Oregon doesn’t have a lot of big name tourist spots. Or small name ones, for that matter. In Portland they’re mostly all parks: Washington Park, the Rose Garden, the Chinese Garden, the Japanese Garden.
So when BE Sales Manager Jim Jones and his team went scouting for quaint places to bring out-of-towners – without threat of rain, frisbees or off-leash canines – they hit on Dan’s and my living room. And everything attached to it.
So I wasn’t overly surprised to get back from Santa Fe a couple of nights ago and find a party about to erupt there. All the art is Museum Gelled to the pedestals or nailed to the walls, so we’re prepared.
Something about the house seems to make people a little giddy. Well, I suppose it could have been the $4.95 /jug Chardonnay. Or the heat? It’d been over 100F all week.
For whatever the reason, a party at our place usually involves:
1. The Death March through three floors of art, with orders not to step on the cat, interspersed with long-winded explanations of the techniques behind this-that-and-the-other complicated kilnformed artwork.
2. Good ‘n healthy edibles prepared by Jim’s team (who will cure me of my addiction to salt, sugar and fat eventually )
3. Oftentimes hysterical and acrobatically-illustrated anecdotes from guests.
The Oscar for best performance involving breaking a leg by falling over a dog in the middle of the night goes to the unstoppable Brenda Griffith.
No, plugging one ear is not an effective way to tone down Brenda’s performance.
The rare well-mannered guest attempting to say grace before feeding…
…will have her prosciutto swiftly pilfered by my hedonistic heathen hubby.
Pictures, pictures…the inevitable small arsenal of cameras…
…aimed and shot by Jim and Team on orders of our guests…
…who were – seriously – heaps of fun and a total treat to come home to.