We just attended a birthday party for our friend Greg, who will be turning 50. His wife, Jen did a fantastic job on the whole party, including the fact that it was a surprise. She managed to plan the shindig, content in the fact that he is so self-absorbed that he wouldn't suspect a thing.
Now, for me, it was really tough avoiding them for the last week or so, because everybody knows that I'd blow it. And blow it big. At the last minute. Something like:''See you Sunday at The Caboose for your big fiftieth birthday party at 5:00, Greg!" But that's just me.
I could get into a psychological discussion here about how much I hate surprises, how I need to be prepared, how my main fear is that of the unknown. But that would be making this all about me.
Oh, wait. This *is* all about me.
About how I was put in charge of picking up the single-most important facet of any birthday: The Cake. And how I didn't eff it up in the spectactular manner to which I've gained reknown.
Jen called me on Thursday, and took me up on my offer to help out. Her Mom couldn't get the cake from the bakery, like she'd planned, and since I was the closest to both the bakery and the venue, would I do it? This I was glad to do for her.
So, there I sat. Armed with the phone number of the contact person at the bakery. Many thoughts went through my mind. Like, would I ruin it if I called and had them change the inscription on the cake? Something tasteful, such as "Kiss My Fat Ass. I'm Fifty!" Or, as put so eloquently before: "Eat Me! I'm Fifty!"
I did, however call to inquire what flavor of cake Jen had ordered, because I'm not above changing a cake order to one I prefer. One time, the Mother of the Bride had chosen a carrot cake for the bridal shower. I'm sorry, but if you're ordering carrot cake in JUNE you deserve to have me step in and make a switch to strawberry shortcake with whipped cream icing. Because carrot cake is just wrong in Summer. Or at any other time of the year for that matter. And, really, what are you going to say when the perfect cake that you didn't ask for rolls into the shower?
So while I didn't change any of Jen's order, I did pick up some candles that weren't sanctioned. It was for all our safety. I've seen sleeves lit on fire while igniting fifty of those tee-tiny candles. So I got sparklers. And those party poppers that spray glitter and foil confetti streamers everywhere. Because if candles are good, candles and sparklers and poppers are better.
So Saturday comes around, and we go to pick up the cake. The problem was that I didn't know under whose name the order was placed. I couldn't call Jen, because then I'd ruin something. So the bakery lady brought out four cakes before we found the right one. You know. The one that said "Happy Birthday, Greg!" Duh.
But here's the thing: the cake was decorated with a big rainbow on top. And Greg is an ex-army pilot who works for the FAA. All his old army buddies, his airplane mechanic co-workers, and his new FAA inspector guys were going to be at the party. It was no time for "don't ask, don't tell" discussions. And this cake had all the trappings of Let Your Freak Flag Fly. But I persevered and left with the cake.
So this is the part where I tell you that as I left I tripped over the threshold and splatted the cake all over the sidewalk, right? Nope. Completely uneventful. I got everything to the Caboose without a hitch.
We all behaved ourselves. Nobody drank too much box wine. I drink my merlot right from the box spigot everyday...that picture is nothing special. Lori has raised putting stuff up her nose all to a fine art. Ron will always eat mashed potatoes off the giant buffet spoon. Kevin likes to schmear the blue icing over his teeth to see if it'll stain. Greg will launch into his Elvis imitation; all you have to do is ask. Because he *is* a hunkahunka burnin' love. And Jen...well Jen's undies will be shown at some point in the evening. We were really good. The discussion didn't devolve into bodily functions until after everybody went home, and we were outside.
Everybody gets older everyday. You're only young for a little while. You're only fifty once. But you can be immature forever.
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
Wednesday, January 16, 2008
A Real Nice Lady.
Carole and I have been friends since seventh grade. This is the story I wish I could've told at her Mom's memorial service...
Mrs. Young was the type of person who could make anything grow. She could take a dead twig, and before you knew it, she'd have a full on jungle. Maybe it was her way of nurturing everything. She had a voice that evoked memories of molasses and moonshine: deep, and thick and sweet.
She'd look at Carole and me, as we were involved in some utter nonsense, wrecking her calm home, and say,
"Now. Anne. Marie. That is just. Complete. Silliness."
And she'd smile and sit back and watch with this twinkle in her eyes that told us that, yeah, we were idiots, but she loved observing the idiocracy.
Mrs. Young loved to send Carole out on these errands. She'd always need hard-to-find objects. Most times I'd be running around with Carole on these missions. The best part of these scavenger hunts was the fact that we'd always get what she wanted, but there would always be *something* else we'd would bring back. If she sent us out for birdseed, we'd come back from the store with the birdseed and a pair of cockatiels. (True story. Carole thought her Mom needed company after her father died. The birds' original owners couldn't stand how dirty and noisy they were, and gave them to us for free. Right then and there. Cage, food and all, because we went into the store and showed interest in them.) If she sent us out for some milk and bread, we'd come back with the fixings for from-scratch brownies and completely obliterate her kitchen during the baking process.
It was on one of these missions, not too long ago, that my Favorite Errand BringBack happened. Carole and I were sent out to find tulip bulbs mid-March. Now, everybody knows that hardware stores carry bulbs in the Fall, so they can be planted, overwinter, then emerge in the Spring. It WAS practically Spring. So we headed out to every garden center and hardware store within driving distance. Not only did we find tulip bulbs, we got them on sale for 15 for a dollar. Mrs Young wanted about a dozen; we scored about 200 bulbs of all shapes and sizes. Hell, nobody knew what we had in those bags. Least of all Carole and me. It would be a surprise for all of us when they came up. There was no "if they came up." I told you. Mrs. Young could grow anything.
On the way back to the farmhouse, Carole and I were laughing and joking about our good fortune; finding such a bargain on bulbs when I passed by a big pile set out for the trash. I real quick squeeched my brakes, nearly throwing Carole through the windshield, and definitely making her drop her cigarette onto my dashboard, and made the most reckless uturn ever attempted in my car. Because I had seen something so great on that trashpile.
After Carole finished cursing me to the moon and back, (I swear, that girl could give a truck-driver sailor lessons. She taught me every foul word I know. I use them proudly in her honor.) she saw why I had made such a stunning move. There on that trashpile was The Silver Tuna. The one thing we had never brought back to her Mom. It was perfection.
It was mostly dead. It was past neglected. It was really ugly. It was a seven-foot banana tree with one green leaf, and some super-disgusting dirt in the bottom of a too-small terracotta pot. It needed us. It needed Mrs. Young.
So Carole and I got out of the car. She's looking in all directions in case somebody she knows is watching her pick the trash. I assessed the situation, and decided that it wouldn't fit in my car. Unless we put the top down. So down goes the convertible top. Then the two of us try unsuccessfully to heft the behemoth into my back seat. It took us four tries, mainly because we kept laughing and couldn't stop to lift. Fiinally, we get this *thing* into place, and begin our trip back to the farmhouse. Remember how I said it was March, right? Well, it was one of those cold, damp mistyrainy end-of-winter days, and here we are, driving up route 29 with the top down, the heater going full blast and a dead banana tree hanging out of the back seat. It was priceless.
But not as priceless as presenting our great treasure to Mrs Young. We come dragging this giant dead thing into her living room, and Mrs. Young just smiled, shook her head, and said,"Complete. Silliness. You two."
You know what? That was about two years ago. Within a month of having this tree, it looked like she had bought it from Ott's. She had it pretty and green, and lush. Within a year, it had small, green bananas growing from under its leaves. She took that mostly dead plain old ugly stalk and brought it back to life.
I'd seen her do it many times. Take something yucky, old and beaten up, and with some of her attention, bring it into her home and give it new life.
Rosalie Sims Young was born in West Virginia, the daughter of a college president and his wife. She was highly educated, went on to become a college professor herself. She worked for the Library of Congress before moving to Pennsylvania. This is a remarkable feat for any person, but for a black woman, at that time, it was extraordinary. She was loved by so many, but especially her son and daughter, her grandchildren and her many friends.
So, let's raise our glasses to Rosalie Sims Young. Mrs. Young, I know wherever you are, that you've been brought Home, and you have New Life.
*clink*
Mrs. Young was the type of person who could make anything grow. She could take a dead twig, and before you knew it, she'd have a full on jungle. Maybe it was her way of nurturing everything. She had a voice that evoked memories of molasses and moonshine: deep, and thick and sweet.
She'd look at Carole and me, as we were involved in some utter nonsense, wrecking her calm home, and say,
"Now. Anne. Marie. That is just. Complete. Silliness."
And she'd smile and sit back and watch with this twinkle in her eyes that told us that, yeah, we were idiots, but she loved observing the idiocracy.
Mrs. Young loved to send Carole out on these errands. She'd always need hard-to-find objects. Most times I'd be running around with Carole on these missions. The best part of these scavenger hunts was the fact that we'd always get what she wanted, but there would always be *something* else we'd would bring back. If she sent us out for birdseed, we'd come back from the store with the birdseed and a pair of cockatiels. (True story. Carole thought her Mom needed company after her father died. The birds' original owners couldn't stand how dirty and noisy they were, and gave them to us for free. Right then and there. Cage, food and all, because we went into the store and showed interest in them.) If she sent us out for some milk and bread, we'd come back with the fixings for from-scratch brownies and completely obliterate her kitchen during the baking process.
It was on one of these missions, not too long ago, that my Favorite Errand BringBack happened. Carole and I were sent out to find tulip bulbs mid-March. Now, everybody knows that hardware stores carry bulbs in the Fall, so they can be planted, overwinter, then emerge in the Spring. It WAS practically Spring. So we headed out to every garden center and hardware store within driving distance. Not only did we find tulip bulbs, we got them on sale for 15 for a dollar. Mrs Young wanted about a dozen; we scored about 200 bulbs of all shapes and sizes. Hell, nobody knew what we had in those bags. Least of all Carole and me. It would be a surprise for all of us when they came up. There was no "if they came up." I told you. Mrs. Young could grow anything.
On the way back to the farmhouse, Carole and I were laughing and joking about our good fortune; finding such a bargain on bulbs when I passed by a big pile set out for the trash. I real quick squeeched my brakes, nearly throwing Carole through the windshield, and definitely making her drop her cigarette onto my dashboard, and made the most reckless uturn ever attempted in my car. Because I had seen something so great on that trashpile.
After Carole finished cursing me to the moon and back, (I swear, that girl could give a truck-driver sailor lessons. She taught me every foul word I know. I use them proudly in her honor.) she saw why I had made such a stunning move. There on that trashpile was The Silver Tuna. The one thing we had never brought back to her Mom. It was perfection.
It was mostly dead. It was past neglected. It was really ugly. It was a seven-foot banana tree with one green leaf, and some super-disgusting dirt in the bottom of a too-small terracotta pot. It needed us. It needed Mrs. Young.
So Carole and I got out of the car. She's looking in all directions in case somebody she knows is watching her pick the trash. I assessed the situation, and decided that it wouldn't fit in my car. Unless we put the top down. So down goes the convertible top. Then the two of us try unsuccessfully to heft the behemoth into my back seat. It took us four tries, mainly because we kept laughing and couldn't stop to lift. Fiinally, we get this *thing* into place, and begin our trip back to the farmhouse. Remember how I said it was March, right? Well, it was one of those cold, damp mistyrainy end-of-winter days, and here we are, driving up route 29 with the top down, the heater going full blast and a dead banana tree hanging out of the back seat. It was priceless.
But not as priceless as presenting our great treasure to Mrs Young. We come dragging this giant dead thing into her living room, and Mrs. Young just smiled, shook her head, and said,"Complete. Silliness. You two."
You know what? That was about two years ago. Within a month of having this tree, it looked like she had bought it from Ott's. She had it pretty and green, and lush. Within a year, it had small, green bananas growing from under its leaves. She took that mostly dead plain old ugly stalk and brought it back to life.
I'd seen her do it many times. Take something yucky, old and beaten up, and with some of her attention, bring it into her home and give it new life.
Rosalie Sims Young was born in West Virginia, the daughter of a college president and his wife. She was highly educated, went on to become a college professor herself. She worked for the Library of Congress before moving to Pennsylvania. This is a remarkable feat for any person, but for a black woman, at that time, it was extraordinary. She was loved by so many, but especially her son and daughter, her grandchildren and her many friends.
So, let's raise our glasses to Rosalie Sims Young. Mrs. Young, I know wherever you are, that you've been brought Home, and you have New Life.
*clink*
Wednesday, January 2, 2008
In Which The Nephew Spills SeaMonkeys
The Niece, heretofore known as HRH, asked the Auntie for SeaMonkeys for Christmas. I've always had them on my desk at school, and at home. They're the greatest little distractions in the world.
I, being The Best, was happy to oblige. Being The Auntie, and not The Mommy has many advantages. She can ask me for anything, pretty much, and I'll run right out to get it. Especially if it's noisy, splashy, messy, glittery or "experimental," it's right down my alley. I'd be a mediocre Mommy, at best. But as an Auntie, I'm tops. And I've already promised her my convertible when she's 16, my shoe collection, my fur coats as well as all my jewelry if she'll change my adult diapers when I'm old. Sometimes I toy with the idea of getting some Depends, just to check if she's serious; I mean, we're talking The Shoes here, folks.
The little plastic aquarium went home last Sunday. HRH, being eight-years-old, and officially literate, read the instruction booklet, added the first envelope of powder, and waited the allotted 24 hours. She practiced patience, and finally she mixed in the little packet of SeaMonkey eggs, thus creating INSTANT LIFE!
Feeling godlike, she took the little watery nursery to the dining room, where it's sunny, so the little babies could grow big and strong in the solar warmth.
Meanwhile, The Nephew, otherwise known as Hellmonkey, decided to hide out in their dining room so as to get some privacy, thus avoiding the Potty. He's been difficult to train. Especially over the holidays. And he simply won't poop on the potty. I've been telling his parents to leave him alone, he'll catch on soon. I tell him that all the cool kids poop their pants. I just pooped mine! (Which scares the hell out of HRH. See above...) While simultaneously seeking some quality alone time, and alluding his parents, he takes refuge under the dining room table.
Which is how the unthinkable happens. Just as Hellmonkey is emerging from his den-like hiding spot, he bumps the table leg, knocking over the Seamonkeys, spilling out every ounce of liquid.
I just took the call from HRH. She's in hysterics, which she did NOT learn from me. So now, it's a trip to the Kaybee for another round of SeaMonkeys. This time, I'm instructing her to wrap one of Hellmonkey's diapers around the little seaquarium.
Will the Seamonkeys make it to adulthood this time? Depends.
I, being The Best, was happy to oblige. Being The Auntie, and not The Mommy has many advantages. She can ask me for anything, pretty much, and I'll run right out to get it. Especially if it's noisy, splashy, messy, glittery or "experimental," it's right down my alley. I'd be a mediocre Mommy, at best. But as an Auntie, I'm tops. And I've already promised her my convertible when she's 16, my shoe collection, my fur coats as well as all my jewelry if she'll change my adult diapers when I'm old. Sometimes I toy with the idea of getting some Depends, just to check if she's serious; I mean, we're talking The Shoes here, folks.
The little plastic aquarium went home last Sunday. HRH, being eight-years-old, and officially literate, read the instruction booklet, added the first envelope of powder, and waited the allotted 24 hours. She practiced patience, and finally she mixed in the little packet of SeaMonkey eggs, thus creating INSTANT LIFE!
Feeling godlike, she took the little watery nursery to the dining room, where it's sunny, so the little babies could grow big and strong in the solar warmth.
Meanwhile, The Nephew, otherwise known as Hellmonkey, decided to hide out in their dining room so as to get some privacy, thus avoiding the Potty. He's been difficult to train. Especially over the holidays. And he simply won't poop on the potty. I've been telling his parents to leave him alone, he'll catch on soon. I tell him that all the cool kids poop their pants. I just pooped mine! (Which scares the hell out of HRH. See above...) While simultaneously seeking some quality alone time, and alluding his parents, he takes refuge under the dining room table.
Which is how the unthinkable happens. Just as Hellmonkey is emerging from his den-like hiding spot, he bumps the table leg, knocking over the Seamonkeys, spilling out every ounce of liquid.
I just took the call from HRH. She's in hysterics, which she did NOT learn from me. So now, it's a trip to the Kaybee for another round of SeaMonkeys. This time, I'm instructing her to wrap one of Hellmonkey's diapers around the little seaquarium.
Will the Seamonkeys make it to adulthood this time? Depends.
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