Come to My Presidents’ Day Party!
Shouts & MurmursPhotograph from GettyHi! Hope it’s O.K. to use our yoga class e-mail chain for this. I’ve loved om-ing with you ladies :) and I wanted to invite you all to my Presidents’ Day party. Not that I support Presidents (or America, obviously), I just think it’s a little unfair that this weekend is all about Valentine’s Day. It’s always “hearts, Cupid, love” and never “analyzing history and the egregious mistakes upon which this Union was built.” Come fill my home with warmth and laughter, especially now that it’s free of my ex-husband, Paul, who, according to a series of tasteless Instagram stories, is currently on Mt. Kilimanjaro, living out his dream of being an idiot.I have so many activities planned! When you enter, you’ll find a letter-writing station to take you back to the seventeen-hundreds, far away from present reality, which we can all agree is extremely upsetting to everyone right now, including me. Write a letter about whatever you want, addressed to anywhere in the world. You could write a note to a friend, a missive to a lover, or a long list detailing America’s crimes to send to my ex-husband’s mountain guide in an attempt to persuade him to abandon Paul’s ass in a snowy ravine for a dog to discover months from now. Totally up to you!We’ll also play games like “Name That President” (they all somehow look the same—kind of like Paul when you line him up with a bunch of factory-farmed hogs) and “Pin the Scandal on the Administration.” (Spoiler: many have multiple answers, much like Paul, when I asked who that tacky blond lady on his phone was.) Winners will receive shards of a bust of Millard Fillmore (I think?) that I impulse-bought on eBay and drop-kicked in a fit of rage.You won’t want to miss the bathtub in the center of my living room, which you’re encouraged to climb into, William Howard Taft style, and take photos. I recently learned that he never actually got stuck in the tub, but you know—that means he was free. And if he were alive today, he would’ve been free to take a ton of photos and to post them with the hashtag #TubParty, #ThankGodWeHaveTub, or even #HavingSoMuchFunInTubThankYouPippa.Once you’ve scrub-a-dubbed, gather ’round the bar for a whiskey neat, like our forefathers intended, and in quantities that will help me forget that Kilimanjaro exists. The whiskey is also available as an antiseptic for any party wounds—something I’ve found useful whenever my stress-induced death grip shatters the glassware I’m holding. It’s happened a few times today already! If you’re in the mood for something more festive, I’ve also prepared red-white-and-blue Jell-O shots. A frat brother I met on Hinge helped me make them. What’s his deal? Come to the party and find out (and I hope to God a photo of Sigma Chad gets back to Paul).You can also look forward to a themed menu: I’ll be serving a Teddy Roosevelt “big stick” charcuterie board (a selection of meats, cheeses, and one comically large breadstick that would make Paul insecure and maybe even upset); Bay of Pigs in Blankets (that’s wordplay); Filibustered Nut Mix (a bottomless bowl of salted nuts); and Executive Order Pizza (I am ordering pizza, executively, because I have no desire to cook).For dessert, I’ve got hot-chocolate bombs, to celebrate our nation’s favorite thing, war. Too dark? Well, so is life. It’s only 5 P.M. but the sun has already abandoned me—just like my ex-husband, who’s hopefully stuck at base camp in total darkness, too cold to upload nine hundred more fucking photos to Facebook with the caption “Opening my third eye.”R.S.V.P. if you’re coming, so I know how much whiskey and emotional resilience to stock. No dress code—wear whatever. I personally will be sporting a ballgown and an unbreakable smile. And bring a plus-one! Preferably someone who’s never attempted to summit Kilimanjaro and has no interest in doing so. If they’re British, let me know ahead of time, so I can shout “the British are coming!” upon their arrival. Wouldn’t that be cute? Someone had better know a hot British guy. And none of that Ed Sheeran shit. Can’t wait to see you all!Best, Pippa (from yoga) ♦
Hi! Hope it’s O.K. to use our yoga class e-mail chain for this. I’ve loved om-ing with you ladies :) and I wanted to invite you all to my Presidents’ Day party. Not that I support Presidents (or America, obviously), I just think it’s a little unfair that this weekend is all about Valentine’s Day. It’s always “hearts, Cupid, love” and never “analyzing history and the egregious mistakes upon which this Union was built.” Come fill my home with warmth and laughter, especially now that it’s free of my ex-husband, Paul, who, according to a series of tasteless Instagram stories, is currently on Mt. Kilimanjaro, living out his dream of being an idiot.
I have so many activities planned! When you enter, you’ll find a letter-writing station to take you back to the seventeen-hundreds, far away from present reality, which we can all agree is extremely upsetting to everyone right now, including me. Write a letter about whatever you want, addressed to anywhere in the world. You could write a note to a friend, a missive to a lover, or a long list detailing America’s crimes to send to my ex-husband’s mountain guide in an attempt to persuade him to abandon Paul’s ass in a snowy ravine for a dog to discover months from now. Totally up to you!
We’ll also play games like “Name That President” (they all somehow look the same—kind of like Paul when you line him up with a bunch of factory-farmed hogs) and “Pin the Scandal on the Administration.” (Spoiler: many have multiple answers, much like Paul, when I asked who that tacky blond lady on his phone was.) Winners will receive shards of a bust of Millard Fillmore (I think?) that I impulse-bought on eBay and drop-kicked in a fit of rage.
You won’t want to miss the bathtub in the center of my living room, which you’re encouraged to climb into, William Howard Taft style, and take photos. I recently learned that he never actually got stuck in the tub, but you know—that means he was free. And if he were alive today, he would’ve been free to take a ton of photos and to post them with the hashtag #TubParty, #ThankGodWeHaveTub, or even #HavingSoMuchFunInTubThankYouPippa.
Once you’ve scrub-a-dubbed, gather ’round the bar for a whiskey neat, like our forefathers intended, and in quantities that will help me forget that Kilimanjaro exists. The whiskey is also available as an antiseptic for any party wounds—something I’ve found useful whenever my stress-induced death grip shatters the glassware I’m holding. It’s happened a few times today already! If you’re in the mood for something more festive, I’ve also prepared red-white-and-blue Jell-O shots. A frat brother I met on Hinge helped me make them. What’s his deal? Come to the party and find out (and I hope to God a photo of Sigma Chad gets back to Paul).
You can also look forward to a themed menu: I’ll be serving a Teddy Roosevelt “big stick” charcuterie board (a selection of meats, cheeses, and one comically large breadstick that would make Paul insecure and maybe even upset); Bay of Pigs in Blankets (that’s wordplay); Filibustered Nut Mix (a bottomless bowl of salted nuts); and Executive Order Pizza (I am ordering pizza, executively, because I have no desire to cook).
For dessert, I’ve got hot-chocolate bombs, to celebrate our nation’s favorite thing, war. Too dark? Well, so is life. It’s only 5 P.M. but the sun has already abandoned me—just like my ex-husband, who’s hopefully stuck at base camp in total darkness, too cold to upload nine hundred more fucking photos to Facebook with the caption “Opening my third eye.”
R.S.V.P. if you’re coming, so I know how much whiskey and emotional resilience to stock. No dress code—wear whatever. I personally will be sporting a ballgown and an unbreakable smile. And bring a plus-one! Preferably someone who’s never attempted to summit Kilimanjaro and has no interest in doing so. If they’re British, let me know ahead of time, so I can shout “the British are coming!” upon their arrival. Wouldn’t that be cute? Someone had better know a hot British guy. And none of that Ed Sheeran shit. Can’t wait to see you all!
Best, Pippa (from yoga) ♦
