mom: You can't host a party and not provide something to eat. Drinking without balancing it with food isn't healthy. People might get out of hand. People might even get drunk.
(Ohhhh, I thought people were coming to stay sober.)
Mom: When you host a party it's your job to make sure people are safe. Just like when you were a lifeguard. You have to make sure…
(Is she comparing this 30-person get-together to my high school summer lifeguarding job? This is a stretch.)
Long story short, after hearing my mom go on and on about the precautions I must take when hosting a party where there'd be liquor served, (dropping the words ""alcohol poisoning,"" ""death,"" ""police"" and ""ambulances""), she basically scared me shitless. Ten minutes later I was waiting in line at Fresh Madison Market with a cart full of mini wiener dogs.
So that's a college party—drink, maybe eat a pig in a blanket or two, make a mess, clean it all up the next morning and you're done. Hosting a family party is a little more complicated. And by ""complicated"" I mean ""shitty."" My cousins come over all the time unannounced when our house is looking a little blah, and it's no big deal. But, all of a sudden, once the word ""Easter"" is thrown out there, our place has to look like Buckingham Palace. The one plus of hosting a family gathering is you get to change into comfy clothes halfway through the party. Everything else blows.
The room that no one even sees
The chances of someone going into my bedroom during a family party are slim. The chances of them lifting up my covers to take a gander at my sheets are even slimmer. But you know what? That doesn't mean anything to my mom. If I have to use the ""hospital-corners"" method one more time to put sheets on my bed, I might lose it. What's that? You don't know what hospital corners are? Consider yourself lucky. Hospital corners are the most tedious and unnecessary step in making a bed.
Polishing our nice silverware
Our silverware always looks fine. Actually, scratch that, it looks more than fine. It looks lovely. And you know why it looks lovely and in such good condition? Because it only gets action four times a year, max. Even when the silverware looks good to go, I always get stuck spending two hours re-polishing everything. Last time I checked, no one cares if the fork is shiny. All they care about is that it gets the job done, meaning it successfully transfers food from the plate to the mouth.
Ice
I thought downing an ice slushee too quickly caused the biggest headaches, but every holiday I'm reminded that there's worse—hearing my parents worry about the ice situation and continually saying the word ""ice."" That, my friend, will cause the biggest headache ever.
""Boys, have you gotten the ice?"" ""Remember, we need seven bags of ice."" ""You better get the ice before the store closes."" ""Matt, I left a 20 on the kitchen table for you to buy the ice."" ""Kevin, are you going with Matt to get the ice?"" ""Have you cleaned out the coolers for the ice?"" ""Do you think seven bags of ice is enough?"" ""Have you gotten the ice?"" ""Seriously, have you gotten the ice?""
Greeting guests
Greeting family members can be a real anxiety-ridden experience. Only because with some relatives you aren't sure if you should hug or shake hands. Guys have it easier. In guy-to-guy interactions, they always shake each other's hands. The only hug/shake uncertainty happens when dealing with girls. We girls on the other hand have 100 percent uncertainty. We don't know whether to shake or hug when dealing with either sex.
I always like to play it safe by going in for the hug. I'd rather be friendly than be the relative who's too formal and comes off cold. Well, this backfires way too often. This past Easter I went to go give my cousin's girlfriend a hug, and she went for the handshake. I got a nice, stiff hand shoved in my collarbone. People don't recover from these types of these things. We spent the rest of the night taking great pains to avoid each other.
Getting your plate last
Guests first. Always. Who invented this rule? I'm blaming it on the British. They're always putting on the pressure to be proper. Why should my little cousin Johnny get his plate first? While I was refilling everyone's drinks and taking the garbage out, he was scarfing down artichoke dip in world record time.
When it was my turn to get my plate the food wasn't warm and there wasn't much left. Later, when I was supposed to be doing the dishes, I was instead covertly standing over a dish of mashed potatoes and scraping the sides to get the last bit. I caught my aunt staring at me in disgust.
Oh, you're not finished? Too bad!
When my dad calls into the room where the kids table is and asks, ""Kathleen, are you almost done eating?"" It's actually code for, ""Get going on the pile of dishes in the sink.""
All the in-between and unexpected knick-knacks
Are you familiar with Farnsworth Bentley? If not, he's the guy that worked for Diddy and held his umbrella for him. He basically carried out any of Diddy's outlandish requests. Well, that's how I feel whenever we host a family party. Relatives always ask you to do weird and random stuff when they know it's your house.
""Kathleen, you have any socks I can borrow?""
""Kathleen, my ankle is a bit sore. Can you fetch me an ice pack?
""Kathleen, there aren't any red jelly beans in this bowl, can you go find me some in another bowl?""
After a few more absurd requests I was fuming. I was ready to grab the keys and tell my mom I had to head to the gas station to buy more bags of ice or something. Anything to ditch the work and get out of my house. Instead, I decided that would be really mean, and it was Easter, so I assumed God would really tally this against me. So I stayed and put on a happy face. But I am demanding that next year our family goes out for brunch instead. I'll even take Old Country Buffet.
Do you know why they are called pigs in a blanket? Do you have hosting party horror stories? Please share at kqbrosnan@wisc.edu.
