Last year I threw a fundraiser for my kids’ PTA and it went really well but it was pretty much the most stressful thing ever.
Maybe not ever, because let’s be real, it’s only a party. It’s not like I’m trying to escape Syria with my small children in the midst of horrendous violence and destruction. Now that is the most stressful thing ever.
But in the Boulder bubble financing, organizing, and promoting a fundraiser is pretty stressful. So stressful that last time I had non-stop anxiety dreams and Harmy made me pinky promise that I would never do it again.
In my defense, I had never heard of pinky promising until that very moment so one could say that it wasn’t a solemn oath.
On the continuum of solemnity, pinky promising and swearing on the Holy Bible are about as meaningless as, well … let’s just say I didn’t keep my promise.
So here I am, three days away from the big party. This year is a lot better than last year in that Nina is helping me with all the planning logistics.
She reads the contracts, gets the insurance, follows up with vendors, builds the website, sets up ticketing, manages the talent and volunteers … pretty much everything that will allow me to have a good time this year and give a drunk speech.
My job is to get sponsors, find talent (i.e. people that I have the hots for) fund the event and sell tickets.
Fundraising is my wheelhouse, I said never.
I seriously hate asking people for anything, especially large sums of money. This is me on a fundraising call. Imagine Cookie Monster saying it.
“Hi, my name is Vivienne and I’m throwing a party for my kids’ school and WILL YOU GIVE ME MONEY PLEASE OH THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU NOM NOM NOM NOM NOM!!!”
Yah. I’m really good at it.
Up until this point it is been pretty stress free, except for getting the liquor license. Holy shit what a nightmare, but that’s what you get for doing things the way the city wants you to.
Pretty much until now Nina and the success of last year has kept me from worrying too much about the party succeeding.
Looks fun, right? It was. At least if you weren’t me.
Now we are in the home stretch and all the things that need to be done but couldn’t until a day or two before the event actually need to be done.
Like selling tickets.
I’m pulling out the big guns. And yes, his accent is delightful. THIS IS NOT A METAPHOR FOR SOMETHING ELSE!
I’ve sold a bunch of tickets, not as many as I’d like (which would be ALL OF THEM) but the word around town is that everyone is psyched for the party and is planning on going.
THEN BUY YOUR FUCKING TICKETS!
I sent this text to Moneypenny yesterday because she gets stress.
That is unless they’ve ever organized an event and feel sympathy for the event planner.
Last night I had the mother of all anxiety dreams. Regard.
I was in my friend Jeannie’s garage when her husband wheeled in their vacuum cleaner and started unclogging it. I have the same machine and watched carefully as mine needed to be unclogged as well. It was a big upright deal.
I thanked Warren for the lesson and said, “I’m going home to fix mine right now!” and left with their vacuum.
Even though in real life they only live a few blocks away, in the dream they lived at the top of Boulder Canyon. No big deal, I’d just skid all the way down on my wedge sandals which acted kind of like roller skates.
So I’m careening down the canyon pushing a vacuum cleaner in front of me and I am pretty much out of control. I can’t really slow down or steer and there are people in front of me wiping out. The canyon is really long and there is no where to pull off or turn.
Suddenly the landscape changes drastically I realize that I somehow got off course. There is a dam and a lake and I careen past a summer camp. I pull off and find a camp counselor to talk to.
“I’m trying to get to Boulder and I think I’m lost.”
He was like, yep, you are waaay lost. You have to backtrack through three mountain villages (all uphill) and then get back on the right road.
“But all I have is this vacuum. I was counting on the trip being downhill.”
He agreed to let me use the camp phone to call Loony. It was three in the morning even though it was light outside. I went to the office and dialed his number. It went to voicemail.
“I’m sure he’s asleep but I bet he wasn’t able to get to it in time. Just let me call again.”
But this time I couldn’t seem to dial the number, as is always the case in dreams (this is when I’m supposed to realize that I’m dreaming and decide to scrap the anxiety part and 1. fly 2. have sex with Brad Pitt circa Troy).
BUT THEN IT WOULDN’T BE AN ANXIETY DREAM ANYMORE, NOW WOULD IT?
No matter how hard I tried I kept fucking it up. Then this mean camp counselor was like, “Lady, we need that phone to do business. We can’t work with you on that phone,” and I was running around the room trying to dial while dodging her. At one point she pinned me to a cot.
I managed to get Loony on the phone and explain that I needed a ride but I had no idea where I was so I gave the phone to the counsellor who I had zero faith in. Then I woke up.
Good times, right?
If you love a good party, get your tickets.
If you love your children that go to Whittier, get your tickets.
If you love shirtless young men walking around in elephant heads, get your tickets.
If you love beautiful women in the VIP room, get your tickets.
If you want to see me in the outfit I got just for the party but am still psychologically pump myself up for, you better get your tickets.