"What are you doing?"
"Stuff."
"Well, be ready to go in five minutes."
"Go?"
"To the luncheon."
(Does anyone "luncheon" outside of the South? Don’t they just have lunch?)
"I don’t wanna."
"Of course you do! Everyone’s dying to see you."
"Mom. They don’t even know who I am."
"Of course they do!"
"They’re all 92. They don’t even know who they are."
"Put on your shoes."
"It’s 9:30 a.m. Isn’t it a bit early for lunch?"
"They’re old. They wake up early."
"When you say the Daughters of the American Revolution, you do mean the actual daughers?"
"We’re going to be late."
"Again, ‘we’ is not the pronoun you should be using."
"Right this minute, young lady!"
If you’re anything like me, from the time you walk throught he door of your parent’s house for any holiday, there’s a kind of clock that starts ticking, waiting for the moment that you scream, much like when you were 13,"I am NOT a CHILD!!!! Sometimes this is followed by foot stamping and pouting.
This time, I lasted 23.2 hours, which is probably a record.
I’m still in Jacksonville. The school where I work is closed for two weeks (the French loves them some "vacances"), so I figured I’d stay in the South a bit longer and soak up some sun. It’s 72 degrees in Jacksonville today; around here, everyone seems to think this calls for an anorak. Sometimes it gets "really cold" (50 degrees) around here in December.
It used to be colder when we were kids, or maybe it just seemed that way. But I do remember the occasional snow flurries and icy roads driving to the thousands of holiday parties when I was little. On the upside, I suppose global warming, and all the resulting Ft. Lauderdale-like weather, has helped boost the property values here in the North Florida/South Georgia area. Better enjoy it before the whole bottom half of the country is known as "Lake Florida."
The whole holiday was actually really nice, but it has been a bit exhausting. It's been one party/luncheon/dinner after another. They say that in the South, they spend half the year planning for Christmas and the other half recovering from it. I think it'll take me at least that long.
People talk about "partying like a rock star," but what they should say is, "partying like a middle-aged suburbanite." Really. I can’t keep up. It’s been pretty much nonstop.
On the first day, we head straight to my aunt’s house for an early lunch with my cousins and their spouses and kids. These being Kennedies, there’s freeflowing booze for the cocktail hour (11:37 a.m.). After all, it’s four o’clock somewhere, darlin’…
Then, we head out to mom’s best friend’s new boyfriend’s (inhale) condo for cocktail hour #2, with something called Johnny Walker Blue and another single-malt scotch called "Glenfargus," which sounds to me like the title of some lesser-known Cohen Brothers movie.
At the risk of sounding unsophisticated (and perhaps causing my great-granddaddy from Argyle to roll over in his grave) I just don’t "get" scotch. To me, it tastes and smells like something you should be using to clean the grout in your shower. But Paul loves it. He could even tell what friggin’ part of Scotland it came from, because it was so "peaty." I don’t even know what peat is, althogh I do know it sometimes ends up in a bog. But I don’t know what a bog is either, so that doesn’t clear anything up.
It’s like these wine snobs who taste asparagus and "overtones of kiwi" and "hints of turkey pot pie" in their Pinot Noir. When you think that, it’s time to put down the glass.
Christmas eve, another party. Christmas day, we head out to the beach for a champagne reception at the hotel room of a friend visiting from Atlanta. Every night since, it's been another party, with more unbelievable food and champagne and bourbon and single-malt. The folks around here take "entertaining" very seriously. Every meal is a multi-course extravaganza that makes those people on the Food network seem like a bunch of amateurs.
There's always a floral centerpice. And candles and not-dishwasher-safe china. Not to mention the festive, seasonal napkin rings for every concievable occasion. St. Patrick's day, there are the shamrock napkin rings. Thanksgiving, little turkeys. Halloween, ghosts. Hearts for Valentine's day. My mom and her friends are all still horrified to know that I don't own any kind of napkin-restraining device. As if the napkins might just rise up and walk off the table in disgust.
It's been fun, but I'm about partied out. It’s as if a person thought she could go out and run a marathon, just because she jogs a mile every now and again. I’ve gotta get back to partying with the nice lesbian rock stars in New York. They seem like teetotalers by comparison.
"Stuff."
"Well, be ready to go in five minutes."
"Go?"
"To the luncheon."
(Does anyone "luncheon" outside of the South? Don’t they just have lunch?)
"I don’t wanna."
"Of course you do! Everyone’s dying to see you."
"Mom. They don’t even know who I am."
"Of course they do!"
"They’re all 92. They don’t even know who they are."
"Put on your shoes."
"It’s 9:30 a.m. Isn’t it a bit early for lunch?"
"They’re old. They wake up early."
"When you say the Daughters of the American Revolution, you do mean the actual daughers?"
"We’re going to be late."
"Again, ‘we’ is not the pronoun you should be using."
"Right this minute, young lady!"
If you’re anything like me, from the time you walk throught he door of your parent’s house for any holiday, there’s a kind of clock that starts ticking, waiting for the moment that you scream, much like when you were 13,"I am NOT a CHILD!!!! Sometimes this is followed by foot stamping and pouting.
This time, I lasted 23.2 hours, which is probably a record.
I’m still in Jacksonville. The school where I work is closed for two weeks (the French loves them some "vacances"), so I figured I’d stay in the South a bit longer and soak up some sun. It’s 72 degrees in Jacksonville today; around here, everyone seems to think this calls for an anorak. Sometimes it gets "really cold" (50 degrees) around here in December.
It used to be colder when we were kids, or maybe it just seemed that way. But I do remember the occasional snow flurries and icy roads driving to the thousands of holiday parties when I was little. On the upside, I suppose global warming, and all the resulting Ft. Lauderdale-like weather, has helped boost the property values here in the North Florida/South Georgia area. Better enjoy it before the whole bottom half of the country is known as "Lake Florida."
The whole holiday was actually really nice, but it has been a bit exhausting. It's been one party/luncheon/dinner after another. They say that in the South, they spend half the year planning for Christmas and the other half recovering from it. I think it'll take me at least that long.
People talk about "partying like a rock star," but what they should say is, "partying like a middle-aged suburbanite." Really. I can’t keep up. It’s been pretty much nonstop.
On the first day, we head straight to my aunt’s house for an early lunch with my cousins and their spouses and kids. These being Kennedies, there’s freeflowing booze for the cocktail hour (11:37 a.m.). After all, it’s four o’clock somewhere, darlin’…
Then, we head out to mom’s best friend’s new boyfriend’s (inhale) condo for cocktail hour #2, with something called Johnny Walker Blue and another single-malt scotch called "Glenfargus," which sounds to me like the title of some lesser-known Cohen Brothers movie.
At the risk of sounding unsophisticated (and perhaps causing my great-granddaddy from Argyle to roll over in his grave) I just don’t "get" scotch. To me, it tastes and smells like something you should be using to clean the grout in your shower. But Paul loves it. He could even tell what friggin’ part of Scotland it came from, because it was so "peaty." I don’t even know what peat is, althogh I do know it sometimes ends up in a bog. But I don’t know what a bog is either, so that doesn’t clear anything up.
It’s like these wine snobs who taste asparagus and "overtones of kiwi" and "hints of turkey pot pie" in their Pinot Noir. When you think that, it’s time to put down the glass.
Christmas eve, another party. Christmas day, we head out to the beach for a champagne reception at the hotel room of a friend visiting from Atlanta. Every night since, it's been another party, with more unbelievable food and champagne and bourbon and single-malt. The folks around here take "entertaining" very seriously. Every meal is a multi-course extravaganza that makes those people on the Food network seem like a bunch of amateurs.
There's always a floral centerpice. And candles and not-dishwasher-safe china. Not to mention the festive, seasonal napkin rings for every concievable occasion. St. Patrick's day, there are the shamrock napkin rings. Thanksgiving, little turkeys. Halloween, ghosts. Hearts for Valentine's day. My mom and her friends are all still horrified to know that I don't own any kind of napkin-restraining device. As if the napkins might just rise up and walk off the table in disgust.
It's been fun, but I'm about partied out. It’s as if a person thought she could go out and run a marathon, just because she jogs a mile every now and again. I’ve gotta get back to partying with the nice lesbian rock stars in New York. They seem like teetotalers by comparison.
posted by Marguerite at 10:06 AM
3 Comments:
I kind of know how you feel. When you have kids you have to do a million things and see a million people for the holidays because everyone wants to see the kids. Especially when you have a baby. Everyone has to see the baby. The baby doesn't even like people! I don't get nearly enough drinks served to me though.
Honey, y'all needs to move down South. Then no dirth of "adult beverages."
I'm sure it's much more intense with kids, though. Everyone wants to see kids, who don't see what's so interesting about of being seen. It's kind of like the platapuses (platupii?) down at the zoo, who just keep wondering why all those flashing lights keep going off in their direction ...
thank you! I don't get the whole scotch thing either, but then again Morgan doesn't get the whole cigarette thing so I guess we're even. Happy fucking holidays!
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