all I want for christmas is a red velvet dress and martini glass charms

because if there’s one thing I love, it’s a holiday party

Hey, stranger.

On the first Sunday of December, I found myself listening to Brittany Broski’s podcast while I scalded my hands doing the dishes from the night before. To my right, the dishwasher was humming with its comforting lull, already full of wine glasses and champagne flutes and desert plates. My stomach had half an almond croissant and an oat milk latte in it from my post-pilates cafe run and I was deep in thought.

I’ve always been of the opinion that there is nothing more glamorous than a holiday party. Most likely a result of watching my mom and her friends host them for most of my childhood. My mom would make chili and cornbread and candy eyeballs and appetizers disguised as bloody fingers at her Halloween parties. A few months later, our family friends’ would throw a Christmas party with chocolate crinkle cookies and red Poindettias laid on the table and cheese boards and Frank Sinatra playing in the background. The memory that stands out to me most of all is of the little charms my mom would give to guests for their martini glasses and the image of them glittering on the dirty crystal the next morning by the sink.

It was that memory I was thinking about while I carefully washed the golden martini glasses Erin got me for my birthday, which had made their brilliant debut the night before at my 2nd annual holiday party. I’ve generously dubbed it annual because twice in a row counts as a tradition, right? This year, I had more fun than should be allowed during the lead up. I sent out cute invites. I gathered enough alcohol for an army. I bought pink ornaments and tinsel from Michael’s. I spread glitter on my eyelids and wore red lipstick. My friends and I texted back and forth about what we were going to wear because most of the charm of holiday parties belongs to the fashion of them. It feels like a crime to wear something other than velvet or cashmere or silk or something red. Which, incidentally, are a few of my favorite things.

Careful to avoid the mistakes of parties past, I did my best to prepare ahead of time, making little lists of things to get and keeping the appetizers to a minimum and getting ready before I got too mixed up in decorating. I tried not to have too much fun playing dress up and forget something important like Kahlúa for the martinis (a crime). But as always, Saturday arrived slightly too quickly and I did my best to fit in a workout before a work meeting before mixing 15 servings of espresso martinis into a giant pitcher for people to shake themselves before throwing tinsel on whatever surfaces I could get my hands on before picking out a new outfit after realizing my red tights were a bit too candy cane for my liking. I hung ornaments from the ceiling, which was not a graceful affair— Michael laughed at me while I crawled onto the kitchen island in a crouch, my back and arms straining from trying to tape them up in an effortless, yet evenly spread, manner. When they started falling to the floor with a definitive plink! at around 10pm, I did my best to laugh it off despite the stress-related vein emerging from my forehead.

The art of throwing a party will always be a glittery, shining thing to me. It is ever elusive, though, and I’m not sure if I’m good at it yet. No matter what, something always seems to go wrong. The ornaments fall from the ceiling. I get slightly too stressed about the timing of dishes coming out of the oven. I forget to apply mascara. We run out of ice. Occasionally I’ll be so preoccupied making everyone feel comfortable that I’ll even forget to drink. My friends who show up early see me running around with one shoe on, my hair half finished, candles waiting to be lit. I am an imperfect host with a penchant for getting slightly too high strung about having enough tinsel strewn about.

But while I was washing dishes that Sunday, it was not the slightly burnt hors d'oeuvres that I was thinking about. I was smiling to myself at a joke my friend had made and that someone had brought a new boyfriend that obviously made her happy and how Michael would catch my eye throughout the night and smile at me in my favorite way. I could barely remember why I cared that an errant ornament hit someone on the head.

When I was a little girl I thought glamorous meant wearing red velvet and starched whites and owning martini glass charms. While I’m still inclined to agree with my younger self, I think what I was enamored by as a little girl was the people who showed up for my parents. The deafening volume of conversation crowding a room. People in town who otherwise wouldn’t be. Reunions and introductions. My mom floating in and out of conversations to thank everyone for coming. Being the perfect host certainly seems like an ideal I’d like to strive for but when I think about my mom’s parties, I don’t remember any of the things that went wrong. All I can recall is the sound of people laughing and singing along to Nat King Cole.

As always, it is the people who show up that matter the most in the end. And how lucky am I that on the Sunday’s, the morning after’s, the hungover afternoon’s, I get to receive texts from my friends thanking me for the night before? I feel confident in declaring that the allure of holiday parties lies behind all of the glittering decor and velvet dresses and frosted cocktail glasses to the very simple fact that people you love are gathered together for no other reason than that they’ve chosen to. It feels unnecessary to focus on the chaos of setting the stage when there is a joy to watching the night unfold in front of you.

xoxo,

Evie