A Conditional Success. Or, The Story of the Odd Couple.

I spent all morning and part of the early afternoon  yesterday slow-cooking a pork butt, baking lemon bars, and making a complex and gigantic Hawaiian macaroni salad for the luau. I also prayed for the rain gods to cease and desist, if only for a day.

Then I packed the car with a case of Yuengling beer, two magnums of Shiraz, the food, a string of multi-colored tiki lights, a CD player with a couple of Hawaiian music CD's, two packs of napkins emblazoned with dancing hula girls and tiki heads, my "Retro Luau" cookbook, my SLR camera, my sarong that I got on a trip to Malaysia, sandals, strapless bra and a white cami top to change into. Whew.

I drove to A's house near Adams Morgan, a vibrant area in Northwest D.C. that's got some good bars, restaurants and a nightclub scene. A party neighborhood. This is the first time I've been in her house, a giant, tumbling-down three-story affair. It's a group house. For you folks who've never heard or lived in a group house, it is a multi-bedroomed house rented by a bunch of 20-and sometimes 30-somethings. Washington, because of its high cost of living and as it attracts hordes of college graduates from across the country each year, has many of them.

The folks who live in them are usually single and work long hours on Capitol Hill or other jobs related to politics. And they can't afford, nor want, to live by themselves. In many cases, these group houses operate like quasi-families/frat houses/sororites - without the hazing, but with the communal dinners and nagging to clean up your room. I lived in one myself for a year when I first came here as an intern in the mid-90's.

Anyway. I walked in and the house was nowhere remotely ready for a party. Dust bunnies gathered by the dozens in the hallways and rooms. The furniture looked straight out of someone's rec room circa 1978. The wooden floors were scuffed and dirty. The bathroom looked as if it hasn't been cleaned in several months, and there was no toilet paper. I walked to the backyard and piles of dead leaves litter the old concrete deck, which the house shares with another group house next door.  And there was a guy snoring on the living room couch.

I was so shocked I had to laugh. While I've worked with A for over two years, we've only recently become friends, so I never saw the inside of her house until yesterday. I tried to hide my panic, especially in light of A's calmness and cheerfulness. She didn't see what I saw.

Hiding my panic, I helped her gather the dead leaves in a garbage bag, then started cleaning the kitchen and dining room in a frenzy. She casually sprayed Lysol over some surfaces, then vacuumed the living room floor after her roommate woke up and went to his room. We tacked up the tiki lights, and I placed purple votive candles and luau decorations throughout two rooms. It was not enough. They did not say, LUAU! They didn't say much at all.

It was like an episode of "The Odd Couple." I was the anal-retentive neat freak Felix Unger and she was the compulsive slob Oscar Madison. And this was my hostess nightmare come to life.

At 5:30, when guests are supposed to arrive, we are still cleaning. We are both sweating up a storm, as there is no air-conditioning, only ancient ceiling fans. We find out that the tiki torches A placed in the back yard won't light because she forgot to fill them with oil. We have no oil. I finally excuse myself to change, and she starts the grill. Oh, and we have no ice to cool the drinks. 

A couple of her friends drop by. They don't seem surprised nor peeved that nothing is ready yet, that we only have a few dishes (some of my friends are also bringing food), and that A's CD player won't play. A and I agree to ask whoever shows up first to go down the street to get ice. A ducks into her room to change, so I play the heavy and ask her friends to do it. They do, though a bit reluctantly.

At 6:00 p.m., my SO shows up with five friends in tow. Noticing my strained expression, he looks around and his eyes widen, taking in the scene. I try not to wring my hands like Lady Macbeth. I place leis around their necks and hand them cups of vodka-spiked volcanic punch. This seems to put everyone in a good mood.

By 7:00, more people have come, and with more food. The ice is here. The grill is almost hot enough to use. My friends take everything in stride and they start to relax. So I relax. A little. But being the female Felix Unger, I also keep an eye out to greet new guests, sweep the used paper plates into the trash, and replenish people's drinks. A is much more laissez-faire. She drinks beer and laughs with her friends, assuming that the guests will be fine.

By 10:30 p.m.  almost 40 people chat animatedly and eat burgers on the darkened deck (thank god for streetlights). I am having fun. Other people are having fun. We are having so much fun that I forget to take pictures of the party. And it doesn't rain.

By half past midnight, we've run out of beer and volcanic punch but have one magnum bottle of wine left. All the food has been devoured. Someone has put on a Johnny Cash CD, and his raspy baritone floats over the party stragglers. I tell A that I'm about to leave but will try to clean up a bit before I do.

The 10 or so people still here say, "Let's go to the party down the street!" A wants me to go too but I, a bit too curtly because of exhaustion, say no. They head out to the next party with the last of the wine and I throw a bunch of bottles in a recycling bin. I take down my tiki lights and rinse my plates and bowls, then drive home, where I have a new-found appreciation for my clean floors.

And that, as they say, is that. Would I co-host a party with A again? Yes, now that I know what to expect. The party did finally mesh and folks enjoyed themselves.

But next time, the party will be at my house.