A Night With the Family

Or, Thank God We Only Do This A Couple Times A Year.

So last night was special. We had my adult family over to dinner, but by the time they left, our house looked like we had hosted Motley Crue.

Let me start at the beginning. Because so many of us have August birthdays (me, my grandfather, my father, and Husband), my father's family has in recent years begun grouping them into a single event known creatively as The August Birthday Bash. This is not an all-out event or anything, only a dinner; Dad just likes the alliteration. Ordinarily, the Bash would be hosted by my father, but due to various aspects of drama in his life, Husband and I offered to host it at our house this year. The invitees were Dad and Dad's parents, so five of us in total.

It took me weeks to select the menu, all of it out of the pages of Cooking Light to keep our collective health in mind. As Mother-in-Law likes to point out, a general theme of birthdays should be to reflect on the years we've had and to look forward to many more. There would be herbed white bean dip with crudite and wheat pita wedges, green salad with avocado dressing, grilled chicken with spicy fruit salsa, quinoa salad with chive oil, and light peach-blueberry cobbler for dessert. Husband spent most of the day cleaning the house while I prepared what I could ahead of time.

They descended upon our house ten minutes early, bearing wine and gifts, which were of course quite welcome. That was probably the last time I was happy about their presence in my household for the rest of the night.

Now, my grandparents are both over 80, and I have a quiet voice, but I do make an effort to raise it in their presence. They are not so considerate about wearing their hearing aids. During pre-dinner drinks, everything I (or Husband, or Dad, or the other Grand) said was met with a chorus of, "What?" In addition to that was the complete lack of comprehension once they did finally understand the words that were coming out of my mouth (with apologies to Chris Tucker). I was trying to relate a story about playing with my Niece in Denver last month, and they had no idea whatsoever what I was talking about. This wasn't a wild computer game or a Dora the Explorer experience to which they could not relate - this was a story about swinging a 3 year old in the air, something I'm sure they did with their children. But, despite the general frustration (and associated lack of motivation to continue trying to communicate with them), I was able to remind myself that they're over 80 and this difficulty is understandably just something that comes with the package at that age.

What was less understandable was my grandfather's continued habit of hitting on me. Five minutes could not go by without him saying that I was a beautiful young lady. Don't misunderstand - I'm not being immodest or ungrateful. Hearing that once is sweet, twice is complimentary. But by the 30th time out of your grandfather's mouth, it's just creepy. This is not a new behavior - the worst one he came up with was a couple of years ago: "If I was 50 years younger, oh boy, you'd have to watch out for me!" Ew. I am consciously aware that he's just trying to be flattering and that he honestly does not realize how he comes across, or else that he believes my self-worth relies solely upon his approval; I'm not sure. Which is why I just mentally grimace but publicly smile, say thank you, and try to change the subject.

So Husband serves the second round of martinis, the signature drink of Dad's family, then goes out back to grill the chicken. I'm in the kitchen ostensibly to work on dinner, which was true and necessary, but also because a) I'm getting frustrated with the lot of them, and b) I don't drink martinis, and since that's the entirety of the social drinking material that was supplied (Dad brought the drinks since we were making the food), I was getting out of the way. Also because I've just been harrangued about my job (Dad is obsessed with convincing me that technical writing is just not a long term career and that really - REALLY - I want to find a more lucrative livelihood), and when I'm going to get pregnant (and after I roll off jokes that - to normal people - would indicate, "None of your business, stop thinking about my reproductive capabilities or schedule," Grandad accepts that I don't have a schedule. And then pulls out the oh-so-enlightened, "So you're thinking about working for another year or two and then stopping?" Um, who said anything about stopping? But I digress and should save this for another post when I'm good and offended, whereas last night provided me with entirely too many opportunities.)

So everyone's drinking their second round of martinis and I'm in the kitchen and Husband is working the grill. I hear Grandma say she's getting up to use the bathroom. A minute or two later I hear a WHUMP! But I don't immediately associate the two things. Once it dawns on me, I run to the bathroom, where Dad is already at the door trying to find out what happened. Grandad is still sitting on the couch. Dad convinces Grandma to let him open the door - she's still fully clothed, just lost her balance and fell. She's laying somewhat sideways and face down on the tile floor, head in a corner, legs folded around the vanity. We're all scared and shaken, but Dad manages to get in to Grandma and they're talking and... long story short, Grandma's fine. No broken anything, no loss of feeling in any extremeties, no loss of consciousness. Worst of it: a slightly skinned shin. So that's the important thing. What partially bothers me is that Grandad didn't move from the couch, didn't call to her to make sure she was okay, didn't try to see her, didn't even appear the least bit fazed that it had happened, and in fact waves me away from the scene. Dude, you've been married over 60 years, and you don't even lift a finger when your wife falls in the bathroom?! Okay weird, but not only does Dad have the situation under control, there's nothing I can do to help, so I take myself out from underfoot and back into the kitchen.

Dad's still tending to Grandma when I hear another WHUMP! No, Grandma didn't fall again - this time, it's Grandad. He's laying on his back on the carpet between the living room and the kitchen. I have no idea how he got there, why he was going there, or how he fell. But there he is, fully conscious and laying on the floor like he just decided it would be a good spot to rest a minute. Same sort of thing - didn't hurt himself, full sensory perception, full consciousness, no problem. Just... fell. And he refuses my help up. I don't know if it's the macho man thing (no woman could help me up - they're too weak, better wait for a man!) or what. But he does come up with some more inappropriately creepy comments. I went back to the kitchen. In the meantime, Dad gets Grandma back to the couch and either Dad or Husband helps Grandad up.

I swear not ten minutes go by when I hear a glass shatter coupled with a huge bang. Guess what. Grandma fell AGAIN. And again didn't hurt herself in the least. In fact, she's laughing. Now we all know why she keeps falling. Grandma got blitzed. Two martinis and she's out of control, wheeling around the room, getting sassy at Grandad, giggling - all mostly uncharacteristic of Grandma. Doesn't seem anything worse than inconvenienced by her ongoing battle with gravity.

I cannot say the same for our living room. Once we ascertained that Grandma was in fine form, Husband and I surveyed the damage. One of the beautiful colored glass martini glasses that our friends Ryan and MK got Husband as a gift for being Best Man in their wedding is in thousands of pieces on our living room floor. We collected the large pieces, and Dad ran the vacuum over the specks, but we were still finding more this afternoon - the poor thing was crushed, and Husband was quietly really disappointed that it had to be one of the set Ryan and MK gave us.

But it wasn't just the martini glass - our coffee table is another casualty. It was a hand-me-down from my grandparents when they moved out of their house and into a condo about six or seven years ago. I wouldn't have chosen it for myself, but it was a fine coffee table all the same - nice rich brown wood, a classic yet flowing design, thin but sturdy legs, and low enough that our feet don't fall asleep when we put them up. It also had these two beige marble insets on either side, supported by little slats underneath and a side support level with the top. Grandma landed directly on the marble inset. The side support split at the wooden peg that connected it to the table frame, and one of the slats underneath was sheared straight off. Dad secretly whispered to me that he'd pay to help us repair it. Thing is - it's not repairable. If it was just that little side support, well, Krazy Glue works wonders. But with the underneath slat sheared off, there's no saving it. The frame still held together, so it'll be functional until we can get to Ikea and pick out a stand-in.

We shuffle Grandma into the kitchen and sit her in a dining chair so we can put dinner together, all the while entreating her to see a doctor as soon as she can - Dad's worried that her hip could be hurt or that her bones are starting to weaken, I'm nervous about concussion from hitting her head when she fell the first time. I go back into the living room to pick up more stuff (broken glass, broken table, leftover appetizers, I don't know what anymore.) That's when I notice the couch is a little wet where she'd been sitting. I don't know if she spilled something and they tried to wipe it up with water (though in my experience, the spot is a lot darker when you actively try to put water on the couch), or whether the slip in the bathroom prevented her from making it entirely on time, but I do know that our cat was especially interested in the spot this morning, so I think we'll wash the cushion slipcover just to be safe.

Dinner actually went rather smoothly, at least relative to cocktails and appetizers. The fruit salsa on the chicken but the quinoa salad on the side took some explaining to the Grands. Dad harrangued Husband about his views on healthcare, drug companies, and eventually international economics and foreign affairs, but Husband held his own just fine as always. The food was great (self-adulation, I know, but I was really happy with the way everything turned out). Even the Chardonnay that Dad brought was great. The most exciting thing about dinner was when Grandma (noticing a pattern, are we?) upended her glass of water (we'd switched her to water by then) on her dinner plate, and then refused to let us get her a dry plate. Oh well, her dinner.

I planned to get dessert in the oven and we'd go open presents while it cooked. I didn't quite count on how arduous peeling peaches is. Dad and Grandma insisted that the only way to peel a peach is to go around it like some people do apples (see Sleepless in Seattle for a good example of this), but if you knew my history with blades, you'd know that having me hold something slippery while handling a very sharp knife is ill advised. My method did in fact take a long time, but 3 cups of peeled and chopped peaches takes a while! During this time, the Grands were exhibiting their second childhood in full effect: How much longer? I'm tired, I think (Dad) had better take us home! Aren't you done yet? Even Dad, who had been remarkably well behaved all evening (if you don't know what I mean by that, you'll understand in future posts) got in a dig at how long it was taking. He quieted down after receiving the Death Stare. At that point, perhaps not to my credit, mentally I was yelling, "Good! Go home! I don't really want to make anything more for you people anyway!" Of course, to them, I merely proceeded and tried to play off their comments.

Eventually we got dessert underway and presents opened, Grandma intermittently and only half-playfully complaining that she doesn't have anything to open (her birthday's in June). Presents were well-received all around, and mercifully dessert was ready by the time we were done. Everyone agreed it had been worth the wait (damn right it was). The Grands thanked us for a nice evening, Dad thanked us for a nice evening, and we piled them all into the car and sent them home.

Husband and I dismayedly looked around our house, grabbed the half-empty bottle of champagne, and charged over to Friends Matt and Michelle's house a block over for sympathy and commiseration.

Non Sequitur #1

So the other day on my way home from work, I’m listening to Big 100.3, the former oldies station that now passes for classic rock both because the other classic rock stations have either a) migrated to sucky garage band modern rock, or b) migrated to sucky soft modern rock, and because classic rock is apparently considered oldies at this point. I'm bracing for the day I hear Van Halen or Bon Jovi playing there. I know it's coming.

Anyway, so David Bowie’s "Major Tom" comes on. I understand it's about the astronaut's all-consuming rapture with the enormity and undiscovered territory that is outer space, but I’ve always thought it was an exceedingly sad song. He goes up in the ship and... never comes back. He knows he's going to certain and probably very uncomfortable death, and he's cool with that. He says goodbye to his wife from way up there, which kills me (and the "She knows," bit always makes me wonder whether they had talked about it and she knew he was going to hijack the ship for his own personal tour of The Black, but that doesn't make it any better.) All the people down here who care about him, he just leaves - POOF! But really, that’s neither here nor there because at the end of the day, it's a made-up song about made-up people. Point is, ever since then, the opening sequence of the song has been looping in my head.

But it’s not David Bowie singing.

It’s Matt Le-freaking-Blanc from that episode of Friends where he was singing it to Phoebe because his singing always made her do whatever he wanted! (I think that particular episode was the ride back from Vegas and he was in the back of the cab, having pissed her off for some reason, and he was trying to get back on her good side. Don’t ask me why I remember all these crappy details about crappy shows (in hindsight, it was a pretty stupid show, and I’m still stunned anyone ever thought LeBlanc had talent above vapid wannabe actor (since there’s no acting above that involved in the Joey character) and I just realized I’ve lost count of how many parenthetical statements within parenthetical statements I’ve made. So I’ll just stick a bunch of closers on here to cover my bases.))))

So. Moral of the story. The talentless Mr. LeBlanc has been singing in my head all week.

I’ll accept your pity starting...... Now.