The Mother's Day Huddle

B. and G. were only about half an hour late for the Mother's Day gathering at my parents' house. I'd made it there at about ten after four, so by the time the kids arrived I'd been sitting through one of Dad's monologues for about 20 minutes, waiting for enough of a pause that I could get a glass of water. Dad often accuses me of rambling. Wonder where I got that from.

B. said her hellos, then immediately went looking for the cats. I refuse to snark on that, because I've been known to do the same thing. Those cats are keeping my parents from constantly bugging us for grandchildren, and I like to make sure they're okay.

Mom decided that B., G. and I had to go into the backyard and examine every single color of iris that had bloomed this year. One of the cats was nearby, rolling around in the grass. Once Mom wandered off, the three of us stayed there and huddled.

"Your parents' anniversary is in, like, six weeks, and we haven't done anything."

B. was getting a little stressed out, even for her. Sensing this, the world's second-most laid back cat yawned, rose, stretched, and sauntered off from her spot under the tree next to which B., G. and I stood, leaving the parents' backyard to us. (The world's first-most laid back cat was inside, snoozing on the couch in the den, which would have been my preferred activity for the afternoon. Smart kitty.)

"We haven't done anything because we can't get a straight answer about what they want," I pointed out.

"I thought that since they love that lodge in the park so much, we could do it there, but they want to do it here. I don't know where here, but... I mean, do they want a theme? What about decorations? Are we going to have time to get the invitations printed up and mailed out? Can we just use eVite?"

"Dad doesn't want to make any decisions without our mom, and Mom just knows that she wants a party," I explained.

G. sighed heavily in agreement. B. blanched.

"Welcome to the family, sweetie," I said.

Apparently, in B.'s neck of the woods, parties are big deals that involve, like, planning and stuff. In Mom and Dad's neck of the woods, it's a rare party that's not a potluck.

"Did Dad tell you about the catering?" I asked them. Blank stares. "I have a friend who's willing to do it pretty cheap."

"Oh, thank God," B. breathed. "I was worried we weren't going to be able to find any available caterers at this point."

"This is Echo Park. Caterers aren't that busy," I did not say.

"I forwarded them a list of his menu suggestions," is what I did say. "They still haven't told me what they want."

"So what time are they doing this, anyway?" B. asked us. G. shrugged. I rolled my eyes.

"Okay," I sighed. "We need to corner them and get some answers."

So we did.

Mom maintained that she'd said the whole time that she wanted the party to go from four to eight. Funny, that was the first any of us had heard about it. Invitations? She figured we could buy some of that fancy paper at an office supply store and print them out.

"Can we just use eVite?" B. asked hopefully.

"Not all of our friends have email," Mom explained patiently.

"Well... do you want a theme or anything? My mom said she'd come help decorate."

B. is awfully hung up on themes and decorations.

"Do you have a guest list yet?" Like I didn't know how this was going to play out. Sure enough: Mom looked at Dad. Dad looked at Mom.

"We'll send you one," Dad said. "Were you going to make the salad now?"

Right. Dinner. Good thing I went with the "dump stuff in a bowl and let people choose their own dressings" routine, because Dad was having trouble with the grill. I put the salad in the fridge.

"This was working fine yesterday," Dad kept insisting. That was yesterday. Today, the grill wasn't too sure if it wanted to heat up.

I think this was when I hit a point where I needed to either eat something -- immediately -- or take a nap. With Dad, Mom and B. all talking at the same time (G. was staying out of it), a nap was out of the question.

Ever try to get past three people who think you should be giving them your undivided attention? At the same time? Yeah. I had to get really, really pissy before I was able to get some bread and butter.

Once the food was ready, things mellowed. I think the ale helped, too.

After dinner, B. launched into a very long account of every detail of her high school cross-country running career. Why? I have no idea. She, G. and I were sitting at the dining room table (why? again, no idea), so I pulled out my laptop and kind of grunted my way through her tales of 6am runs and wrecked knees. She didn't notice, or if she did, she didn't care. Mom was in the next room and kept trying to insert comments, but B. just kept right on talking. It would have been fascinating if I didn't have such an urge to flee.

I don't remember how the subject came up, but I mentioned that there was a Channel 101 show that had filmed part of its most recent episode on the football field of G.'s and my high school. I pulled up the video, and B. was just completely mystified.

"That field's not in very good shape," she said, with what I'm sure she thought was great tact. "Was it always like that?"

"Oh, I think it looks better than when we were there," I replied airily.

G. nodded his agreement. "Yeah, about once a year they try to plant some grass and see if it takes."

I paused the clip. "See how the track is kind of a funky shape? They only had room to make it a fifth of a mile around."

"Yeah," G. nodded again. "When they'd mark off the football field, it had to go out onto the track."

B. was, I think, shocked that anyone could have to go to school in such shoddy athletic conditions. Yeah, well, good thing that neither of us were exactly the athletic type. And yet somehow, our athletic friends managed, and bear no apparent ill effects. Well, no ill effects you wouldn't expect from going to high school, anyway.

I mentioned that Channel 101 had been the launching pad for several people who were now at Saturday Night Live, which B. took as a cue to go on about how much the show sucks now. Uh, first of all: "Now"? B. is 24. What is she going on, "best of" compilations? Is that really fair? Hell, even the cable reruns have half an hour of the less-great material cut out.

I tried to point this out, but B. wasn't having it. Dad, who was passing by, sort of agreed with what she was saying. So I did exactly what needed to be done: I gathered B., G., and Dad 'round my iBook and pulled up the previous evening's opening sketch: Al Gore addressing the nation. (If you haven't seen it yet -- or if you have, but you want to relive the magic -- you can view it here or here.) Once B. accepted that that was, in fact, Al Gore saying all those funny things, she had to admit that it was pretty good. Dad appreciated the sketch, but I think he was more entranced by YouTube.

B. and G. left a little before Desperate Housewives. They seemed to indicate that they'd be doing the invitations. Um, sure. See the previous post.

Me, I was a good daughter and stayed to watch tv with Mom. Those of you who have read this far are invited to tune in for a new episode of Mom's Greatest Hits Theatre, starting... now.

--


The location: My parents' den.

The time: Sometime during Grey's Anatomy.

The cats: World's most laid-back snoozing on the bed with Dad; world's second-most laid-back chilling on my lap.

A commercial comes on, one that's mostly made up of quick vox pops.

ME (of a woman who appeared on the screen and quickly disappeared): Hey, I know her.

MOM: Her?

ME: No, the one who was just on.

MOM: Her?

ME: No, she was already on. You missed her.

MOM (not paying attention to that last part) : Her?

ME: Never mind.

WORLD'S SECOND-MOST LAID-BACK CAT: Mrow.

MOM: I think Katherine Heigl's scrubs are tailored.


And... scene.