Last weekend two parties appeared back to back on my calendar. What to do–what to do? Hit them both of course. And call a cab.
When everything falls perfectly into place and so much fun is had, I wonder if The Norwegian is watching. Can he see us laugh, enjoy our friends and move forward without ever forgetting him? Does he know he lives just below the surface for all of us? We might as well set a place at the table; he is so ever present. Does he know happiness means more as we now know unbearable loss? Does he know joy and laughter is never taken for granted and friends lift us to higher ground whenever the world crumbles in its’ myriad twists. I’d like to think so. Other times I’m just plain old pissed off he’s not here to enjoy the fun. Like the night of the two parties.
The first has the potential to spell melancholy for the widowed. It is a celebration of two widowed people marrying again. Somehow they found each other, and love, again. It isn’t sad. It is joyous, happy, overflowing the teacup with enchantment. My face hurts from smiling. The Norwegian would love it–the laughs, the cuisine, but mostly that his dear friend found love again.
Traveling around solo I find myself, more often than not, the observer. The eye becomes sharper each and every day. Goddess Trish offers advice to the new girl at the table, “Be careful what you say to her. Anything you say can and will be used in the blog.” It is a warning shot fired to a new friend unaware of my proclivity for over-sharing. And yes, poor girlfriend is about to go under the bus. Seems new friend is an adventurer. She is stunningly beautiful and has the grace afforded only to women of a certain age. She has the carriage those of us one step from facial ticks covet. I do not know her, but she has met The Norwegian. Her next adventure is a trek to Machu Picchu. Although I find adventure interesting in a wanderlust sort of way, it is usually trumped by discovery of amenities and accommodations.
She is outlining her trip that is, indeed, fascinating. She recounts the three days she will venture deep into the wild–I’m assuming jungle–am I right? For these three days she will not shower. Question mark? She will also sleep in a tent, in the jungle, with wild animals and slithery jungle creatures, and no shower. Oh, and she will share a tent with a stranger. My husband dropped dead in the wilderness so perhaps I am wary of outdoor adventure. I smile my bemused smile but what I really want to do is reach across the table, take her hand and implore her, “Don’t go. Don’t go. Your makeup is perfect and I can tell you enjoy fine wine and good food.” I don’t. Later I dream she is eaten by a Burmese python never to be seen again.
I want to scream out–why can’t we all just hole up at the Ritz and enjoy a hot stone massage? New girl is so lovely and cultured I just know together we could enjoy a dirty martini at the LA Biltmore. Free tip: The LA Biltmore Club Bar, in all its’ dark paneled splendor serves the finest dirty martini in all the land. And the waiter acts as if you are the loveliest creature to ever enter the room. Just stand in the doorway with one eyebrow raised before you take your seat. Works every time. On second thought, the new girl is quite lovely. What if my waiter takes a fancy to her? Perhaps that python knows what he’s up to after all.
I am fascinated by people who put themselves in such unfortunate circumstances by choice. She appears not at all the type to willingly remain unbathed for three days. Goddess Trish recognizes the smile. “You just made the blog,” she informs. Bingo, spot on. I cannot stop ruminating on this poor girl’s “adventure.” I, never having an unspoken thought, confess to her I find it unfortunate she will embark on such a trek. She smiles. We laugh. I can’t tell if I made friend or enemy. She invites me to a Super Bowl Party, after fated night, so I must be on the “okay” list for now. I will attend. It may be the last time I see her alive.
From there, I move to a Ya-Ya party. Yep, they pop up in the most unexpected places. They are watching Green Bay get pummeled. But mostly they are having a splash–remember, code for drinking wine? Much splashing ensued before my arrival and more continues. There is a lively discussion ensuring that none of the Ya-Yas are nasty girlfriend from a blog or two ago. After many assurances, one crafty girl guesses nasty girlfriends’ identity. Sisterella recreates her arm sweep and dance for the crowd–this time with husbands. They do what all good husbands do–shake their heads and wonder how they end up in the midst of the crazy. The crazy then goes to the last post, the one concerning male anatomy. One man blushes. Another expresses astonishment that I discuss such a thing. Evidently, I don’t look a like a “ball discussing” kind of girl. It’s the pearls. They hide all manner of sin. Wear them to bed. Just to confuse him.
One husband offers that he does nude yoga, before work, at four in the morning while his wife slumbers. He figures no harm, no foul until she bursts into said bathroom one morning and comes face to face with his twin appendages as he is downward dog. He swings around to sit and she is horrified that now bare twins are on her clean floor. It’s time to call a cab.
Funny is like Seinfeld–it’s there in the everyday if we open our eyes. Who knew?