I’ve been granted a wish; by a leprechaun, genie, whatever… I’m told I can have a dinner party with any three other people, living or dead. Naturally, this is very exciting but I have to speed dial some cleaning folks and caterers cause if there are two things I don’t do, they are clean and cook. On to the guest list. With so many choices, I feel like the best way to make such an important decision is to throw a few back first. I need my judgment to be slightly impaired and my intuition heightened. Plus, it’s Friday night and I’m thirsty. No one likes a sober hostess; cheers!
Guest list… I think to create a truly interesting dynamic, perhaps I should mix up some right-brained, left-brained type thinkers. Stir the proverbial pot. [Speaking of pot, note to self, if any of the J’s (Jim, Jerry or Janis) make the cut, figure out how to obtain pot.] I consider some of the more obvious choices – Honest Abe, who was my first crush (yes the 16th president); Marilyn Monroe, who just about everyone finds fascinating because she sang “Happy Birthday, Mr. President” with barely any air in her lungs; my grandma, cause well, I miss her terribly.
But it’s just not that simple. There’s a lot to consider here. I don’t want to bridge too much of a time gap, for example. Like what if Zac Efron’s cell rings during appetizers and Wyatt Earp, having never seen a cell, is all, “You tell em, I’m coming… and Hell’s coming with me!” and shoots the shit out of Zac’s iPhone? Uh, awkward.
Likewise, I don’t want such polar opposite personality types that it creates tension, resulting in uncomfortable silence. Nothing kills a good dinner party like uncomfortable silence. That and your Uncle Bob’s “bat wing” trick. So Mother Teresa and Quentin Tarantino place settings will not appear on the same table.
Ultimately, a decision must be made. I lick invisible invitations and mail them off by whatever magical means this wish has been granted to me. Typical. Now, I’m nervous; what if no one shows up?
The clock is ticking and I haven’t found suitable attire yet. What do you wear to such an unprecedented event? Jeans. I wear jeans and a black shirt. It says, “I’m relatable. And too drunk to properly dress myself.”
Ding Dong. Guests have arrived right on time. I sort of half-stumble, half-gallop (cause I’m a pretty pony) to the door and swing it wide to reveal… What in the HELL? Why is my whole family here? A better question is where are Anna Kendrick, Marc Chagall and Susan B. Anthony? I must have pondered that out loud, because my dad just shook his head at me and said, “Jenna, you really should drink less. And dinner better be ready soon.”