The Party Season

Whoo. Hoo.

It's the party season for my family: almost all of us were born or married or both (and some of us more than once) (no, not as in "born again," as in "married again") in the summer. In some families, in some religious communities, in some entire countries that would mean beautiful hats, frocks, sparkly shoes. Confections on little white paper doilies.

In this family it means only one thing: a barbeque.

As a committed nothing-with-eyelashes diner, for me this also means that parties can, if I'm not careful to be first in line for the champagne, be kind of a deflating experience. Everyone gathers in a backyard and eats meats smeared in red sauces of various heats and intensities, wipes fingers on shirts or their mother's hair, picks shreds of a poor cooked animal from between their teeth, slugs a beer. Points out where a dog has recently been sick. Talks about clouds or dandelions and makes up ill-mannered nicknames for each other. Then when the mosquitos get too bad, in we go and the do is done.

Today is another party day. I spent an hour on ebay and bluefly and W, looking at Armani gowns, Roberto Cavalli pantsuits, Fendi hats and purses, Ferragamo shoes. Jewels by Bulgari and David Yurman. Tonight, I shall carry myself with a mysterious air of elegance as I try to discreetly remove corn from my smile.

Whoohoo, dahling.