Wednesday, November 3, 2010


"I'll take another martini. Oh, and a doggy-bag for my liver."

Once upon a time, Mother was invited to two parties. This made Mother very happy because she couldn’t remember the last time she went to a party where the little people didn’t rule. Nor, could she remember the last time she went to a party where the red stuff in the bottle was Merlot and not Hawaiian Punch.
But Mother was scared. Mother wondered out loud in the middle of A&P what one wore to parties these days. That thought made A have to P, but I digress. While waiting on the endless checkout line Mother perused a copy of In Style magazine. Mother was surprised to discover that bras were still in fashion. Mother couldn’t remember the last time that she actually wore one. Mother stopped wearing them when she couldn’t find a clean one. Mother noticed other mothers had abandoned their foundation so she abandoned hers. Good thing. Mother’s Victoria Secret push-up had pushed-out.
          Mother’s first party was an intimate dinner with friends at their minimalist Tribeca loft. (By minimalist I mean that they have no children. Mother realized the easiest way to avoid clutter is to avoid having children. And getting married. But that’s for Mother’s fairy tale about couple’s therapy.) Mother decided jeans and a long sweater would be the perfect ensemble for a Manhattan dinner party. The long sweater would both camouflage her ginormous ass, and the enormous tear riding up her seat. Clearly “7 for all Mankind” is not for all mankind. At least not for mankind sporting a post-baby body. (And by post-baby I mean10 years.)
          Mother was greeted at the loft door with a glass of champagne that she finished before reaching the snow-white sectional. Mother marveled at the space. Mother marveled at the 52” fingerprint-free screen of the Sony Plasma HDTV. Mother marveled that the remote control was not duct-taped together. Mother marveled at the spotless white walls and suspected that Mr. Clean’s Magic Eraser never came calling.  Mother marveled her way through two bottles of champagne and three bottles of Merlot. Father carried Mother out at 4 am. Mother’s shouts of “I love you” echoed down deserted Franklin Street. Father didn’t wake Mother for the 8:30am soccer game. Father is afraid of hung-over grizzly bears.
          Mother recovered just in time for the next night’s party. This party was for a film screening at a restaurant. Mother didn’t know what to wear to a restaurant. Mother usually wears pajamas to restaurants. (And by restaurants I mean drive-thru’s.) Mother purchased a pair of pantyhose, but her big toe shred the nylon. Mother forgot that one needs a pedicure before inviting one’s big toe into pantyhose. Mother had forgotten what a pedicure was.
Mother went up to the attic and rummaged through her old work clothes. Mother unfolded a pair of Ann Taylor slacks. Mother found $20 and the telephone number of a man she can’t remember in the pocket. Mother wanted to call that number, but some things are best kept stored in your pants, especially when you have a big toe with special needs.   
          Mother took two Sudafed tablets because Mother’s head gets awfully stuffy when she drinks. At the party Mother ordered a martini(s). Mother thinks that martinis could end warfare. Mother asked for extra olives. Mother likes the thrilling explosion of gin when she bites into an olive she’s swirled around with the anchor of her plastic sword.
Mother was introduced to the filmmaker and her husband. Mother’s Sudafed kicked in. Mucous rushed from the faucet of Mother’s nose just as her hand reached for the extended hand of the young, talented, and beautiful filmmaker. Because martinis misinterpret messages Mother’s brain sends to Mother’s body, Mother sniffled out instead of sniffling in. Mother watched a bubble of mucous inflate beneath her nose. Mother saw the filmmaker restrain from recoiling in horror. Mother wondered if the bubble would become airborne or just pop and ruin a perfectly good martini. Mother couldn’t worry about that because Mother had forgotten how to swallow. Four martinis do that to Mother.  When Mother tried to apologize for the inflatable balloon of mucous still hanging precariously from her right nostril, drool, not words, came spilling forth from her mouth. Mother doesn’t remember Father escorting her from the party. Nor does Mother remember going to bed with her boots on.
Mother slept happily ever…after…several trips to the porcelain god.

The End…until the next party.

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