My friend Marisa (of a Mexicellent vacation fame) is very serious about Valentine's Day. It's not so much that she's boy crazy or even that she's one of those people who saps around about her love for various things and people (well...mostly true). My theory on her unwavering devotion to this holiday is that it inevitably involves a lot of pink and red--her two favorite colors. That, and an opportunity for her to play her collection of 1920s jazz records.
As part of her annual homage payment to this 14th day of February, Marisa designs, crafts and mails each of her best pals a lovely Valentine card. This year mine featured a antique car, which I think was a solid choice. For what, I ask, says "Be Mine" better than a shiny Lamborghini? And to my delight, an additional envelop with Marisa's return address arrived in my mailbox. Upon ripping it open, a glimmering gold invitation was revealed, requesting my presence at a Valentine cocktail affair.
As you may remember, Marisa hosted my 10-year San Francisco anniversary dinner party, which, in and of itself, provided reason enough to stay in SF for another 10 years. Let's just say the girl knows how to host a party. And the Valentine cocktail affair was no exception.
A few snapshots, if I may:
- A boy in a white suit, red button down shirt and shiny white tie clinking martini glasses with his buddy clad in a dark pink dress shirt, brown slacks and light pink ascot
- Antique trays and lady-like glass pitchers stationed throughout the party filled with all kinds of valentine-themed delicacies
- Live accordion music. True.
- A surprise dry ice cocktail station where our friend Tim concocted and poured a smoking love potion
- Lovely ladies slinking around in pink, red, black and white cocktail dresses, pairing nicely with the old jazz tunes slinking their way out of the record player
- A boy from the City of Angels whom we had met earlier that week and convinced to attend. Turned out he just happened to play piano at the holy shit level, which provided more than adequate entertainment once we exhausted our glamor posing at the "photography station."
And as for Miss Marisa's vision for a love extravaganza nestled deep within a dreamy swirl of pink and red? I'd say: check! And her vision lives on as not only did my high heels from that night leave semi-permanent pink strap marks on the backs of my ankles, but I continue to turn red every time I see one of the pictures from the photography station featuring what I had imagined to be a series of on-theme poses.
Note to self: dial down the party posing.
---photos to come---
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