Collateral Damage: Let Them Eat Cake

There were enough breaks in the clouds to remind us there could be sun. Rain didn’t fall as much as spurt from the sky, intermittently, and with little power behind it. But it was enough to soak the picnic benches, prompting several of us to muscle the tables further under the shelter and away from the fireplace where Josh built a fire. Lush green grass and blooming trees aside, you’d never have guessed it was April in Atlanta.

In my usual state of rebellion, I’d worn flip-flops under my blue jeans and hoodie. Within minutes of arriving, I was grateful I listened when a voice of reason couched in loving kindness urged me to throw a pair of shoes in the car “just in case”. It was tricky business switching out my footwear without getting my socks wet, but I managed. As I perched inside the door on the backseat of my car, a steady stream of soggy guests passed on the other side.

By the time I emerged, the party was well under way. A large, multi-colored balloon bouquet swayed languidly over a chocolate birthday cake. The smell of grilling meat billowed from a flume on one side of the grill, an array of chips and desserts filled one of the tables, and a football sailed, occasionally, over the heads of laughing children. Hoods were on heads, hands were in pockets, and breath floated like conversation bubbles over the heads of guests, happy to see each other. Things would have been very nearly perfect if only Trey could have been there. For the second time, we celebrated his birth after his death.

In the days leading up to the party, I marveled at how well I was handling things. There had been no crying jags or heavy sighs. I wasn’t sleeping particularly well but, as a woman of a certain age, there were any number of possible explanations for that.

And then, someone mentioned ketchup. Which made me think of mustard. Which made me think of mayonnaise, and cheese, and relish, and trash bags, and streamers, and noise-makers, and all the other incidentals that would normally come without thinking when planning a birthday cook-out. Except that nothing was normal. Normal hadn’t happened yet. Perhaps it never will. And, if it ever does, it won’t be on that day. That day, Trey’s birthday, will never be normal again.

I didn’t realize until I got there how much I hadn’t wanted to come, or how little I’d done to prepare. Luckily a store down the street stocked most of what I’d forgotten and, by the time the burgers were done, we had everything we needed.

People attended the party for different reasons. Some, like me, came out of a sense of obligation. Some came to celebrate the life of a friend. At least one came for the company, and a few came for the food. I realized though, as I looked over the crowd, that despite our personal motivations, we were all there for the same reason.

We were collateral damage.

My Halloween Dream Date with Michael Phelps

Carson groaned silently, as yet another unobservant party-goer stepped on her toes, while he, and one of at least twelve would-be Playboy bunnies in attendance, searched for salacious privacy.

Inwardly she snarled, “This corner is taken, buddy!”

Outwardly she expelled the breath she had been holding in anticipation of having her foot stomped upon, again, and gave them a weak smile before she shrank back against the wall.

“Oh, come on, Carson, it’ll be fun!”

Lilly’s litany played as a round, sung in a sing-song voice, inside her head. And where was Lilly now? Lilly was where she always was, in the center of a large crowd of costumed admirers, or sharing gossip behind Jackie O’s white, kid gloves with a friend who had done a pretty good job of impersonating Amy Winehouse, complete with beehive.

Hoping not to appear desperate, she surreptitiously scanned the colorful crowd for her friend’s baby-blue, pillbox hat. There were at least ten Barack Obamas in the mix. Peyton Manning was shooting darts with Pink, and several members of the Fantastic Four had challenged The Justice League to an inebriated limbo contest that threatened to knock an appropriately oblivious Paris Hilton right off her five inch stilettos, and into a bowl of guacamole. Just as she caught sight her friend, Captain Jack Black blocked her vision momentarily in a flurry of ruffles and satin, and as she withdrew her sensible pumps as far under the chair as she could get them, she felt cold moisture begin to spread on her polyester covered leg.

“Dammit!”, she cried before she could stop herself ,as she jumped from her chair while self-consciously pulling down the jacket of Hillary’s sensible pant suit. Jack turned and studied her for a moment before laughing in true pirate style, and maneuvering Lindsey Lohan away from the mess. Looking down, she could see the stain was spreading, and judging by the color, pirates fancied imports. Lilly was, now, nowhere to be seen.

She started out into the crowd in the direction of the bathroom and cold water to stymie the stain. She kept her head down, in hopes no one would notice her, while knowing she really needn’t bother. She had been invisible from the moment she entered the room. Despite what she had judged to be a clever costume choice, no one had connected her drab blonde hairstyle and polyester pantsuit with a former presidential candidate. The few interested looks turned her way were questioning, at best.

“Hey!”, a voice she recognized cried out, just before she slammed into Michael Phelps’ gold-medal bedecked chest. Thickly applied pancake makeup smeared against bare skin as she lost her footing and fell further into the voice.

“Owwww!”, he howled, and she realized that the heel of her shoe must have grazed a toe just before becoming entangled in his flip-flop.

Two hands came up under the armpits of her misshapen suit jacket, lifting her off of his feet and, placing her, unceremoniously, back onto the floor in front of him.

“What gives, Carson?”, T.J.’s handsome face lost nothing to anger.

“I…I’m sorry, T.J. I didn’t see you.”, was all she could manage before the tears came to remove the rest of her hard work.

She knew he was saying something in an effort to make her feel better, but she couldn’t make out the words over the sound of her sobs. She felt his arms around her shoulders, and became aware that they were walking, but horror at the thought of many hundreds of pairs of creatively made-up eyes staring at her, in disgust, buoyed the flood of tears, forcing her to keep her head buried in Phelps’ side.

A blast of cold air told her they had left the party, and as she looked up, her hands went immediately to her face, in a fruitless effort to repair the damage. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed T.J. jumping up and down in place, in an effort to conjure some warmth against the chill of night air.

“Oh, I’m sorry…” Continuing dry sobs placed unneeded breaths between her words.

“No, it’s ok…Uh…I’ve got a jacket in the car…Come on!”

He grabbed her arm and pulled her, stumbling, through the gravel parking lot. She stood, silent, as he aimed his key fob, before removing his sweats from the trunk

Walking to the far side of the car, he turned his back before pulling them on and then turned with a single clap of his hands, presenting her with “Property of University of Georgia Football”.

“Ok! So you want to go home!” It was said as a statement.

“Um, I…” she started, as she crossed her arms over her chest. She looked out across the parking lot at nothing in particular, wishing she could disappear.

“No! It’s ok! I’ve got an exam tomorrow, anyway. Get in the car!” He didn’t ask questions. He made statements and gave orders. He was used to getting what he wanted. Her feet moved before she made a decision, and as he clicked the locks open, her hand was on the door latch.

She slid, silent, into the passenger’s seat without uncrossing her arms. Two doors slammed as the engine roared to life, and T.J. carelessly threw Michael’s medals into the backseat. Settling himself against leather, he placed both hands on the steering wheel, and leaned in her direction.

“Alright, Carson. I’ve had a little to drink. You know that right? I mean, I’m not drunk, but, I’m ok, you know? I’m feeling ok.”

She looked at his shadowy features, and wondered how she came to be there. Had he ever spoken to her before? Well, maybe…when they were toddlers, when their mothers’ scheduling of play-dates placed them together on the playground while they, the mothers, sat closely, exchanging stories of women who were not there.

Did he ever cross her path in high school? Did football players have anything in common with accounting majors?

“Yeah…yeah, ok.”, was all she managed, as she smoothed Hillary’s jacket and wedged both unmanicured hands between her thighs.

One long arm stretched between the bucket seats, as T.J. maneuvered the car into reverse. She squirmed at the thought of that arm around her shoulders. Had it been? Had everyone seen? What had they thought? Had SHE seen?

The car lurched forward against loudly crunching gravel, as T.J. barely missed grazing the halogen head-lights of an oncoming pickup truck. Lowering his window, he stopped, and hung his head out to meet the other driver.

“Hey, bro, you leavin’ already?”, T.J.’s voice mixed with laughter as he thrust his arm towards his friend’s already outstretched palm.

“Who’s that?”, Jerry and his companion, Sarah Palin, craned their necks to see inside the lower car.

More laughter accompanied his “See ya, bro!”, as T.J. good naturedly slapped his friend’s hand, again, before withdrawing it to turn up the dial on the stereo, as the car lurched forward again, sending up a wake of randomly shaped gravel.

“Jerry’s a good guy, you know?”, he yelled, as they turned onto the two-lane blacktop that would take her home.

There were lights, lots of them, in varying colors, and noises she knew only from television crime dramas; the crackle of two-way radios, passing traffic, sirens, voices giving orders, and moans, incoherent moans in a familiar-sounding voice.

“Hey! I’ve got an ID!” The voice, excited and unfamiliar, was accompanied by the sound of clanking medals…

Just Another Reason To Party

I’m not a person who feels tied into age. Age, to me, is a number, and really nothing more. When asked my age, I often have to stop and think. I am fortunate, (I guess), to have friends and family who, apparently keep up with these things…

Every year, as my birthday approaches I encourage everyone to see things as I do. “It’s just another day!”, “I really don’t need presents.”, “I don’t eat birthday cake.” Last year, on September 2nd, I announced I was done having birthdays. I mean, what’s so special about them? Everybody has one! They are like belly-buttons…

This year, as the day approached, my daughter called, wondering how I was celebrating Labor Day. I really hadn’t thought about it. She wondered if she, her friend, and her friend’s new, and completely darling daughter could visit. A son called. He was up for a cook-out. Another son called, also looking for free food…So, the plan was set. Labor Day cookout at my house!

A couple of days ago, I heard, again, from my daughter, who, in her best little girl voice, wondered, hypothetically mind you, if I WAS going to eat birthday cake, not that I would, what kind of cake I would like. I thought for several seconds before telling her, and with that I made a decision. I was having a birthday party. Did I say party? Make that a birthday blowout!
And here’s the reason we have birthdays…

I slept in this morning, just because I could. I checked on Dad who is stubbornly riding the storm out in Destin. And the calls started, interspersed with texts from people, some from whom I rarely hear, who appreciate my being here. As I took the calls, I opened my mailbox to an assortment of good wishes. Sweet!

Around 1:00, my grill master arrived with a variety of meats and mysterious seasonings, and set about preparing to cook out. As the guests arrived, they were greeted by loud music, and louder laughter. Red wine made everyone a better dancer as children ran between our legs, glorifying in the luxury of a game of chase inside the house!

The food was great, the company wonderful, and everyone left feeling just a little better for having shared my day.

And, as for me? I was queen for a day! Cared for, pampered, and fawned over by family and friends. I ate food I rarely allow myself, I drank good wine, I danced to my favorite music, I watched my children enter the house as sophisticated adults and revert back into playmates in the way only siblings can, and I laughed.

As the party ended, and guests began to filter out, my daughter brought the baby to me. She is gorgeous, with Asian features, and soft, marshmallowy limbs. She played with my jewelry, babbled sweetly, and threw her toys to the floor in front of us in sweet anticipation of a ride down to pick them up.

Pudgy hands flayed desperately in an attempt to rub her sleepy eyes as she nestled into my side, and we napped…

Friends, it just doesn’t get any better than this…