Stirred, Not Shaken

Cocktail parties are a lost art. Remember when women slipped on a little black dress, spiky shoes they'd never wear to work, and some stunning look-at-me earrings? Alas, no more. The last cocktail party we had was themed around martini tasting - a pastime we engaged in on a cruise last fall. Here's how it works: the bartender (or hostess) chooses four or five different kinds of martinis for everyone to taste. Each variety is faithfully made (preferably while telling jokes, shaking the cocktail, and swinging your hips to the rhythm of imaginary music) and distributed into shot glasses for each person to taste. After working through each chilly sample, guests name their poison which is then prepared full-scale.

On the cruise ship, this entertainment occurred with a large group of people crowded around a circular bar whooping and harassing the goof-ball bartender who had a myriad of lewd, martini-related jokes/trivia questions. However, since our home is nothing like a Royal Caribbean bar, I assumed we would be more civilized. As a matter of fact, during the planning stages of our soirée my over-indulged imagination conjured up scenes reminiscent of James Bond flicks with beautiful, sophisticated men and women laughing throatily while sipping martinis and nurturing a sense of ennui. I realize this is far too much to expect from a group of loud teachers on the outskirts of the Phoenix metropolitan area, but somehow my brain sucked me into this idyllic cocktail scenario, much to my chagrin.

From the very first the party did not live up to my Monte Carlo expectations, especially since no one showed up on time. (Now, I know what you're thinking. Aren't people supposed to be fashionably late to parties? I suppose that's true, however when you're creating finger food and planning drinks all day, you become fearful when no arrives at the appointed hour. On the other hand, their tardiness does provide an opportunity to begin sampling the wares in peace.) Eventually, when everyone did arrive 30-40 minutes later, I was alternating between biting my lip while I wondered what to do with all the food and drinking my second martini in an effort to calm frazzled nerves.

Once people started showing up, it was finally my cue to begin mixing the libations. This part went well, and everyone tasted each drink thoughtfully. In addition, there were ample jokes about how many shot glasses we owned since each round was served up in a different set. (Yes, we bought them - on discount at Ross - specifically for the party, and I'm currently looking for other possible ways to employ the collection.) This only added to my reputation of enjoying a stiff drink now and again. (After all, Ben Franklin said all things in moderation!)

By the time everyone had sampled each type, the noise level had grown considerably. Women kicked off their perky little heels that matched their best trendy jeans and picked through the crudités. Guys plowed through the heartier snacks and were on their second plate filling. Full size martini glasses brimming with flavored vodkas, lemon twists, and frozen cranberries were passed among the partiers who were now headed to the basement for pool, air hockey, and foosball. (I don't remember seeing those in Ian Fleming's fantasy world.)In short, the group evolved into a raucous gathering that did not even remotely resemble the fairytale in my head.

But who really cares. Apparently our friends are not the sophisticated jet-setters we all envision for our parties. Ultimately, though, we laughed and sang - we played games and harassed one another until the designated drivers said it was time to go home. In the silence of the house at the end of it all, Jeff and I clinked our glasses one last time as we enjoyed the steaming spa in the chill night air and agreed that life is, indeed, good.