7 February 2011
360
R. Linda:
There comes to some of us old enough to make it to the dreaded 6 0, that we'd rather just crawl into a hole and die than get out there celebrating it and telling the world we are 60 years of age. To others, usually those who are not anywhere near 60, this is a perfect occasion to celebrate. There is nothing more fun to those not yet sixty than to drag that newly turned 60-year-old out in front of a crowd and present them with gag gifts. Why not add insult to injury, hey?
Last week Tonya and I got an invite to a surprise 60th birthday party that the husband of one of Tonya's co-workers was throwing. Tonya stood with invitation in hand contemplating the number 60 on the front of the card. She looked at me and said, "You know I don't know about this. Judy doesn't like surprises."
"Oh come on, it isn't every day one turns 60."
"Ee-yeah and THAT'S the problem. Everyone thinks she's 55."
Uh oh. Well, guess what Jude? The world is about to know you aren't, I thought to meself and started laughing. I was so glad I didn't voice that to the wife, I do amuse meself with the most inappropriate of things to say at times. Sigh.
We had to go, no doubt about it, not attending wouldn't look very nice and the problem was Tonya was embarrassed for her friend and it wasn't even her lie to get through. I told Ton to pick Judy up something nice to ease the transition and well, I couldn't stop laughing, it was so stupidly silly, but women have this thing going with age, so what can I say?
"It says no presents." She held the invitation up.
"Uh oh. Bad enough to be unpleasantly surprised, but no prezzies . . . who does that and lives?"
"The soon-to-be ex-husband," she said brightly.
Three days ago, I had walked in the door from a harrowing drive home, when the phone rang. It was Judy asking for Tonya. I gave over the phone and shook meself out of my coat to unwind from an evening of car ice skating. Yes, the roads were all black ice and a couple of times I had the feeling I was sitting in an amusement park ride totally not in control of the metal shell that was skidding from one side of the road to the other, awaiting the sound of bumper cars, but lucky for me that sound didn't come. I could hear my wife go into Sybil Fawlty mode with her favourite thing to say when she doesn't know what to say, "Oh I know," and more "Oh, I know" to make me think something was up with Judy and she wasn't happy. Well, turns out Ms. Judy got wind of the "surprise" birthday and that the invitations all went out with that big 6 0 printed on the front. She was beside herself Tonya said. Seems Judy saw one of the invitations sitting on a co-worker's desk and picked it up. When she saw who the party was for and given by whom, she nearly flipped out, that is until she saw the big 6 0, then she did flip out.
"Not only do I have to suffer the slings and arrows of having lied about my age all these years, then force a smile surrounded with the number 60 printed on decorations, but he put on the bottom "No presents." I went home and found the guest list and OH MY GOD he's invited everyone we know and a lot of people I don't like, so everyone knows I'm turning 60 and there I will be in front of all these dressed up people, in my jeans and sweatshirt, acting like I had no idea, and I get no frigging presents on top of all this!"
When Tonya got off the phone she said to me, "We need to pick something nice up. Maybe that will ease the pain a little. I had to tell Judy I knew. She wasn't happy I knew, but I didn't tell her because it was supposed to be a surprise. Gees Gabe, she surprised me that she's going to be 60, so she can be surprised I knew about the party." This last said a little defiantly because I guess old Jude ripped into Tonya a wee bit.
I nodded in husbandly agreement. I mean what was I to say or do? I tried not to laugh that was all I could manage.
So Saturday night with all the sleet, thunder, and lightning, we got in the car and took off for Raymond, a rather rural town northeast of us. I pulled over at the mailbox, checked the invitation address and it seemed to be the one. But Tonya wasn't sure because the house was set way back off the road and it was a huge place. One of those modern contemporary affairs, all wood, glass, and potted and hanging plants.
"I dunno. I don't know what Judy's husband does for a living, but she never mentioned a mansion." Tonya said. "I thought he was an airline pilot." Tonya was musing this over as I was thinking I was in the wrong business.
"Well, the only way to find out is to pull on up there and ring the bell."
"NO, would be so embarrassing if it wasn't her. What if she lives in the gatehouse . . ."
"Stoppp. You are being ridiculous."
We sat there in silence listening to the sleet hit the car and the windscreen wipers struggling to clear the icy pellets as they built up rapidly on the still car. Thank goodness someone else pulled up and asked us if we were going to the party or we might still be there. They were a couple Tonya knew, so instantly she was sure we were at the right place, women, I gotta tell ya, sometimes . . . so we pulled in after the other car and yes, it was Judy's abode.
We slowly crept our way to the back, the tyres crunching on gravel and ice. The place was filled with cars. I parked on a slight incline just beyond the "parking lot" and I think we got the last available space. We slip-slided our way inside to a gala-sized party. We were met at the door by Brad Pitt, who asked if he could take our coats and my wife stood there gaga-eyed as I handed over the outerwear. He smiled and told us to make our way into the great room where drinks and hors d'oeuvres were being served. I had to almost drag Miss Tonya from where she stood in stupefied wonder.
"It's not Brad, Ton. Just someone that looks like him . . . a lot." I said but it made no difference. She had her head turned as much as she could following him with adoring eyes. Oi!
"No, it is, it is really him." She whispered.
"I'm tellin' ya it isn't. Why would Brad Pitt be coat monitor, huh?"
As we moved off we saw a large round table that was filled with pictures of Judy. Judy as a mere babe, Judy on her first tri-cycle, Judy's high school picture (oh the hair and the psychedelic outfit), Judy at college graduation looking quite the hippy (peace sign and sneer), Judy's wedding in a field with hubby, he in a lovely polyester baby blue casual suit, Judy in flowing flowery dress that made her look the size of Mama Cass, with more flowers weaved into her long curly hair. Judy teaching a class (morphed into the preppy look), her entire life's history in pictures, the kind you hide or burn.
"Oh my," Tonya said, "her husband is really gonna die."
As we moved into the room a Marilyn Monroe look-alike approached us and served us each a glass of champagne, with a wink at me she was away, and I looked after her but had my head snapped back by a tsking Tonya who then pulled me towards the food-laden table as she looked for the birthday girl.
"When I'm 60 will you get Marilyn Monroe to serve me champagne?" I asked Tonya,
"Marilyn Monroe? She's dead. When you turn 60 I will get you a wheelchair. Have you wheeled into your own party."
I realised then she didn't see the look-a-like resemblance to the late star. The gold lame dress, the blond bob, the red lips, the breathy little voice, nope, Tonya didn't see any of that. Her mind was still on Brad Pitt taking coats at a party. I wanted to say to her to stop a minute and think about that, and I wanted to point out 'Marilyn' but we came upon the birthday girl and any discussion was off.
Judy had planned accordingly, she had on velvet sweatpants and a sequined top that was in the style of a sweatshirt. "I hope she doesn't really dress like that at the gym," I whispered to Tonya who gave me a playful punch in the arm. Judy seemed to be having a good time but would catch herself every so often and make a face like it was all an act, but we knew it wasn't. However, when she started to get back into the fun groove, someone would shout out "HAPPY 60TH!" and she'd grimace and slink off for another glass of champagne. At the rate of the shout-outs, I was quite sure old Jude would be quite sloshed and not care what age they shouted at her.
She was very gracious despite it all and, was doing a good acting job at the very least. I noticed hubby floating around but every time she saw him she'd get the mad face going and he'd retreat to the wine bar, where both Tonya and I made comments that the two of them would be soused within ten minutes if things kept up the way they seemed to be going.
My stomach was calling my brain to focus on the banquet table. Forget Ms. Monroe, just go get me some, the stomach ordered. I did. I filled my plate up as I stood between a couple I unwittingly separated. When I realised what I had done, I made for the woman to go ahead of me, but she said no, it was fine. As the three of us perused the dishes, they got into a conversation about his shingles and I was frankly horrified. I was asked if I knew there was a shot for shingles that when you reach 50-something you can get it. Well, not being in me fifties, I had notta clue. Then the conversation turned to a friend of theirs who couldn't make the party because he couldn't sit down.
"What you mean can't sit down?" I foolishly and absentmindedly asked as I heaped cheese-stuffed mushrooms on my plate.
"He has boils on his ass," the man leaned towards me and twittered.
"OH!" I muttered, staring down at the cheesy-topped mushrooms that for an instant looked like boils. I decided to separate meself from the medical talk and go find a place to sit. Seriously, boils? I thought as I moved through the crowd shaking my head and probably looking to all and sundry like I was having a palsy fit.
For all the people I couldn't see Tonya, so I decided to sit in a corner and try to eat the boils, I mean the mushrooms. I found a spot behind a potted fern and was going into that party trance mode. You know the feeling of being in a surreal place, like in a dream state, but you know it's real but hope it's not. Anyway, I wasn't paying much attention, the chatter had lowered my trance into the next level of slightly unaware oblivion when I became vaguely aware of a pudgy man dressed in a black suit and hat, sitting down next to me. He too had a plateful of food, and he looked somewhat familiar. He bid me a good evening, did I mind if he sat down, I said no, please do. His voice was high and somewhat feminine, again familiar, though I couldn't place him. I finally remarked that I thought we had met. He smiled at that and said, "I'm in literature."
Well, yes, so am I. I work for a newspaper, so sort of me too, I thought. I had nodded at him and put out my hand to shake his and it was soft and as fishy a shake if ever there was one. As we shook hands he said, "Just call me Tru." Well, okay, and I did. Me and "Tru" were having a wonderful conversation on publishing and such and it was driving me nutters I couldn't place him. Still addled over my seeming loss of memory I noticed a huge cake the size of the Sears Towers being rolled carefully into the room. It had no less than 60 layers! There was a huge gold 60 on the top and down the sides were a profusion of flowers, all Judy's (an avid gardener) favourites.
"Man, it's a bitch getting old," Tru said watching the cake setup. We both laughed.
"Too bad she didn't get presents," I said in passing.
"Oh she did, she did, people can't behave you know. The "gifts" are out in the hallway, mostly gag gifts, she's been ignoring them all evening. But you know Gabriel, if I was her hubby I'd have said to her, look, Judy, you need a party, you're going to be 60 and then you're going to die soon. That is what I'd have told her."
I nodded in agreement, made sense to me.
Our conversation was cut as Judy's husband brought the birthday girl front and centre. She was eyeing the monstrosity of a cake and I know her thoughts weren't good ones by the devious look on her face. She couldn't seem to tear her eyes from the big gold 60 at the top. She'd stare at it with anger and then force her line of sight at her husband, her face angrier if that were possible when he came into the line of vision before it popped back up to the gold 60. Suddenly he introduced Ms. Monroe who started singing the Birthday Song and we all joined in and sang "Happy sixtieth, JU DEEEEEE," at which her face got all animated as she tried to contain her rage and look thrilled all at the same time. She looked as if a fit had seized hold of her and she was doing everything in her power not to shout, SHUT THE F UP! She made it through and we all clapped and laughed and she feigned the laughing but I was thinking what Tru leaned over and whispered, "I wouldn't want to be her husband when this is all said and done."
There was a human drum roll as Judy armed with a sword, YES A SWORD, came forward accompanied by her smiling husband. Only Judy's eyes weren't on the gigantic cake, no they were on the husband. It didn't look good and I said as much to me new friend.
"She should be disarmed before she gets blood all over that luscious cake," he said contemplating a murder. "Though if she does the deed I'd get a book out of it. In Cold Blood 2."
We both snickered.
It was then it dawned on me, that I had been conversing with Truman Capote! OMG, TRUMAN CAPOTE! I almost fell off the chair, I had stunned meself so with this enlightenment it took all I had in me not to shout it to everyone in the room and point at the man. I wanted to find Tonya to come over and meet this megastar of the book world, but I couldn't see her. I just sat there with one of those smiles you can't turn off. I was in total adoration mode and it wasn't pretty. For his part, my good and best-est friend Tru didn't seem to notice as he watched with interest Judy levelling the sword at first the cake, then impishly (not so much) at her husband.
"You go girl," Tru muttered and we both snickered again. "Life's a bitch and then you wake up." He sighed. What he meant by that I didn't know, but he looked directly at me when he said it. I watched him move to the cake line wondering at his words. Still looking for Tonya I entered the crowd. I couldn't contain myself so I told a woman I did not know, "There's Truman Capote," and I pointed him out. She looked at me like she didn't believe me but said, "Ah so it is. He looks good, he's put on some weight." Then she looked at me again like the joke was up, but I was clueless as to what she meant. That's two people, I thought, what is going on? What aren't I catching here?
I finally saw Tonya but she was on the other side of the room. I decided to stand in the cake line, get a piece and go find my new best-est friend. But once caked up I didn't see him. I stood next to the cake when a friend of Tonya's came up to say hello.
"How's the cake?" She asked. "I'm on a diet, gotta lose this baby fat," she said catching ahold of her waistline and showing me the bulge. For joi! I wanted to say, "I'm eating cake here, take your fat and go away." But I didn't, I nodded like a loon stuffing me piehole.
"It's very good," I finally smiled at her waiting for an answer face, and wanted to burst out at her, I HAD ME DINNER WITH TRUMAN CAPOTE! It was near to bursting inside me to come out, but she began talking of things that mattered to her and I was waiting me chance but on and on she went about the price of nappies, the cost of baby formula and there I was ready to scream at her, BUT SANDY, I HAD DINNER WITH TRUMAN CAPOTE!!! Then suddenly she glances at my nearly empty plate and then the cake and then and there decides she can't go without.
"I don't want a whole piece, but do you think those flowers are edible?" She asked me as we both moved closer to the now-leaning tower of cake. I looked and commented that I thought they were. I looked around and covertly scooped a yellow flower off the cake and put it in me cakehole. Oh yes, it was pure sugar and I told her so.
"Well, I don't want a flower that size, how about that bit of small pearly flowers do you think you could just take a small section of that off for me? I'm afraid to touch the cake it is leaning. I wonder if they know?" She looked around but the serving staff were busy serving coffee.
Always accommodating, I got her a plate and took a clean fork to the pointed-out flowers. With ease, I scooped a section off and with gentlemanly manners handed her the plate with a slight bow, "Here you go madam."
She popped the bouquet in her mouth and her eyes got big, she looked at me in horror, and she looked around for a place to run to, but it was wall-to-wall people.
"Sandy, what's wrong?" I said taking the plate from her.
"Un um hum un," she said much distressed, her mouth working.
She looked around to make sure no one was watching and she pulled the wire full of hard plastic out of her mouth and tossed it on the plate.
"THAT, that's what's wrong. WIRES!" She hissed.
I was horrified, I was.
"I be so sorry," I said handing her a napkin. She looked at me as if to say, YOU SHOULD BE, but shook her head and left me standing there feeling terrible. Before I could run after her and prostrate myself in apologies, Judy's husband came over to the cake where I was standing. He was clinking a fork against his glass for attention. I noticed the sound from the tapping made the cake vibrate. I moved away in fascinated fixation as the more he hit that glass, the more the leaning tower of cake shifted.
"I have a little something I wrote, and I want to dedicate it to my lovely wife who is 60 tonight!"
Oh good one Max, she'll appreciate that, I thought chuckling to meself.
The focus of THIS sat not far away slugging down the hard stuff with a look on her face that Hannibal Lecter would covet. Now a little background on Max. I found out he is not an airline pilot, but close, he is an executive with a big airline, thus the McMansion. He has a preoccupation with the movies, thus the impersonators. His penchant is for the theatrical and if you are going to throw a 60th birthday party for your wife, you do so in big Hollywood style according to Max. Pull out all the stops and then recite a short speech, like they do at the Oscars thanking everyone for coming, for printing up the invitations, baking the cake, setting up the decorations . . . you get the idea. When you get everyone else out of the way, you then thank the person closest to you, if you even remember them. Always the last one to be thanked is the significant other, have you ever noticed that? You end it with a "My dearest wife Judith who on her 60th birthday doesn't look a year past 100, hahaha, that's a joke folks, don't want to get myself in trouble," he laughed.
Too late, I thought. I was of the mind he had to be stopped before she came crashing over the table at him like a charging rhino, but she was, I noticed surrounded by her closest women friends which included me wife, all chattering at her at once to keep her from hearing what HE was saying about her.
"Yes, my lovely Judith Anne, who has graced my life with adventure, love, and good humour," he sighed looking lovingly at the object of his affection, who was testing the edges of knives as her friends kept up the chatter.
"You know the number 60 is also significant in that my dear darling has gained some 60 pounds to go with her 60 years, hahaha. Only fooling dear."
OMG does this man have a death wish or what? I was thinking that he better love adventure, I think that adventure was a good word to describe what his life was going to be like when we all went home and 'good humour' are we serious? One look at the birthday girl and you could tell there wasn't an ounce of good humour in that frame. The ladies were working feverishly to calm Judy down enough that they didn't have to tie her to the chair before she committed enough bloodshed that my good friend Tru would be utilising for a new book, and that I meself, could get in on the action by reporting to all of Boston. Fame and fortune awaited yours truly if she did fly out of that chair and do that gruesome stuff, but Judy was a tad under the influence to walk straight, so wasn't gonna happen. Me courtroom fame and newspaper boast were not to be, and my good friend Tru would have to write a fictional story instead. Sigh.
"My Judy, Judy, Judy," Max said impersonating Cary Grant badly. "I can't wait for the next 60 years together!"
Yeah, I thought, you'll be lucky you see the next sixty minutes.
We clapped politely at the bad impression. The clapping vibrated the cake and down it came and Max disappeared in an avalanche of cake, icing and colourful flowers (some sugar and well . . . some not!). Once settled there was nothing to be seen but a hand sticking out of the mountain of cake and the gold 60 miraculously was still on the top of the heap. People ran to dig him out, all but Judy who sat at her table laughing uncontrollably.
What an end to a strange and rather bizarre party. Max was fine, but nearly unrecognisable with a face full of banana and whipped cream filling.
"Looks a bit like a human Twinkie," Tru muttered as he passed me by.
Max was taken off by the help as Judy had laughed herself nearly into convulsions. No one knew what to say or do, so they started leaving in droves. Tonya, as is Tonya's way, stayed to help clean up the cake mess with a few others. I stood by the bar sipping a Jameson wondering if it was a bad dream and I'd be waking shortly.
Soon after, we shuffled out, Ton and I. Mr. Pitt retrieved our coats and wished us a safe drive home. Tonya was so star-struck she couldn't utter a word which was a good thing. I was about to tell her about Truman when he came up and clasped me on the shoulder and said, "We both missed out on the bloody story of a woman turned 60 and a foolish husband's public demise, but I suppose there will be a next time," he joked.
I then introduced me new and best-est pal to Tonya, who said, "Yeah right and I'm Tina Turner." I was shocked I was, at the affront. I couldn't believe she'd be so sarcastic and say such a thing in front of Mr. Capote. I apologised profusely and he just laughed and left us to it with a swishy wave of his hand. We argued over this all the way to the car which when we got to it, we found missing. It had slid, much like it did that New Year's Eve so many years ago (see Eventful New Year's Eve - Continued 06/01/09), not into the street (we were far from that), but into a pile of snow. The back end was wedged into the pile and the sleet had frozen it in place.
I was aghast that we might be stuck at Judy and Max's and add to that horror, not only had my wife insulted Truman Capote, but she informed me he had been dead for years. I didn't believe her.
"Google him, Gabe, just go home and Google him!" She shouted as the sleet continued to come down and I fruitlessly kicked at the rock-hard snow pack trying to dislodge my vehicle. In me blind rage of kicking at the snow and getting back in the car and trying to get it to move forward, a figure appeared in the sleety mist with a shovel and some rock salt. He began throwing salt under the tyres and then took a shovel to the snow pile. I got out and was floored to be looking at Brad Pitt, neatly attired in a cashmere coat and Irish cap.
"I think I have it. If you'll get back in and put it in drive, I think you'll be good to go," he said.
"Where did you learn to do something like this so quickly?" I asked, both impressed and amazed.
"When Angie got our Mercedes stuck in Gstaad, you learn the tricks when you need to evade paparazzi." With that, he waved and left me looking after him wondering. He looked enough like the real thing, sounded like the real thing but . . . nah, couldn't be. I was all for going home and Googling him too. I would punch in WHERE IS BRAD PITT NOW. Then, with reluctance, I'd look up me good pal Tru and hope he's alive because I rather liked his sarcastic wit and his advice on publishing . . . say something like me blog . . . seemed invaluable. BIG SIGH, but I do unhappily seem to remember he is no more and Ton's right. I hate it when she's right! But Pitt . . . I have to wonder.
Gabe
Copyright © 2011 All rights reserved
R. Linda:
There comes to some of us old enough to make it to the dreaded 6 0, that we'd rather just crawl into a hole and die than get out there celebrating it and telling the world we are 60 years of age. To others, usually those who are not anywhere near 60, this is a perfect occasion to celebrate. There is nothing more fun to those not yet sixty than to drag that newly turned 60-year-old out in front of a crowd and present them with gag gifts. Why not add insult to injury, hey?
Last week Tonya and I got an invite to a surprise 60th birthday party that the husband of one of Tonya's co-workers was throwing. Tonya stood with invitation in hand contemplating the number 60 on the front of the card. She looked at me and said, "You know I don't know about this. Judy doesn't like surprises."
"Oh come on, it isn't every day one turns 60."
"Ee-yeah and THAT'S the problem. Everyone thinks she's 55."
Uh oh. Well, guess what Jude? The world is about to know you aren't, I thought to meself and started laughing. I was so glad I didn't voice that to the wife, I do amuse meself with the most inappropriate of things to say at times. Sigh.
We had to go, no doubt about it, not attending wouldn't look very nice and the problem was Tonya was embarrassed for her friend and it wasn't even her lie to get through. I told Ton to pick Judy up something nice to ease the transition and well, I couldn't stop laughing, it was so stupidly silly, but women have this thing going with age, so what can I say?
"It says no presents." She held the invitation up.
"Uh oh. Bad enough to be unpleasantly surprised, but no prezzies . . . who does that and lives?"
"The soon-to-be ex-husband," she said brightly.
Three days ago, I had walked in the door from a harrowing drive home, when the phone rang. It was Judy asking for Tonya. I gave over the phone and shook meself out of my coat to unwind from an evening of car ice skating. Yes, the roads were all black ice and a couple of times I had the feeling I was sitting in an amusement park ride totally not in control of the metal shell that was skidding from one side of the road to the other, awaiting the sound of bumper cars, but lucky for me that sound didn't come. I could hear my wife go into Sybil Fawlty mode with her favourite thing to say when she doesn't know what to say, "Oh I know," and more "Oh, I know" to make me think something was up with Judy and she wasn't happy. Well, turns out Ms. Judy got wind of the "surprise" birthday and that the invitations all went out with that big 6 0 printed on the front. She was beside herself Tonya said. Seems Judy saw one of the invitations sitting on a co-worker's desk and picked it up. When she saw who the party was for and given by whom, she nearly flipped out, that is until she saw the big 6 0, then she did flip out.
"Not only do I have to suffer the slings and arrows of having lied about my age all these years, then force a smile surrounded with the number 60 printed on decorations, but he put on the bottom "No presents." I went home and found the guest list and OH MY GOD he's invited everyone we know and a lot of people I don't like, so everyone knows I'm turning 60 and there I will be in front of all these dressed up people, in my jeans and sweatshirt, acting like I had no idea, and I get no frigging presents on top of all this!"
When Tonya got off the phone she said to me, "We need to pick something nice up. Maybe that will ease the pain a little. I had to tell Judy I knew. She wasn't happy I knew, but I didn't tell her because it was supposed to be a surprise. Gees Gabe, she surprised me that she's going to be 60, so she can be surprised I knew about the party." This last said a little defiantly because I guess old Jude ripped into Tonya a wee bit.
I nodded in husbandly agreement. I mean what was I to say or do? I tried not to laugh that was all I could manage.
So Saturday night with all the sleet, thunder, and lightning, we got in the car and took off for Raymond, a rather rural town northeast of us. I pulled over at the mailbox, checked the invitation address and it seemed to be the one. But Tonya wasn't sure because the house was set way back off the road and it was a huge place. One of those modern contemporary affairs, all wood, glass, and potted and hanging plants.
"I dunno. I don't know what Judy's husband does for a living, but she never mentioned a mansion." Tonya said. "I thought he was an airline pilot." Tonya was musing this over as I was thinking I was in the wrong business.
"Well, the only way to find out is to pull on up there and ring the bell."
"NO, would be so embarrassing if it wasn't her. What if she lives in the gatehouse . . ."
"Stoppp. You are being ridiculous."
We sat there in silence listening to the sleet hit the car and the windscreen wipers struggling to clear the icy pellets as they built up rapidly on the still car. Thank goodness someone else pulled up and asked us if we were going to the party or we might still be there. They were a couple Tonya knew, so instantly she was sure we were at the right place, women, I gotta tell ya, sometimes . . . so we pulled in after the other car and yes, it was Judy's abode.
We slowly crept our way to the back, the tyres crunching on gravel and ice. The place was filled with cars. I parked on a slight incline just beyond the "parking lot" and I think we got the last available space. We slip-slided our way inside to a gala-sized party. We were met at the door by Brad Pitt, who asked if he could take our coats and my wife stood there gaga-eyed as I handed over the outerwear. He smiled and told us to make our way into the great room where drinks and hors d'oeuvres were being served. I had to almost drag Miss Tonya from where she stood in stupefied wonder.
"It's not Brad, Ton. Just someone that looks like him . . . a lot." I said but it made no difference. She had her head turned as much as she could following him with adoring eyes. Oi!
"No, it is, it is really him." She whispered.
"I'm tellin' ya it isn't. Why would Brad Pitt be coat monitor, huh?"
As we moved off we saw a large round table that was filled with pictures of Judy. Judy as a mere babe, Judy on her first tri-cycle, Judy's high school picture (oh the hair and the psychedelic outfit), Judy at college graduation looking quite the hippy (peace sign and sneer), Judy's wedding in a field with hubby, he in a lovely polyester baby blue casual suit, Judy in flowing flowery dress that made her look the size of Mama Cass, with more flowers weaved into her long curly hair. Judy teaching a class (morphed into the preppy look), her entire life's history in pictures, the kind you hide or burn.
"Oh my," Tonya said, "her husband is really gonna die."
As we moved into the room a Marilyn Monroe look-alike approached us and served us each a glass of champagne, with a wink at me she was away, and I looked after her but had my head snapped back by a tsking Tonya who then pulled me towards the food-laden table as she looked for the birthday girl.
"When I'm 60 will you get Marilyn Monroe to serve me champagne?" I asked Tonya,
"Marilyn Monroe? She's dead. When you turn 60 I will get you a wheelchair. Have you wheeled into your own party."
I realised then she didn't see the look-a-like resemblance to the late star. The gold lame dress, the blond bob, the red lips, the breathy little voice, nope, Tonya didn't see any of that. Her mind was still on Brad Pitt taking coats at a party. I wanted to say to her to stop a minute and think about that, and I wanted to point out 'Marilyn' but we came upon the birthday girl and any discussion was off.
Judy had planned accordingly, she had on velvet sweatpants and a sequined top that was in the style of a sweatshirt. "I hope she doesn't really dress like that at the gym," I whispered to Tonya who gave me a playful punch in the arm. Judy seemed to be having a good time but would catch herself every so often and make a face like it was all an act, but we knew it wasn't. However, when she started to get back into the fun groove, someone would shout out "HAPPY 60TH!" and she'd grimace and slink off for another glass of champagne. At the rate of the shout-outs, I was quite sure old Jude would be quite sloshed and not care what age they shouted at her.
She was very gracious despite it all and, was doing a good acting job at the very least. I noticed hubby floating around but every time she saw him she'd get the mad face going and he'd retreat to the wine bar, where both Tonya and I made comments that the two of them would be soused within ten minutes if things kept up the way they seemed to be going.
My stomach was calling my brain to focus on the banquet table. Forget Ms. Monroe, just go get me some, the stomach ordered. I did. I filled my plate up as I stood between a couple I unwittingly separated. When I realised what I had done, I made for the woman to go ahead of me, but she said no, it was fine. As the three of us perused the dishes, they got into a conversation about his shingles and I was frankly horrified. I was asked if I knew there was a shot for shingles that when you reach 50-something you can get it. Well, not being in me fifties, I had notta clue. Then the conversation turned to a friend of theirs who couldn't make the party because he couldn't sit down.
"What you mean can't sit down?" I foolishly and absentmindedly asked as I heaped cheese-stuffed mushrooms on my plate.
"He has boils on his ass," the man leaned towards me and twittered.
"OH!" I muttered, staring down at the cheesy-topped mushrooms that for an instant looked like boils. I decided to separate meself from the medical talk and go find a place to sit. Seriously, boils? I thought as I moved through the crowd shaking my head and probably looking to all and sundry like I was having a palsy fit.
For all the people I couldn't see Tonya, so I decided to sit in a corner and try to eat the boils, I mean the mushrooms. I found a spot behind a potted fern and was going into that party trance mode. You know the feeling of being in a surreal place, like in a dream state, but you know it's real but hope it's not. Anyway, I wasn't paying much attention, the chatter had lowered my trance into the next level of slightly unaware oblivion when I became vaguely aware of a pudgy man dressed in a black suit and hat, sitting down next to me. He too had a plateful of food, and he looked somewhat familiar. He bid me a good evening, did I mind if he sat down, I said no, please do. His voice was high and somewhat feminine, again familiar, though I couldn't place him. I finally remarked that I thought we had met. He smiled at that and said, "I'm in literature."
Well, yes, so am I. I work for a newspaper, so sort of me too, I thought. I had nodded at him and put out my hand to shake his and it was soft and as fishy a shake if ever there was one. As we shook hands he said, "Just call me Tru." Well, okay, and I did. Me and "Tru" were having a wonderful conversation on publishing and such and it was driving me nutters I couldn't place him. Still addled over my seeming loss of memory I noticed a huge cake the size of the Sears Towers being rolled carefully into the room. It had no less than 60 layers! There was a huge gold 60 on the top and down the sides were a profusion of flowers, all Judy's (an avid gardener) favourites.
"Man, it's a bitch getting old," Tru said watching the cake setup. We both laughed.
"Too bad she didn't get presents," I said in passing.
"Oh she did, she did, people can't behave you know. The "gifts" are out in the hallway, mostly gag gifts, she's been ignoring them all evening. But you know Gabriel, if I was her hubby I'd have said to her, look, Judy, you need a party, you're going to be 60 and then you're going to die soon. That is what I'd have told her."
I nodded in agreement, made sense to me.
Our conversation was cut as Judy's husband brought the birthday girl front and centre. She was eyeing the monstrosity of a cake and I know her thoughts weren't good ones by the devious look on her face. She couldn't seem to tear her eyes from the big gold 60 at the top. She'd stare at it with anger and then force her line of sight at her husband, her face angrier if that were possible when he came into the line of vision before it popped back up to the gold 60. Suddenly he introduced Ms. Monroe who started singing the Birthday Song and we all joined in and sang "Happy sixtieth, JU DEEEEEE," at which her face got all animated as she tried to contain her rage and look thrilled all at the same time. She looked as if a fit had seized hold of her and she was doing everything in her power not to shout, SHUT THE F UP! She made it through and we all clapped and laughed and she feigned the laughing but I was thinking what Tru leaned over and whispered, "I wouldn't want to be her husband when this is all said and done."
There was a human drum roll as Judy armed with a sword, YES A SWORD, came forward accompanied by her smiling husband. Only Judy's eyes weren't on the gigantic cake, no they were on the husband. It didn't look good and I said as much to me new friend.
"She should be disarmed before she gets blood all over that luscious cake," he said contemplating a murder. "Though if she does the deed I'd get a book out of it. In Cold Blood 2."
We both snickered.
It was then it dawned on me, that I had been conversing with Truman Capote! OMG, TRUMAN CAPOTE! I almost fell off the chair, I had stunned meself so with this enlightenment it took all I had in me not to shout it to everyone in the room and point at the man. I wanted to find Tonya to come over and meet this megastar of the book world, but I couldn't see her. I just sat there with one of those smiles you can't turn off. I was in total adoration mode and it wasn't pretty. For his part, my good and best-est friend Tru didn't seem to notice as he watched with interest Judy levelling the sword at first the cake, then impishly (not so much) at her husband.
"You go girl," Tru muttered and we both snickered again. "Life's a bitch and then you wake up." He sighed. What he meant by that I didn't know, but he looked directly at me when he said it. I watched him move to the cake line wondering at his words. Still looking for Tonya I entered the crowd. I couldn't contain myself so I told a woman I did not know, "There's Truman Capote," and I pointed him out. She looked at me like she didn't believe me but said, "Ah so it is. He looks good, he's put on some weight." Then she looked at me again like the joke was up, but I was clueless as to what she meant. That's two people, I thought, what is going on? What aren't I catching here?
I finally saw Tonya but she was on the other side of the room. I decided to stand in the cake line, get a piece and go find my new best-est friend. But once caked up I didn't see him. I stood next to the cake when a friend of Tonya's came up to say hello.
"How's the cake?" She asked. "I'm on a diet, gotta lose this baby fat," she said catching ahold of her waistline and showing me the bulge. For joi! I wanted to say, "I'm eating cake here, take your fat and go away." But I didn't, I nodded like a loon stuffing me piehole.
"It's very good," I finally smiled at her waiting for an answer face, and wanted to burst out at her, I HAD ME DINNER WITH TRUMAN CAPOTE! It was near to bursting inside me to come out, but she began talking of things that mattered to her and I was waiting me chance but on and on she went about the price of nappies, the cost of baby formula and there I was ready to scream at her, BUT SANDY, I HAD DINNER WITH TRUMAN CAPOTE!!! Then suddenly she glances at my nearly empty plate and then the cake and then and there decides she can't go without.
"I don't want a whole piece, but do you think those flowers are edible?" She asked me as we both moved closer to the now-leaning tower of cake. I looked and commented that I thought they were. I looked around and covertly scooped a yellow flower off the cake and put it in me cakehole. Oh yes, it was pure sugar and I told her so.
"Well, I don't want a flower that size, how about that bit of small pearly flowers do you think you could just take a small section of that off for me? I'm afraid to touch the cake it is leaning. I wonder if they know?" She looked around but the serving staff were busy serving coffee.
Always accommodating, I got her a plate and took a clean fork to the pointed-out flowers. With ease, I scooped a section off and with gentlemanly manners handed her the plate with a slight bow, "Here you go madam."
She popped the bouquet in her mouth and her eyes got big, she looked at me in horror, and she looked around for a place to run to, but it was wall-to-wall people.
"Sandy, what's wrong?" I said taking the plate from her.
"Un um hum un," she said much distressed, her mouth working.
She looked around to make sure no one was watching and she pulled the wire full of hard plastic out of her mouth and tossed it on the plate.
"THAT, that's what's wrong. WIRES!" She hissed.
I was horrified, I was.
"I be so sorry," I said handing her a napkin. She looked at me as if to say, YOU SHOULD BE, but shook her head and left me standing there feeling terrible. Before I could run after her and prostrate myself in apologies, Judy's husband came over to the cake where I was standing. He was clinking a fork against his glass for attention. I noticed the sound from the tapping made the cake vibrate. I moved away in fascinated fixation as the more he hit that glass, the more the leaning tower of cake shifted.
"I have a little something I wrote, and I want to dedicate it to my lovely wife who is 60 tonight!"
Oh good one Max, she'll appreciate that, I thought chuckling to meself.
The focus of THIS sat not far away slugging down the hard stuff with a look on her face that Hannibal Lecter would covet. Now a little background on Max. I found out he is not an airline pilot, but close, he is an executive with a big airline, thus the McMansion. He has a preoccupation with the movies, thus the impersonators. His penchant is for the theatrical and if you are going to throw a 60th birthday party for your wife, you do so in big Hollywood style according to Max. Pull out all the stops and then recite a short speech, like they do at the Oscars thanking everyone for coming, for printing up the invitations, baking the cake, setting up the decorations . . . you get the idea. When you get everyone else out of the way, you then thank the person closest to you, if you even remember them. Always the last one to be thanked is the significant other, have you ever noticed that? You end it with a "My dearest wife Judith who on her 60th birthday doesn't look a year past 100, hahaha, that's a joke folks, don't want to get myself in trouble," he laughed.
Too late, I thought. I was of the mind he had to be stopped before she came crashing over the table at him like a charging rhino, but she was, I noticed surrounded by her closest women friends which included me wife, all chattering at her at once to keep her from hearing what HE was saying about her.
"Yes, my lovely Judith Anne, who has graced my life with adventure, love, and good humour," he sighed looking lovingly at the object of his affection, who was testing the edges of knives as her friends kept up the chatter.
"You know the number 60 is also significant in that my dear darling has gained some 60 pounds to go with her 60 years, hahaha. Only fooling dear."
OMG does this man have a death wish or what? I was thinking that he better love adventure, I think that adventure was a good word to describe what his life was going to be like when we all went home and 'good humour' are we serious? One look at the birthday girl and you could tell there wasn't an ounce of good humour in that frame. The ladies were working feverishly to calm Judy down enough that they didn't have to tie her to the chair before she committed enough bloodshed that my good friend Tru would be utilising for a new book, and that I meself, could get in on the action by reporting to all of Boston. Fame and fortune awaited yours truly if she did fly out of that chair and do that gruesome stuff, but Judy was a tad under the influence to walk straight, so wasn't gonna happen. Me courtroom fame and newspaper boast were not to be, and my good friend Tru would have to write a fictional story instead. Sigh.
"My Judy, Judy, Judy," Max said impersonating Cary Grant badly. "I can't wait for the next 60 years together!"
Yeah, I thought, you'll be lucky you see the next sixty minutes.
We clapped politely at the bad impression. The clapping vibrated the cake and down it came and Max disappeared in an avalanche of cake, icing and colourful flowers (some sugar and well . . . some not!). Once settled there was nothing to be seen but a hand sticking out of the mountain of cake and the gold 60 miraculously was still on the top of the heap. People ran to dig him out, all but Judy who sat at her table laughing uncontrollably.
What an end to a strange and rather bizarre party. Max was fine, but nearly unrecognisable with a face full of banana and whipped cream filling.
"Looks a bit like a human Twinkie," Tru muttered as he passed me by.
Max was taken off by the help as Judy had laughed herself nearly into convulsions. No one knew what to say or do, so they started leaving in droves. Tonya, as is Tonya's way, stayed to help clean up the cake mess with a few others. I stood by the bar sipping a Jameson wondering if it was a bad dream and I'd be waking shortly.
Soon after, we shuffled out, Ton and I. Mr. Pitt retrieved our coats and wished us a safe drive home. Tonya was so star-struck she couldn't utter a word which was a good thing. I was about to tell her about Truman when he came up and clasped me on the shoulder and said, "We both missed out on the bloody story of a woman turned 60 and a foolish husband's public demise, but I suppose there will be a next time," he joked.
I then introduced me new and best-est pal to Tonya, who said, "Yeah right and I'm Tina Turner." I was shocked I was, at the affront. I couldn't believe she'd be so sarcastic and say such a thing in front of Mr. Capote. I apologised profusely and he just laughed and left us to it with a swishy wave of his hand. We argued over this all the way to the car which when we got to it, we found missing. It had slid, much like it did that New Year's Eve so many years ago (see Eventful New Year's Eve - Continued 06/01/09), not into the street (we were far from that), but into a pile of snow. The back end was wedged into the pile and the sleet had frozen it in place.
I was aghast that we might be stuck at Judy and Max's and add to that horror, not only had my wife insulted Truman Capote, but she informed me he had been dead for years. I didn't believe her.
"Google him, Gabe, just go home and Google him!" She shouted as the sleet continued to come down and I fruitlessly kicked at the rock-hard snow pack trying to dislodge my vehicle. In me blind rage of kicking at the snow and getting back in the car and trying to get it to move forward, a figure appeared in the sleety mist with a shovel and some rock salt. He began throwing salt under the tyres and then took a shovel to the snow pile. I got out and was floored to be looking at Brad Pitt, neatly attired in a cashmere coat and Irish cap.
"I think I have it. If you'll get back in and put it in drive, I think you'll be good to go," he said.
"Where did you learn to do something like this so quickly?" I asked, both impressed and amazed.
"When Angie got our Mercedes stuck in Gstaad, you learn the tricks when you need to evade paparazzi." With that, he waved and left me looking after him wondering. He looked enough like the real thing, sounded like the real thing but . . . nah, couldn't be. I was all for going home and Googling him too. I would punch in WHERE IS BRAD PITT NOW. Then, with reluctance, I'd look up me good pal Tru and hope he's alive because I rather liked his sarcastic wit and his advice on publishing . . . say something like me blog . . . seemed invaluable. BIG SIGH, but I do unhappily seem to remember he is no more and Ton's right. I hate it when she's right! But Pitt . . . I have to wonder.
Gabe
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