We’re gonna be whooping it up this Saturday, Darlings!
For paid subscribers…..
Come for the knitting, chatting, crocheting, reveling, sewing, laughing, weaving, confessing, quilting, screaming and cocktail-sipping……and stay for the cozy camaraderie. We’ll be zoooooming, solving correspondents’ problems….and causing mayhem of our own!
And by the by, if you have a problem you’d like the Ask E. Jean knitting circle to solve with their ice-cold brain work, please send it to e.jean@AskEJean.com. (You can attend the party and remain anonymous.) These Ask Eeee cocktail-knitters have a gift for solving problems that amounts almost to genius.
I will send the Zoom invitation on Saturday at 2pm ET.
MEANTIME . . .
1. What’s the best party you’ve ever been to?
When? Where? Who was there? And why was it so marvelous?
2. What’s the best party you’ve ever thrown?
I see your eyes are wet with happy tears as you remember………Who were the lucky people you invited? Where did you hold this magnificent orgy? What food did you serve? What did you wear? How much did it cost? When did it start? When did it end?
The most famous, posh evil party of the 20th Century? Truman Capote’s Black and White Ball.
Send questions to E.Jean@AskEJean.com and leave a voicemail question at 845-682-0881. Thanks!
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Photo of Kate Hepburn and Ginger Rogers knitting: Hulton Archive/Getty Images. Photo of Mia Farrow and Ronan Farrow’s father at Truman Capote’s Party, Bettmann/Getty Images.
Best party of ALL time? The E. Jean-defeats-Trump victory party, of course!
The best parties I ever went to were radically different but both wonderfully memorable.
1) The ICU at Stanford University Hospital was a hot-shit place to work in the 1970s. It was a huge unit with over 100 RNs mostly in our 20s-30s, three full teams of cardiac surgeons, anesthesiologists, and all the other medical and surgical specialties. Every year we looked forward to the ICU Christmas party…. And in the years I was there it was held at facilities farther and farther away from Palo Alto, since nobody would let us come back a second time. The last year was at the palatial home of one of the cardiac surgery fellows up in the hills. He moved all the furniture out (which alas led to a dirty footprint ring on all the stucco walls at about bent-knee height). There was an incalculable amount of alcohol of all kinds, plenty of grass and hash, and a fabulous time was had by all, even the ones who had to leave early to be at work for night shift. Of course, the 3-11 folks started arriving then, so it went on to the not-so wee hours of the morning.
At this late remove I can’t remember which year it was that I was driving my 1970 blueberry-colored Saab home, in a very altered state, and she stalled out and died as I rounded a corner about a mile from my house. Might have been this one. I was wearing a green velvet floor-length dress with long sleeves and almost nothing between my neck and nipples, and got out to pop the hood to try a little percussive maintenance, i.e., hit the damn distributor cap. Sometimes that worked. But not tonight.
As I stood there a fire truck came by and I merrily stuck out my thumb. The PAFD were friends with a lot of ICU nurses and well aware of the party and waved, but couldn’t stop. They did send a PD squad car, though, who said they’d take me home. They didn’t bust me for drunk driving, which by rights they ought to have done, but of course I wasn’t driving. So they put me in the back seat, upon which I cheerfully noted that there were no handles inside the door! They smiled. And drove me home and saw me into my house. The tow truck picked up the car the next day.
Next day one of my friends called me— she had borrowed her boyfriend’s mahogany brown Porsche 911 and crashed it, sustaining a fractured leg. I picked her up at our hospital ER and brought her back to my house. Ahh, to be young and stupid and too goddam lucky for our own good.
I’ll tell the story of the other one in a separate post. :)