Party Hearty

The holidays are bearing down on us like the Grinch on his sled heading for Whoville and that means it’s party season.

I love parties. Love throwing them, love going to them, and I love hearing about them. Growing up my parents threw parties all the time. They taught me the tricks of the trade: background music always on, lights mostly off and the other ones low, and plenty of bread and cheese-based hors d’oevres.

Back in the seventies, my parents had a New Year’s Eve Party. About eight couples could make it but six couples couldn’t at the last minute, so my parents made about six mannequins by stuffing their clothes, giving them photograph heads, and set them in chairs all over the house to make it look like there were more people at the party. Even Nixon got his own mannequin. They hosted a Come As Your Favorite Couple Party for Halloween. I remember Adam and Eve, Bright Eyed and Bushy Tailed, and Princess (him in drag) and the Pea (her, all in green) from Dad’s super 8 movies. I went to a Halloween party with the same theme just recently and the host and hostess were dressed as Little Red Riding Hood and Wolf Blitzer.

Once, my parents went to a Vacation Party where every couple brought a check for $50.00 made out to the local travel agent and showed up with their bags packed. After dinner they put all the checks into a hat and a winner was drawn. My parents won! They left for the airport the next morning for an all-expenses-paid weekend in Bermuda. In the nineties they hosted a Rocky Horror Picture Show Party for their friends-- who were all in their fifties-- and hadn’t seen it. Guests had to research the movie and come in character, which they did by golly. Dinner was followed by a living room screening complete with props.

When my parents hosted parties, we were allowed to pass hors d’oeuvres for the first hour and then it was up to get ready for bed where we sat in our pajamas at the top of the stairs, our faces pressed between the railings, looking down at the tops of their hairdos; hearing bits and pieces of conversations that mostly went over our heads. Eventually we were discovered and hustled off to our rooms. Back in my day, children were out-of-sight, out-of-mind at parties, unless it was a family party.

These days I’m thrilled when I go to a party and the hosts subscribe to the same throwback ideology. There are plenty of bar-b-ques, picnics, birthday parties, neighborhood events and holidays to hang out with our kids throughout the year. Grown-up parties are different; we can speak freely, connecting on a different level, not as parents, but as adults, independent of our children. I like your kids, I really do, but I want to talk to you. Uninterrupted. Without Spongebob in the background or your eight-year-old listening to me answer your questions about my last date. And I want to hear about you. I want to know if your boss has been fired yet and if your marriage is surviving the economy—things that kids shouldn’t overhear. A grown-up party is like a spa date; no one asks me to open juice boxes or tells me how much they like farts. And I’m sure they’re a particularly welcome respite for our friends whose kids are with the other parent on that weekend, or who simply don’t have them.

So, I’ve been thrilled over the comeback that grown-up parties are making lately. I’ve heard of some hilarious theme parties as well. My sister was invited to a party where the ladies had to wear either their wedding dress or a bride’s maid dress. The men had to stuff themselves into their tuxes. My other sister went to a Wear-What-You-Never-Get-to-Wear Party. One woman came in a prom dress and another guy came in scuba gear. There was a hula skirt, feetie pajamas, and a woman in mechanic’s overalls. One guy wore the shirt he bought for an East Indian wedding and his friend came in his beloved Wookie costume. A recent party theme I heard about-- best held near the holidays-- was the Ugly Sweater Party, where folks unapologetically wear the ugliest Christmas sweater they can get their hands on, and there are myriad out there just begging to be worn.

I wish January through March weren’t so bereft of social functions—just when the holidays are over and we need them most. Maybe I’ll host a theme party in February. And another one in March. If everyone hosted just one grown-up dinner party a year, think about how much more relaxed we’d all be. All those little spa dates would have to add up to some good. Plus it’s a great motivator to get your entire house really clean.

Stop Loving Me

(Adagio)

I will love you ’til you stop loving me
I will love you like the wind loves the sea
I will love you completely; cherish you through and through
I will love you and there’s nothing you can do

(Jazzy)

I will love you ’til you stop loving me
I will love you like the shadow loves the tree
I will love you completely for your shal-low-ness and depth
I will love you regardless, ‘til your last dying breath

I will love you ’til you stop loving me
I will love you like the rock loves the key
I will shelter and protect you, hold you dear to my heart
I will love you-- just tell me when to start.

(Bridge)

I will love you in the morning, I will love you at high noon
I will love you after supper, strolling un-derneath the moon
But my love won’t last forever, so you’d better treat me right
Better use those please and thank-yous; kiss me gently, hold me tight

I will love you ’til you stop loving me
I will love you like the circus loves the flea
I will dazzle you, en-ter-tain you, with all of my heart
I will love you-- just tell me when to start.
I will love you-- just tell me when to start.

Story Slam

I remember sitting around my parent’s kitchen table growing up, listening to friends tell stories. A few friends were really good at it; one was particularly excellent.

Dave knew just what story to tell; he knew how to unravel it without losing the thread. He could craft it on the fly-- describing each character with salient detail-- then bring it to its hilarious and harrowing conclusion as we laughed and cringed. I loved the way he did the different voices and lit up when he spoke; he owned us and lit us up, too, as we listened, open mouthed, anticipating the words like tasty hors d’oeuvres.

I think that’s when I started to become aware of what made a good storyteller; a resistance to ums, a varied pitch. I tried to emulate my friend Dave but only ended up comparing myself to him, which resulted in subtle losses. I tended to leave stuff out, forget where I was, and that death knell of a good story, warble on too long.

All this is to say that I appreciate a good story and the talent and finesse that goes into its telling, so was thrilled to hear about a Story Slam event. The Story Slams are part writers’ group, part happening, and part Gong Show shenanigans. Five bucks gets you in the door and a canned beer-- the king of beers. Absolutely anyone who desires—from 21 to 91, regardless of vocation-- may put his or her name into a hat at the beginning of the evening. Throughout the show, our hostesses pull twelve names out of the hat. If your name is called, you hop up onto the stage, address the audience, and dazzle us with your story. Most folks read from the page, but some memorize their story, and still others do it off the cuff. Your story must be original and it must be under five minutes. If you go on too long, you get played off by the lovely folk band in the corner, Bloomfield, fronted by that nice young man who makes sandwiches at the deli.

It’s daunting and exhilarating all at once, the act of storytelling on demand. There’s the room and the audience and then there’s the clock in your head. Some folks saunter through their stories, blithely unaware of the drummer, picking up his sticks towards the big payoff at the end and mosey right into an unintended resolution. Some wrap up just in time with the confident finesse of an Irishman at a pub with all the time in the world and some speed through their stories as if being chased on the train tracks, a locomotive full of English Composition teachers bearing down on them in hot pursuit.

I go to the Story Slams because I love to hear great stories. I love hearing all the good ones and knowing that the one I’m not so crazy about will only last another four minutes. I get off learning about how other folks perceive the world and I love finding myself alongside the main characters, suffering right along with them in that rowboat or laughing alongside them on the examining table. I love that there are so many gifted writers and funny people in our neck of the woods and I’m inspired by their talent and chutzpah. But mostly, I appreciate a good storyteller. It’s not easy. And yet, they make it look easy.