Right party, wrong hosts

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‘The strange case of the Other Erica and Kevin’

Thanksgiving was (sob) over, which always makes me sad. But we were starting to get intriguing Paperless Post invitations in our inboxes, which always makes me happy. I do so love a party, especially a holiday party. (Say, maybe I should rethink my choice of Thanksgiving as the World’s Best Holiday. No one ever throws a Thanksgiving Party.)

Thanksgiving’s no turkey, mind you, but it does rather lack in actual Paperless Post-style parties

But back to those invitations. I’d just clicked on the little birdie to “view invitation,” and said to The Dude, “Remember that nice Erica and Kevin? They’ve invited us to a Holiday Party!” “Gee, that’s great,” responds Mr. Man, peering at the address listed on the invitation. “I guess they moved back to New York. Gosh, it’ll be fun to catch up!” “And, hey. We get to go to a party!” I added.

I do love a party. Here I am with Fellow Revelers at some event festive enough for champagne, feathers — and a tiara

I was excited, so I added a little note to our positive RSVP: “It’ll be great to see you and catch up!” To which Erica replied, “So much to celebrate!”

See, Erica and Kevin are this couple The Dude went to Dartmouth with way back when. So “way back when” that Erica was one of the first women admitted to Dartmouth. (It used to be an all-male institution, so notoriously “all-male-ish” that it inspired the movie “Animal House”.) When Erica and her five or six equally brave fellow female students entered the institution in their sophomore year, their fellow (male) students called them, not-so-affectionately, the Co-Hogs.

But Erica got along just fine, thank you very much. In fact, she assimilated so well that she married a Dartmouth guy, one of The Dude’s fraternity brothers (Kappa Kappa Kappa), a guy named Kevin.

While The Dude had fond memories of both Erica and Kevin, I had only met them once, six or seven years ago at a fraternity reunion held in New Jersey. I honestly couldn’t pick them out of a lineup. But heck, I was sure happy to go to their party.

The Dude (at left) with frat brothers at what appears to be an “Artmouth” reunion in New Jersey. Kevin must be in there somewhere

So, on the appointed Party Day, we get all gussied up and head over to Erica and Kevin’s.

Here I am, all gussied up for a party where a guy named Teddy is a “guest”

As we enter the building lobby, I get even more excited. It’s Party Central — we see several Gorgeous People hanging up coats and heading up elevators, since there seem to be at least two or three parties being held there that night.

We’re directed to the appropriate coat rack and elevator and ride on up. The elevator opens into one of the loveliest New York apartments I’ve ever seen: beautiful paintings on the walls, beautiful people circulating in the halls. The waitpersons are even beautiful.

“Hey! I know that woman,” I think, as a vision in silver approaches, handing me a glass of wine. After we air-kiss, I exclaim, “Erica! I didn’t know you went to Dartmouth!

She gives me a puzzled look, then moves on to greet other arrivals. Meanwhile, The Dude has moved into the next room to find the host, his friend Kevin.

He comes back and whispers, “That guy in there is not Kevin. I mean, he’s Kevin, but not Kevin!

“But I know that woman. She’s Erica — of the Erica-and-Karen Erica, the ones who run that website Lustre that I write for. You know.” (By the way, do check out that website, it’s lustre.net; you’ll love it, and not just because I occasionally write stuff for it.)

Erica is somewhere in this group of Dartmouth reunion-goers (that’s me, top left). Just don’t ask me which one she is; I only met her the one time

“She must also be married to a guy named Kevin. And we’re at their Erica-and-Kevin Party instead of at our Erica-and-Kevin Party. At this point, a waiter approached with a tray of particularly tasty-looking hors d’oeuvres. “Don’t touch those!” I said, slapping The Dude’s hand away. We’re at the wrong party. We have to fess up.”

Well. All’s well that ends well, party-wise. When I told Erica that I was really really sorry and that we were at the wrong party, she said, “Oh no! You are at the right party. Kevin and I invited you. Honest! Welcome. Have some champagne!”

And so we did.

But on the way home, we just had to wonder. What are the chances of knowing not one, but two, Erica-and-Kevins?

New York City. January 2020

 

 

A Sterling character

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‘A Ray of Sunshine brightens the road home’

I really should be sorting scarves and/or dredging out drawers, but this morning I woke up (heck, make that “sat up”, since I wasn’t actually asleep) with a horrendous head cold and I need a bit of a break from the utter sturm und drang of this whole business of getting-ready-to-sell-an-apartment-in-New-York.

See, it’s no longer a simple deal of making your bed and putting away the cat toys. No, these days you must stage your apartment — make it easy for your potential buyer to imagine that he or she lives there instead of you. Everything personal must go: the collection of shells and beach glass arrayed on the mantel, the foreign stamps stuffed in a hand-thrown pot with a red heart on the front, the carefully-curated display of evening bags on the hat rack in the bedroom. Even the framed photos of The Child and her cousins taken at various stages of precocity, from being dressed as pumpkins to being garbed in grad gowns — it all must be erased.

I can’t show you any of those things — they have been erased — but I can show you this collection of Henrys

I cleverly “gifted” a batch of framed photos featuring The Child’s cousins to the Cousins in Question present at my Mom’s Big Birthday Do. Which got me some puzzled looks as well as nice thank-yous. (I doubt that Young People are as “into” framed photos as People My Age, which is no doubt why I was urged to make them go away.)

A trio of Henrys shares a laugh, maybe over how hilarious it is that their cousin has to downsize

But, as they say, all good things must come to an end — from our run in the Apartment of 26 Years to my Mom’s Big Birthday Do.

A batch of Henrys bids good-bye to the Phil branch that had to snap off early

For more about what happened at the party before it (*sniff*) came to its cake-crumbs-on-the-floor and wine-dreggs-in-the-glassware end, check out last week’s story, “So far, so good”.

And as for the end itself? My branch of the Henry Family Tree, all three twigs of it, was one of the first to leave on Sunday morning. Very early Sunday morning. Too early, in fact. Which should come to no surprise to those who know me. I’m one of those get-to-the-airport-early people. Once I allowed four hours to get to JFK for a 10AM flight to Bonaire. When we got to our gate at 7, I thought my family was going to suffocate me with a plastic bag.

The driveway that led to the road that led to the highway that led to O’Hare

Well, this trip I was worried about returning the rental car and about catching the shuttle to get to our respective terminals. (I’d been told to allow two hours for this.) Well, turns out the only two hours involved here was the two hours too early that we got there.

But hey. I promised a Ray of Sunshine, did I not? When we scampered to the Place Where You Catch the Shuttles, there was a shuttle, ready and waiting. But it served Terminal 1, where the Kids were going, and not Terminal 3, where I was headed. The Child and her BF and I were engaged in a heartfelt goodbye hug on the sidewalk when we hear a booming voice over the shuttle loudspeaker:

“This shuttle goes to Terminal 1…and to wherever it is that Mom is going!”

The driver, bless his Mom-loving heart, did indeed take all the now-very-smiley passengers to Terminal 1, where they all nodded and wished me well as they disembarked with their wheelies and whatnots. Then Sterling — for that was his name — took me, all by my lonesome, off to Terminal 3.

“Here you go, Mom,” he said, “Have a nice flight!”

And so I did.

Lake Michigan, looking just about as sparkly as Sterling’s soul

New York City. October 2019

 

 

 

“I’m watchin’ him!”

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‘The “Playdate”, back in Midcentury Modern Times.’

Last week I wrote about the Midcentury Modern custom of sending a high-school social studies class¬†on a field trip to a maximum-security prison. I say “custom” because, frankly, I was astonished to find that many of you readers out there had done the very same thing. (And that’s not counting those of you who went to the very same high school as me.)

This week I’m curious to see how many of you grew up experiencing the Midcentury Modern version of the “playdate”.

“Playdates”, for those of you who don’t have, haven’t had, or don’t know anyone with children, are when parents or caregivers (what we used to call “babysitters”) set up specific times and places (“dates”) for kids to get together to “play”.

I just love that there is an actual Wikipedia entry for “playdate”. If you don’t feel like clicking, here’s what it goes on to say:¬†Playdates have become common because the work schedules for busy parents, along with media warnings about leaving children unattended, prevent the kind of play that children of other generations participated in.

Hmmm. Just what “kind of play” was this? Continue reading