The Almost Birthday Party, Saturday Night
On September 22, my grandfather will turn 90 years old. However, that's awfully close to Brown Brown's due date (which is September 10, for those of you who have forgotten), and obviously Adam and I would not only be unable to fly home, but we'll have commandeered the Tweedle Twirp as our in-house nanny and my mother will most certainly want to be in the Boston region (no one other than the TT will be permitted to actually stay with us during the first month or so of Brown Brown's appearance). So, after much family debate about possible dates (a trauma itself, not to be delved into here), this weekend was decided upon for my grandfather's almost birthday party. Yes, mid-July in Miami Beach is not the most comfortable place to be, but it's what worked out.
Adam had the ultimate out for this party. Not only was there a mandatory social event for interns at his company on Saturday, but he was going to be flying back from Oslo the very day we were to fly to Miami. But, as he loves to declare, my family is great entertainment for those not actually related to it by blood, and he wasn't going to miss the show. His flight left Oslo at 7:30 a.m. and he arrived in Boston (via London) at about 2. Our flight was at 6, so figuring in time for customs and needing to be at the airport an hour before our flight, it just didn't make sense for him to leave Logan Airport. So Friday was airport/airplane day for Adam. That's a lot of torture for some family entertainment (although, truth be told, my family is more entertaining than most families, however, it's nothing I can write about here. Some day, a few people will die off, and I'll write a novel based on the family. It will be made into a prime-time soap opera, and everyone will say, "Oh, please. Like anything like that could ever happen in real life." But I'll know. I'm sure you're thinking, "C'mon, my family's dysfunctional, too," but I assure you, mine brings new meaning to the word. [And I am of course referring only to extended family. My immediate family, while immensely weird, is depressingly normal]).
The main party was last night, with a follow-up brunch that will be happening in about another two hours. Dinner for twenty-two at Smith and Wollensky (my grandfather is a steak and potatoes kind of guy. Well, really a steak, potatoes, and Jack Daniels kind of guy, but there's no Jack Daniels restaurant in town). The room was fantastic--a gorgeous water view of a narrow channel that the cruise ships pass through (right across from Fisher Island).
Getting ready at my parent's place, I put on my navy blue matronly business-y "Hey, there's no doubt about it I'm pregnant" dress, complete with the tiny bow on top of my belly and my black flats. I commented to the Tweedle Twirp, "These really aren't the best shoes for this." TT said, "They're fine for a pregnant lady." I said, somewhat indignantly, "I wore these shoes before I got pregnant." Barely even looking at me, she said, "Yeah, but I bet they looked a lot better when you still had ankles." This was after seeing me only half dressed and bursting out with a laugh, TT said, "Ohmygod, are you HUGE!"
The party itself was a tremendous success: the food was delicious (the steaks were gigantic), the skits we put on were a hit with my grandfather (too many in jokes to list them here, although my cousin Oliver and his kids, Milo and Annie, gets a shout-out for best performance of the evening), and he was delighted to have everyone together. My mother did a nice job setting the room up. As party favors/decorations, she scanned in twenty-two different photos of my grandfather over the years and put them all in different frames at each place setting. My grandmother (the one who called me fat on our last visit home) surprised me by raving over how terrific I looked. "You are the model pregnant woman," she said. I think it was the dress. Some folks got a little loopy. One cousin, who made a point of not kissing me hello because she's sick, said in the middle of the evening after tripping over her words, "Wow, that Nyquil really packs a punch." I questioned, "Weren't you just drinking vodka tonics?" "Well," she replied, "now I am." The one failure was my grandfather and the big-screen TV. More than anything in this world, my grandfather wants a big-screen TV. My grandmother won't let him have one (they're too ugly or something). My grandfather asked for the rest of the family to put pressure on her for the TV. Didn't work. I think we only made her more set in my ways.
The cake was yummy and they actually brought one out with ninety candles on it. Milo (a ten year old) announced after the candle-blowing, "I know what you wished for!" It was a beautiful moment, and we all expected Milo, a sensitive boy, to say, "Ninety more years" or "For the family to get together more often." But what he said was, "I bet you wished for a big-screen TV." I thought my grandmother was going to strangle him.
There were a few wandering hands on my belly. I was caught off-guard by three different people who felt a need to--unannounced--pounce on my belly and give it a rub. I held my tongue in deference to keeping the family peace, although I definitely was not happy about it. There are only two groups of people allowed to touch my belly without asking first: those under the age of twelve and those I am married to. Everyone else: hands off without asking. I realize that the lump that's obviously a head that's sticking out of the side of my stomach is just a hands' magnet. Restrain yourselves, people.
So now the family is bustling about the condo trying to get ready for the twenty-two people about to descend here for brunch. I should probably be helping, but it's hard to do anything when you have to excuse yourself every 5.36 minutes to use the bathroom. So instead, I'm sitting at my father's computer catching all of you up. That's just the kind of lazy person I am.
Adam had the ultimate out for this party. Not only was there a mandatory social event for interns at his company on Saturday, but he was going to be flying back from Oslo the very day we were to fly to Miami. But, as he loves to declare, my family is great entertainment for those not actually related to it by blood, and he wasn't going to miss the show. His flight left Oslo at 7:30 a.m. and he arrived in Boston (via London) at about 2. Our flight was at 6, so figuring in time for customs and needing to be at the airport an hour before our flight, it just didn't make sense for him to leave Logan Airport. So Friday was airport/airplane day for Adam. That's a lot of torture for some family entertainment (although, truth be told, my family is more entertaining than most families, however, it's nothing I can write about here. Some day, a few people will die off, and I'll write a novel based on the family. It will be made into a prime-time soap opera, and everyone will say, "Oh, please. Like anything like that could ever happen in real life." But I'll know. I'm sure you're thinking, "C'mon, my family's dysfunctional, too," but I assure you, mine brings new meaning to the word. [And I am of course referring only to extended family. My immediate family, while immensely weird, is depressingly normal]).
The main party was last night, with a follow-up brunch that will be happening in about another two hours. Dinner for twenty-two at Smith and Wollensky (my grandfather is a steak and potatoes kind of guy. Well, really a steak, potatoes, and Jack Daniels kind of guy, but there's no Jack Daniels restaurant in town). The room was fantastic--a gorgeous water view of a narrow channel that the cruise ships pass through (right across from Fisher Island).
Getting ready at my parent's place, I put on my navy blue matronly business-y "Hey, there's no doubt about it I'm pregnant" dress, complete with the tiny bow on top of my belly and my black flats. I commented to the Tweedle Twirp, "These really aren't the best shoes for this." TT said, "They're fine for a pregnant lady." I said, somewhat indignantly, "I wore these shoes before I got pregnant." Barely even looking at me, she said, "Yeah, but I bet they looked a lot better when you still had ankles." This was after seeing me only half dressed and bursting out with a laugh, TT said, "Ohmygod, are you HUGE!"
The party itself was a tremendous success: the food was delicious (the steaks were gigantic), the skits we put on were a hit with my grandfather (too many in jokes to list them here, although my cousin Oliver and his kids, Milo and Annie, gets a shout-out for best performance of the evening), and he was delighted to have everyone together. My mother did a nice job setting the room up. As party favors/decorations, she scanned in twenty-two different photos of my grandfather over the years and put them all in different frames at each place setting. My grandmother (the one who called me fat on our last visit home) surprised me by raving over how terrific I looked. "You are the model pregnant woman," she said. I think it was the dress. Some folks got a little loopy. One cousin, who made a point of not kissing me hello because she's sick, said in the middle of the evening after tripping over her words, "Wow, that Nyquil really packs a punch." I questioned, "Weren't you just drinking vodka tonics?" "Well," she replied, "now I am." The one failure was my grandfather and the big-screen TV. More than anything in this world, my grandfather wants a big-screen TV. My grandmother won't let him have one (they're too ugly or something). My grandfather asked for the rest of the family to put pressure on her for the TV. Didn't work. I think we only made her more set in my ways.
The cake was yummy and they actually brought one out with ninety candles on it. Milo (a ten year old) announced after the candle-blowing, "I know what you wished for!" It was a beautiful moment, and we all expected Milo, a sensitive boy, to say, "Ninety more years" or "For the family to get together more often." But what he said was, "I bet you wished for a big-screen TV." I thought my grandmother was going to strangle him.
There were a few wandering hands on my belly. I was caught off-guard by three different people who felt a need to--unannounced--pounce on my belly and give it a rub. I held my tongue in deference to keeping the family peace, although I definitely was not happy about it. There are only two groups of people allowed to touch my belly without asking first: those under the age of twelve and those I am married to. Everyone else: hands off without asking. I realize that the lump that's obviously a head that's sticking out of the side of my stomach is just a hands' magnet. Restrain yourselves, people.
So now the family is bustling about the condo trying to get ready for the twenty-two people about to descend here for brunch. I should probably be helping, but it's hard to do anything when you have to excuse yourself every 5.36 minutes to use the bathroom. So instead, I'm sitting at my father's computer catching all of you up. That's just the kind of lazy person I am.
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
Subscribe to Post Comments [Atom]
<< Home