Have you ever seen the movie Harold and Maude*? Happiest sad movie ever, maybe. I think. I'm not sure I really got it, but I do like Cat Stevens.
***************
It must happen all the time; the official population of New York City is 8,175,133.
Ted and I were waiting to take the elevator up to Julianna and Ed's for a Saturday catch-up party. Summer night, circle skirt, bottle of wine. We were waiting there with a lady and a puppy and when the elevator on the left finally came, there was chaos and doors closing on people and when the practical-looking nurse lady and the neat, older gentleman with the round glasses finally got out and decided which way to turn (toward the service entrance, not the main door), we had to flatten ourselves into the notch of the elevator on the right so they could wheel the stretcher away. And, pressed against that elevator door, we widened our eyes as we realized the sheet was pulled all the way up.
The lady and the puppy were still processing, but we got in the elevator. By the time we got to the sixteenth floor we were in fits of nervous giggles because sometimes big emotions come out all wrong at first.
And we had a party. We ate and laughed and celebrated and played with the puppy and forgot about it for a while.
~b
*Harold and Maude was made in 1971 and is full of awesome. It's only 90 minutes long and it's streaming on Netflix, so I suggest you just watch it for yourself.
Showing posts with label parties. Show all posts
Showing posts with label parties. Show all posts
5.2.10
somewhere between here and there
When Jules and I went to see Evie, we had to stop in at a first birthday party. It was swarming with babies, which I guess is what happens when a one-year-old makes the guest list.
You couldn’t step or sit down without checking to make sure there wasn’t a little person in the way, and all the grownups who hadn’t brought their own baby seemed to be working on it for next time.
The cupcakes were pretty good. Jules had spent the weekend talking herself out of getting a puppy because it would be too hard and was concentrating on the hors d’oeuvres. Evie was holding a two-week old infant while balancing an 18-month-old on her knee and still having a grown-up conversation. And I was trying to have a grown-up conversation with a two-year-old while being torn between needing one of these for my very own and never ever wanting this to happen to my life.
On the way home from Christmas at my grandma’s my brother and I were talking about how awful our baby cousins are.
“I think I could be ready for a little niece or nephew, though,” he said, looking at me.
“Well,” I glared back, “I think I could be ready for a niece or nephew, too.”
Neither of us would budge, so we decided the best course of action would to have our parents to adopt someone with a (well-behaved) kid.
~beatrix
You couldn’t step or sit down without checking to make sure there wasn’t a little person in the way, and all the grownups who hadn’t brought their own baby seemed to be working on it for next time.
The cupcakes were pretty good. Jules had spent the weekend talking herself out of getting a puppy because it would be too hard and was concentrating on the hors d’oeuvres. Evie was holding a two-week old infant while balancing an 18-month-old on her knee and still having a grown-up conversation. And I was trying to have a grown-up conversation with a two-year-old while being torn between needing one of these for my very own and never ever wanting this to happen to my life.
On the way home from Christmas at my grandma’s my brother and I were talking about how awful our baby cousins are.
“I think I could be ready for a little niece or nephew, though,” he said, looking at me.
“Well,” I glared back, “I think I could be ready for a niece or nephew, too.”
Neither of us would budge, so we decided the best course of action would to have our parents to adopt someone with a (well-behaved) kid.
~beatrix
20.1.10
to happy new years
“It might snow today,” Ted’s phone thinks it’s so clever, but it didn’t tell us anything I didn’t know when I opened the curtains or anything he didn’t notice when he went outside to alternate his parking.
2009 ended a lot better than it started.
The snowflakes were so fat, and everything was already covered.
We ate lunch at a restaurant I’d never noticed before, even though it‘s in my own neighborhood. It’s a carriage house with plaid table cloths, blue willow on the walls, and the most beautiful omelette I’ve ever seen. I hope we remember where it is. It appeared so suddenly in our path, I hope it’s real.
“Have you ever made a snow angel?”
“Um, yeah.”
“Oh. I’ve never done it. I’m from a warm place, and IF there’s snow, and IF you flop down in it, you just get all soggy.”
I was taking my gloves off to touch the snow because they were new and I didn’t want them to get spotty. He threw himself on the ground and scissored his arms and legs.
There really wasn’t that much snow, and the sand of the Central Park bocce ball court showed through. I laughed.
“I’ve made sand angels. . . plenty of times at the beach.”
At the zoo, Ted voiced over the chinstrap penguins. I had decided they were from New Jersey, and the performance was miles better than Jersey Shore. He said I could get a bufflehead and let it live in the bathtub. The crane was shivering in the snow. (I’m pretty sure he needed some very long skinny socks.) And the red panda hasn’t escaped, as I suspected, but was padding around in his fur like footie pyjamas.
I wore my new earmuffs, and they kept my ears toasty.
We warmed up and read in bed, set an alarm just in case, and woke up two hours later.
The party part was fine, but we decided we should have our own next year. If you have your own New Year’s Eve party, you don’t have to go outside. I think ours will be pyjama and breakfast themed.
~beatrix
p.s. loveharder.org
p.p.s. please be my friend on twitter because if not i don't want to play anymore. beatrix_here
2009 ended a lot better than it started.
The snowflakes were so fat, and everything was already covered.
We ate lunch at a restaurant I’d never noticed before, even though it‘s in my own neighborhood. It’s a carriage house with plaid table cloths, blue willow on the walls, and the most beautiful omelette I’ve ever seen. I hope we remember where it is. It appeared so suddenly in our path, I hope it’s real.
“Have you ever made a snow angel?”
“Um, yeah.”
“Oh. I’ve never done it. I’m from a warm place, and IF there’s snow, and IF you flop down in it, you just get all soggy.”
I was taking my gloves off to touch the snow because they were new and I didn’t want them to get spotty. He threw himself on the ground and scissored his arms and legs.
There really wasn’t that much snow, and the sand of the Central Park bocce ball court showed through. I laughed.
“I’ve made sand angels. . . plenty of times at the beach.”
At the zoo, Ted voiced over the chinstrap penguins. I had decided they were from New Jersey, and the performance was miles better than Jersey Shore. He said I could get a bufflehead and let it live in the bathtub. The crane was shivering in the snow. (I’m pretty sure he needed some very long skinny socks.) And the red panda hasn’t escaped, as I suspected, but was padding around in his fur like footie pyjamas.
I wore my new earmuffs, and they kept my ears toasty.
We warmed up and read in bed, set an alarm just in case, and woke up two hours later.
The party part was fine, but we decided we should have our own next year. If you have your own New Year’s Eve party, you don’t have to go outside. I think ours will be pyjama and breakfast themed.
~beatrix
p.s. loveharder.org
p.p.s. please be my friend on twitter because if not i don't want to play anymore. beatrix_here
15.8.09
one fine day
My cousin got married on a Thursday afternoon at the courthouse, and my parents decided that they should help throw a party for the newlyweds the next weekend.
It was last-minute and bit thrown-together, and I wasn’t able to go.
“It wasn’t perfect,” my mom told me.
“It wasn’t exactly what we had in mind,” my dad said.
These are my parents. They’ve been planning my wedding for 27 years. I’m sure they thought idly about the party they’d get to have one day as their only daughter, dressed in floufy dresses and ruffle socks, scattered silk petals down aisles or passed around countless rice bags, but it’s reached a new intensity in the past five years or so. These days, at every wedding they attend, they compile a list of to-dos and not-to-dos.
“At Beatrix’s wedding, I want people to walk around with the food,” my dad will say, filling a plate with appetizers from a buffet.
“Yes, but I do like the bridesmaids’ bouquets,” my mom will answer, carefully examining a centerpiece.
I’m surprised they haven’t started taking notes. On the way home, they analyze the favors before launching into the age-old band-versus-deejay debate.
Sometimes it comes completely out of the blue.
“I was thinking that at Beatrix’s wedding, we’ll have fried quail,” my mom will say over dinner (of something that is not fried quail).
“I thought about that, but it makes your hands smell funny,” says dad.
“Oh, I guess it does. . . .”
“Maybe we could have some kind of towels. . . .”
At the beach, our next-door neighbors were having a wedding, a casual weeknight party on the sand. We watched from our deck.
“Yes, you have to wear a shirt,” my mom told my brother, as she dragged a living room chair outside.
“Yeah. Is nothing sacred?” I asked, craning a bit to see the guests arriving and taking a sip of a daiquiri from a red plastic cup.
“I want y’all to have real weddings, not at the beach,” my dad told us. “I don’t look good in these kind of clothes. I look best in a suit, don’t you think?”
At least they haven’t given up hope altogether.
And one day, maybe, I hope they get to throw the wedding of their dreams.
~beatrix
It was last-minute and bit thrown-together, and I wasn’t able to go.
“It wasn’t perfect,” my mom told me.
“It wasn’t exactly what we had in mind,” my dad said.
These are my parents. They’ve been planning my wedding for 27 years. I’m sure they thought idly about the party they’d get to have one day as their only daughter, dressed in floufy dresses and ruffle socks, scattered silk petals down aisles or passed around countless rice bags, but it’s reached a new intensity in the past five years or so. These days, at every wedding they attend, they compile a list of to-dos and not-to-dos.
“At Beatrix’s wedding, I want people to walk around with the food,” my dad will say, filling a plate with appetizers from a buffet.
“Yes, but I do like the bridesmaids’ bouquets,” my mom will answer, carefully examining a centerpiece.
I’m surprised they haven’t started taking notes. On the way home, they analyze the favors before launching into the age-old band-versus-deejay debate.
Sometimes it comes completely out of the blue.
“I was thinking that at Beatrix’s wedding, we’ll have fried quail,” my mom will say over dinner (of something that is not fried quail).
“I thought about that, but it makes your hands smell funny,” says dad.
“Oh, I guess it does. . . .”
“Maybe we could have some kind of towels. . . .”
At the beach, our next-door neighbors were having a wedding, a casual weeknight party on the sand. We watched from our deck.
“Yes, you have to wear a shirt,” my mom told my brother, as she dragged a living room chair outside.
“Yeah. Is nothing sacred?” I asked, craning a bit to see the guests arriving and taking a sip of a daiquiri from a red plastic cup.
“I want y’all to have real weddings, not at the beach,” my dad told us. “I don’t look good in these kind of clothes. I look best in a suit, don’t you think?”
At least they haven’t given up hope altogether.
And one day, maybe, I hope they get to throw the wedding of their dreams.
~beatrix
8.4.09
party
Pete wanted me to go to a party with him on Saturday night.
“There will be lots of Indian guys there,” he assures me.
I didn’t meet the faux-hawked, sports-coated group of attractive Indian fellows with that private equity look about them because, even though Pete offered to introduce me, I was afraid he’d make it awkward and obvious. That’s kind of his thing.
I did meet a famous author. I can’t remember his name or what he wrote, even though I was sober all night. I had never heard of him. So we just talked about me.
And I met a boy from Alabama. I’m from Georgia, and that’s close. He’s familiar with my hometown. I know the tiny place where his grandparents live. We’ve eaten at the same cafeteria-restaurant. We talked about our choice of footwear in middle school, people dressed in bunny suits, the proclivity of Catholic-school kids to do the hardest and craziest drugs, and the quality of cheese stores in Brooklyn. A really interesting older gentleman keeps telling us that he’s just enjoying listening in because our conversation is so. . . quirky.
Then this Alabama boy and I discover that we even know the same person. And this person just happens to be Harper’s college boyfriend. He says they lost their virginity to the same girl. Small world.
Pete tells me he’s going to go but I should stay. I leave with him anyway. Before I leave, I lock eyes with this Alabama boy. He’s over in a flash and asking for my number.
“My friend from Alabama is moving to Brazil, and when he leaves I won’t know any other Southerners in the city.”
I guess he’s looking for a replacement.
~beatrix
“There will be lots of Indian guys there,” he assures me.
I didn’t meet the faux-hawked, sports-coated group of attractive Indian fellows with that private equity look about them because, even though Pete offered to introduce me, I was afraid he’d make it awkward and obvious. That’s kind of his thing.
I did meet a famous author. I can’t remember his name or what he wrote, even though I was sober all night. I had never heard of him. So we just talked about me.
And I met a boy from Alabama. I’m from Georgia, and that’s close. He’s familiar with my hometown. I know the tiny place where his grandparents live. We’ve eaten at the same cafeteria-restaurant. We talked about our choice of footwear in middle school, people dressed in bunny suits, the proclivity of Catholic-school kids to do the hardest and craziest drugs, and the quality of cheese stores in Brooklyn. A really interesting older gentleman keeps telling us that he’s just enjoying listening in because our conversation is so. . . quirky.
Then this Alabama boy and I discover that we even know the same person. And this person just happens to be Harper’s college boyfriend. He says they lost their virginity to the same girl. Small world.
Pete tells me he’s going to go but I should stay. I leave with him anyway. Before I leave, I lock eyes with this Alabama boy. He’s over in a flash and asking for my number.
“My friend from Alabama is moving to Brazil, and when he leaves I won’t know any other Southerners in the city.”
I guess he’s looking for a replacement.
~beatrix
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