The only people who should celebrate birthdays are the very young and the very old. All of us in-betweeners should do the right and noble thing and invite a few friends out to a restaurant with lots of deep fried entrees and then proceed to get seriously drunk.
Somehow I have been invited to two birthday parties honoring persons in the geriatric crowd. Both events will be celebrated on Sunday afternoons and the guests will be relieved of their partying duties by 4:00 p.m., poor tired old souls. Enough time to get home, fry a grilled cheese sandwich, watch 60 Minutes and fall asleep snoring loudly into the couch. I am talking about myself, of course. The afternoon will be strenuous and taxing, all those new people to avoid, too much cream cheese eating and drinking what is someone else's idea of a good beer.
The first party will honor my father's girlfriend, would they please come up with a better word. Her kids decided to give her a party because she has never had a birthday party and this doesn't seem like a good reason but there you go. I do not want to attend because I don't like parties in any form but I need to show some level of support for this budding relationship, so important to my father.
The second soiree is for my father's sister, my aunt Patti. She is a brilliant musician and has the degrees to prove it and I sat next to her at the piano on many Saturday mornings of my childhood while she puffed her cigarette and I stumbled through Beethoven. Like any artist worth her toast she is eccentric, quirky and the back of her car, the entire back of her car is covered with pro choice and love your earth bumper stickers. She wears bright red lipstick and long sweeping purple skirts and her daughter Penny is giving the party. Both women have traveled through three husbands apiece and Penny is a bonafide witch and pagan which always sparks up the conversation. The invitation insists that we bring musical instruments. Oh no, this I will not miss.
I will not go without my father. It will be necessary to stand anonymously in his shadow and then I can peruse the room and check out the contents of the medicine cabinet unnoticed, oh, I'm kidding. Most people would rather speak with Sonny than with me and that is more than fine.
I asked if he had received the invitation knowing that he automatically deletes without reading any email from his crazy sister. He grumbled for a few minutes and then agreed to go.
Somehow I have been invited to two birthday parties honoring persons in the geriatric crowd. Both events will be celebrated on Sunday afternoons and the guests will be relieved of their partying duties by 4:00 p.m., poor tired old souls. Enough time to get home, fry a grilled cheese sandwich, watch 60 Minutes and fall asleep snoring loudly into the couch. I am talking about myself, of course. The afternoon will be strenuous and taxing, all those new people to avoid, too much cream cheese eating and drinking what is someone else's idea of a good beer.
The first party will honor my father's girlfriend, would they please come up with a better word. Her kids decided to give her a party because she has never had a birthday party and this doesn't seem like a good reason but there you go. I do not want to attend because I don't like parties in any form but I need to show some level of support for this budding relationship, so important to my father.
The second soiree is for my father's sister, my aunt Patti. She is a brilliant musician and has the degrees to prove it and I sat next to her at the piano on many Saturday mornings of my childhood while she puffed her cigarette and I stumbled through Beethoven. Like any artist worth her toast she is eccentric, quirky and the back of her car, the entire back of her car is covered with pro choice and love your earth bumper stickers. She wears bright red lipstick and long sweeping purple skirts and her daughter Penny is giving the party. Both women have traveled through three husbands apiece and Penny is a bonafide witch and pagan which always sparks up the conversation. The invitation insists that we bring musical instruments. Oh no, this I will not miss.
I will not go without my father. It will be necessary to stand anonymously in his shadow and then I can peruse the room and check out the contents of the medicine cabinet unnoticed, oh, I'm kidding. Most people would rather speak with Sonny than with me and that is more than fine. I asked if he had received the invitation knowing that he automatically deletes without reading any email from his crazy sister. He grumbled for a few minutes and then agreed to go.
2 comments:
Bona fide witch and pagan!?! I guess thats what happens when you're brought up in the traditional latin- only patriarchial bs of the Catholic Church (Sorry, I can't resist an opportunity to bash the good ole boys club in Rome--did you know the Vatican reeks of b.o. Really.
Well, I'm not surprised. Those robes look really heavy and there are no women telling them to hit the showers.
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