The Sun-Herald

I'm the host; get me out of here

At parties, it's fun being a detached observer. You can sail through other people's big events, blissfully unaffected by how many guests misbehave or don't turn up or hate each other. If the booze runs out or the canapés are hideous, it's someone else's problem. All I've ever had to worry about is remembering it all the next day.

At parties, it's fun being a detached observer. You can sail through other people's big events, blissfully unaffected by how many guests misbehave or don't turn up or hate each other. If the booze runs out or the canapes are hideous, it's someone else's problem. All I've ever had to worry about is remembering it all the next day.
But not any more. This week I threw my own party - a proper big event for A-listers and just about everyone else who suffers my weekly scrutiny in the Party of the Week column. For the first time, I was exposed to the criticism of those I serially lampoon. I was on the front line, head above the trenches and armed only with a frock and a head of curls. It was terrifying.
Days before, I was plagued by nightmares about standing in our venue, Pink Salt, alone because not a single one of the 200-plus guests we'd invited had turned up. These prophecies became so vivid and frequent that I almost called Pink Salt's owners, Bella and Evan, to apologise for frightening everyone away from their restaurant. As my anxiety grew, I began to plague Tiffany our party organiser with bizarre questions such as how large the hotdogs would be and would the topless male waiters in pyjama bottoms be insured against chafing.
I started suffering all-consuming paranoia; when I discovered Sydney Writers' Festival was having its launch party on the same night as mine, I took it personally and vowed never to read books ever again - even my own one, which was what my party was for.
And then I realised, too late, what had happened; I'd become a partyzilla.
You've seen them, and possibly you've been one. Partyzillas, like bridezillas, are hosts from hell; people who, suddenly thrust into the spotlight for a short but intense period, lose their perspective, humour, taste, patience and every other attractive quality until all that remains is a large, disagreeable two-year-old.
On the day of the party, I was about as much fun to be around as a massacre. I spent two hours changing my mind about what to wear then another hour changing it back, dis-invited someone then re-invited them, and started speaking with a Welsh accent, which doctors say is the first sign of madness. When Daniel my hairdresser called to say he had a migraine, I screeched: "Get a new head!" And remember how Maria Carey apparently once insisted upon a dressing room filled with white puppies and kittens? That's nothing. I wanted mine to have walls made of fruit cake and a Darth Vader Pez holder on a yellow table in the room's northernmost corner. And a camel.
Anyway, it went well and everyone came and had fun and no-one ended up face down in the cupcakes, but it was an extraordinary insight into the distorting effects of party-throwing on a (fairly) well-adjusted psyche. I'm back to normal, but now view the party hosts I report on with new respect.
Does this happen to everyone? Has throwing a party ever driven you mad? I'd feel a lot better if you outdid my war story with some of yours.