Folks to their festival.

Sometimes the most delicious thing you've ever tasted is the most difficult thing you've ever had to swallow.

I'm trying. I'm REALLY trying to do my best on that.

Anyway, I'm exhausted.

I just worked harder than I think I may ever have worked in my life.

The family for which Hannah Izold nannies had a wedding yesterday and this evening threw a soiree to celebrate.

They wanted Hannah and one other girl to come and just help out, serve the hors douvres, clear wine glasses, etc.

Except Hannah is out of the state tonight and so it was going to be me and Ali T.

Then this morning the lady of the manor decided that she only needed one girl.

Great. Now I will have no one to talk to. That I know.

But I go. I have asked the woman what to wear, and she says whatever you would wear out on a Saturday night. So I pretend to be a normal dresser and put on a cute red dress I haven't worn in years and 3 bobbie pins and Margaret's black Cole Haan boots.

Margaret is always conveniently out of town whenever the occasion arises for me to need those boots.

I get lost. Repeatedly. Which is a trifle off-putting to myself because normally I am pretty good at finding out where I am going when I have no idea where I am.

I call Hannah. I find it.

Enormous house. Enormouser gravel driveway.

I park at the far perimeter of this driveway to allow for easy getaway when the time is right.

I wiggle out of the car and prince (prance/priss- I've decided we need this word) toward the house. From the panoramic picture windows I can see inside and quickly determine that my dress is a bit much. (I'm sharp.) So I don the little black sweater that I lifted from the Barksdale after finding out how long it had been in lost and found. Done.

I go in.

Large family. Millions of blond sisters in their thirties. Meek stooped husbands- some with black glasses, some with orthopedic leg wraps. A murder of children all draped upon the furniture and doing that thing that I remember doing well when you are a child and really super excited about the fact that there is a large family gathering in your house and you are pretty damn important and feeling fine because of it.

My first order is to put ice into all the ice buckets. At this point everyone is observing me like a hawk because I am a. not Hannah, and b. probably appear to be not terribly fluent in English.

I drop ice all over the floor. I am given a wide berth.

I stand behind the island beginning to feel panicky at all the people I don't know. Then I decide to f@*$ing stop that. I am so sick of being nervous.

I do things like refill the mustard dish, and reload the glass tray with Ritz Crackers when I see the need arise. Once the lady of the house sees me transport a grape or two successfully to the bowl, she whooshes out of the kitchen in her capris and I am left to my own BE VERY HELPFUL AND TAKE ALL THE INITIATIVE IN THE WORLD devices.

I am getting pretty good at keeping a sharp eye on the chedder slices and the party is really heating up, I'd say about 35 people. Then our lady swoops back into the kitchen, nips a large box of pasta and an enormous satchel of chicken nuggets out of the cupboard and garbles off some instructions that meant: Make the children dinner.

Well, I of course nodded and smiled breezily. Sure, this is something I do every day.

Now- it should be noted- I do know how to cook pasta. And to use an oven. It is just not generally something I do in front of people. Let alone a wedding party and eight starving delirious humans below 10.

But I do it. I pop the nuggets in the oven, I don't burn myself, I boil the water, stir the pasta.

I get sassy about this time. I have in me a previously untapped reserve of natural ability to flirt rapaciously with middle-aged men.

I have noticed that I look pretty good, as on one of my cracker crosses I caught view of myself in the window and thought, "I look pretty good."

So this gives me the confidence, whilst I stir my Barilla, to cock a hip and say things to the paunchy uncomfortable uncles who are trying to steal the chicken nuggets, "Ah ah ah-- those are for the kids. But I suppose you could have just one. I won't tell." And smiiiiiillllllle.

And then go back to stirring my pasta and wonder when I was planning on being introduced to myself.

Worked well though. The uncles spending considerably larger amounts of time in the kitchen after that. Great. Just what I wanted?

All the blond women strut around with their very heavy diamond rings and plastic cups full of wine that they keep setting by the sink as if to indicate- done with this. So I dump out, recycle or wash. They then wander back by wondering where their cups went. I remind myself of what I think is some character in a movie that maniacally cleans and you cannot stop it. Is perhaps a machine or invention. Anyone?

The blond women also cast what they think are sly downward glances at my boots as they do sweeping crosses upstage of the giant marble island in the kitchen. Thanks Mag.

Another thing to be said about this family. They have long spoons.

Never let it be said that I do not enjoy the smell of beer/alcohol. For I do very much. But after about three hours of party it became like taking shots through my pores every time someone crossed into my wing of the house.

Worked, cleaned, scrubbed. This party was catered by Maggiano's. Which love. And paid for by one elderly aunt of the bride whom, when the newly married couple entered the house, stationed herself beside the pantry, whipped out a harmonica and proceeded to give a rendition of "Here Comes The Bride" that could grow teeth on moss.

One of the husbands is snapping along to this ditty. On the one and three.

Makes one really appreciate good music.

My feet were by this time killing me. I had cleaned and washed everything I could get my hands on. So I decided I should probably be dismissed and that they would agree if they would just remember I was there. This did not seem imminent. So I sat "wearily" in a chair in the kitchen- in view of some of the guests- and proceeded to fiddle laboriously with my contact for just long enough so it looks like "Oh- her contact is really giving her trouble. I bet she's tired." Point taken.

Paid, dismissed. Thanked heartily. Invited to spend a week with the extended family in Myrtle Beach as long as I will clean up after their parties.

Love adventures.

Also learned today that VCU teaches that the best performances can only be given in bare feet.