My latest misadventure was my luxuriously swanky, intimate, white-themed Labor Day dinner party this past Saturday.
Why was it swanky? I hosted the little shin-dig in Chelsea, in a gorgeous apartment with a balcony overlooking W. 20th St. How did I come by such a place? A dogsitting gig I had for the long weekend, caring for a sweetheart black lab. A black lab, by the way, who seemed almost more excited by my guests than I was; every time a new guest arrived, he bolted down the stairs, tail wagging furiously, to greet them. Lots of excitement for him and I both!
Though small and relatively tame, the little soirée managed to attract the attention of at least one neighbor, whether a concerned citizen in the building or the super, I may never know. Nor did I know at the time that the event had been anything other than on the down-low.
So how did I find out that I'd been discovered?
When my guests were leaving, I opened the apartment door to find a row of cigarette butts neatly aligned under the door. I thought at the time the message was: Don't litter your cigarette butts on the sidewalk. Or, Don't litter your cigarette butts in front of my home. But maybe it was, I know about your party. And so will your client when she returns with the family.
And, regardless, the latter message was the end result. Somehow I knew word would get to the client; and sure enough, I am now like a sulking dog with my tail between my legs. Now I'm in the doghouse. At least the real doggy was fine...! Just as he knew when to go in his crate, I am just now learning the same. Lesson learned: remember the limits and responsibilities that come with the freedoms!
