The Phoenix Open is known across the land as a superior party. It has another name now. Depending on the revolving door of sponsors, this golf tournament changes names more often than sorority sisters squeal. If you’ve lived here long enough, its just The Open. Those of us who call Scottsdale home recognize it’s a great party but not so out of the ordinary. Scottsdalians are superior party throwers throughout the year so when we toss one for the golf world, well, basically, we rock. One would assume, as someone who visits The Open yearly, being caught unawares would be unlikely. You, my friend, would be wrong. Last night, Sisterella Girlfriend and I started early, finished late and realized we hadn’t eaten far too nineteenth hole to fix the error.
I consider cocktail consumption a talent. Not boasting; just stating fact. Rarely do I suffer the day after. When lesser women moan of headaches and such, I secretly judge and take pride in my gifts. Today, smugness is a dish served cold on a platter. The platter is neither silver nor held by the gloved hand of a butler. My first thought upon awakening is, oh crap I left my contacts in. A thorough investigation finds contacts nestled in their holder right where they bed most nights. There is still the matter of my eyes. A deeper look reveals red, arrid orbs pounding the rhythm of my heartbeat. Water–I need water.
Water does little but alert me to my aching head and queasy tummy. Coffee and a call to Middle Chicken is my habit on Saturday mornings. Besides I must deliver messages and well wishes from her friends and alert her to the fact that I may or may not have married her off to a very cute UT republican who wants Texas to secede from the Union. He was adorable and believes quality Republican woman are few and far between. I’m pretty sure I handed over her hand and my blessing. I clearly saw my grandchildren in his green eyes. I also had a deep and serious discussion with one of his frat brothers concerning the ages long debate as to whether male stomach hair is attractive. Gorilla like stomach hair–he showed me. I, being a mom and all, told him he should always be proud of what the Good Lord gave him but perhaps he wants to save the display for a special someone. Conversation ends when Sisterella says we have to go and tells young man that I am not his special someone. He informs me he is twenty-eight and loves older women. I tell him I have this problem everywhere I go–young men swooning, dying to show me their stomach fur and wanting to marry me. I kiss his hand and grab a cab.
Evening details reveal themselves in tiny drips like a leaky faucet. I remember Sisterella telling a large audience that I am a famous writer. I did not disagree. We discuss characterization and debate whether one young man should be in my latest screenplay. Screenplay? A fellow YaYa and I watch two older gentlemen double team Sisterella. We do the appropriate thing; dance and make faces behind their backs. Maturity is the theme of the evening to be sure. We meet everyone in the cab line including a guy who wants to share our ride to Goldie’s. Goldie’s is a north Scottsdale sports bar institution and those of us in the hood only allow access to certain peeps. If you don’t live in the hood and can’t flash the sign, you’re out. We cast him the crazy eye and get in our cab alone. Sisterella wonders aloud how he might think himself Goldie’s worthy. Pfft.
I figure I need just a few more moments of quiet and I’ll feel better. And Advil. And some toast. And a glass of milk. That was three hours ago. Now I wish for carbs and an endless lineup of romcoms on cable. I would kill for a Tab. I know I know. I am a dinosaur–the very first diet soda. It’s still the best. Me, and all the grandmas buy it. Something about the throat burn and the eyes watering gets me every time. Smirk–you know what I’m talking about, don’t lie. Donning clothing and driving to the store is out of the question. I close my eyes and rest my head again. Can everyone just be quiet for five minutes? Yeah, cats, I’m talking to you.
I eat some pita crackers in hopes of relief. I drop one down my flannel owl print pajama top. I don’t have the strength to get it. Later when I stand up it wil fall out right? I decide if anyone calls I’m not answering. What if one of the girls wants to go out? My stomach lurches. And there is new girlfriend’s Super Bowl party tomorrow. I think about taking a bath but that bathroom is so far away. A shower is out of the quesion; requiring standing and all.
My to do list for today is full. It includes cleaning, vacuuming and ironing, usual favorites. Right now its Groundhog Day and prayers for matzo ball soup to magically appear at my doorstep; perhaps by way of the hangover fairies. The romcom schedule isn’t up to snuff so second up is Love in the Time of Cholera (great book by the way), which snaps me right back to The Norwegian. He may or may not have found last night amusing. He, for certain, would disapprove of me so willy nilly giving out our daughter’s hand and I certainly would have faced a stern lecture on knowing better than to discuss stomach fur with anyone. He would admonish, “No man is a safe man.”
I surf channels to find tonight’s offerings include Casablanca. Are you kidding me? Yep, that Casablanca. Made in 1942, the era of extraordinary fashion and manners, even in Morocco. And men in dinner jackets drinking dark liquor straight up with musical requests to melt a girl’s heart. Le Sigh. And, of course pearls, pearls everywhere. Besides, as Sam and every good piano player knows, a kiss is never just a kiss as time goes by. Something, or someone, in the stars left me too ill to move from the couch today. I needed a good reminder of a love that lasts a lifetime and another of the sacrifice lovers make for each other’s happiness. Here’s lookin’ at you kid.
The Duchess Diaries 