Party Like It's 2012

Charlotte and Jack know how to throw a party. And of course, the weather would not dare refuse to cooperate. A gorgeous, humidity-free sunny day, not hot enough to induce pit stains, not cool enough to make you have to throw a librarianish cardi over your fabulous dress. A storm threatened at one point, but would not dare actually rain.

Scott and I, three of our four kids in tow, embarked on our journey to Charlotte's.  Wally had already briefed me (He is there all the time. My kitchen is small potatoes next to Charlotte's project list.) There would be a tent.  Charlotte's cat had already claimed it. Moved in. Found a place to crap.  I am sure Charlotte was having him mounted and stuffed by now.

We park and go in and greet everyone.  Charlotte had just reduced her order of outrageously beautifully decorated mini cupcakes, top-heavy with icing swirls, and mousse, and fudgy things, and other sugary garnishes.  Three hundred was way too much, especially with several pounds of cookies to compete with. I could feel my glycemic index on the rise just looking at it all.

Under the tent, sans cat, who I am sure was banished to Never Never Land, there were made to order fajitas and such, filled with fresh sauteed veggies and meats and complimented by scrumptious sides and accompanied by a cornucopia of home made tortilla chips and a variety of dipping options. I was getting love handles just walking within smelling distance.

And the bar. High end beers. Fun sodas. Delicious wine. And a variety of deliciously infused vodkas and tequilas artfully flavored by the host himself.

And then guests start to arrive - friends of the graduate, Gray.  And friends of his younger brother, Griffin, who will be doing this next year. And their older brother Gregory. Who brought his darling girlfriend.  Such an abundance of cuteness and promise all in one place.

We discuss all manner of things. I chat about my insane kitchen renovation and the cat's reaction to it with Gregory (climbing among the displaced glasses, nestling in among the basket of beer koozies, climbing into boxes that need to be packed, curling up in emptied cabinets, eating tape, throwing up tape).  I tell Griffin about my brand new shiny boating license and encourage him to get one of his own.  He's smart enough to pass on the first shot, too, even with all the bizarre light signals and buoy markers to memorize. And I talk with Gray, the Graduate, about his shore house. How to minimize the damage done by the Asshole Friend (there is one in every crowd) and to avoid police citations (it's a quiet, well-heeled neighborhood, the neighbors will complain) and the art of taking the after-hours party back to someone else's house, not yours. Scott and I have both been there.

Some of Charlotte's old familiar friends arrive and we all catch up. We haven't seen each other since Gregory's graduation party.  I'd brought J. to that. Gross. Charlotte's one friend asks if I am still wearily tethered to that particularly leaden ball and chain. I fill her in on my getaway and the abridged version of the myriad reasons why I dumped him (the deception, the stealing, the alcoholism, the life-sized tattoo of my Facebook profile picture on his scrawny little leg, my inspired calls to the police, the late night pathetic visits to my house long after we'd broken up.) Damn. Like a bad penny, somehow his name comes up at every event, even if only in the context of, "So glad you dumped that loser you were dating. Scott is a dream boat." At least it affords me the opportunity to gush about how fabulous Scott is and how blissfully happy I am to be living my life.

Another of Charlotte's friend's mentions this blog. I am so flattered when I know people read it.  We are clutching our crotches trying not to pee when she revisits the story about Mom and her gun. We are too breathless to even describe the many ways she is the last person who should own a weapon of any kind.

But suddenly with the mere mention of her name, I am in That Place.

The dark, evil place where my relationship with Estelle lives.

The Commencement ceremony is just days away.  She is driving up to attend. And I will be there, too. I will be face to face, side by side, with the Queen of the Damned herself.

As Charlotte would say, "Sweet bearded Jesus."