...so, you know. It was a good night.
Last week I asked my husband if I could "do Wednesday Spaghetti." Thinking "Wednesday Spaghetti" = Have a bunch of bloggy chicks over while he and the kids go out for pizza and to the playground, he was all in favor.
Then he saw the evite I sent out. And the fact that 30 people, only two of whom and only by coincidence are bloggy chicks, had RSVP'd with a big, Hellzyeah.
I was thrilled. Delighted. Whoohoo.
Him. Not so much.
And I see his point. His brain was set on "I'm outta here for a few hours" and then he had to quickly adjust to "I'm not even remotely outta here and it's Wednesday and where are those extra chairs and do we have enough beer."
I refused to allow myself to get worked up, I didn't sweep a thing, nor did I frantically scrub toilet bowls, in anticipation of the spaghetti guests. I tried to emphasize that it isn't a PARTY, it's WEDNESDAY SPAGHETTI. Not allowing myself to get worked up sounds easier than it is, but I did it...in honor of the Wedspag.
It was just what I wanted it to be. Neighbors, friends, loved ones, eating their spaghetti. Kids racing around the yard. Old friends played catch-up and new friends got to know each other.
By 8:30 everyone had returned from whence they came, the kitchen was on its way back to cleaned up, and my husband hugged me, smiled, and said he'd had fun.
That's good. Because you should see the size of the invite list for the next one.
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