The Royal Blog Post

If we were still in the UK, I’m sure we’d be much more aware of the all the details surrounding The Royal Wedding. We’ve been following the Royals lives since the boys were wee lads, and this wedding is absolutely World Cup status, which is to say that it’s not as big a deal here in the US as it is over there.

If we were still there, we’d probably be hosting or attending some sort of viewing party during the Royal Wedding Bank Holiday while engaging in Britain’s national pastime. Drinking. Ok, there may be a few other pastimes like talking about the weather and whinging, but I’m going to go out on a limb and rank drinking at the top of the list.

We haven’t planned anything special for the day, however, and I’m disappointed in our lack of enthusiasm.

I’ve been thinking about all of the major events we’ve experienced while on foreign soil. We landed in London on July 17, 1999 to learn that John Kennedy Jr. was missing. It was an unseasonably warm day in London (because every warm day in London is unseasonable), and the heat combined with jetlag left me a tired, sweaty mess. I couldn’t wait to get into our flat and pass out. We had to endure the ride in the oppressively small lift with the doorman escorting us up to our flat and our 4 enormous bags. The three of us were practically spooning each other.

“Hear the news about that Kennedy fellow?” asked the doorman.

“Yes, we just heard. Very upsetting.”

“D’nno what all the fuss is about, really. Not as if he was royalty or anyfink.”

I didn’t know what to say. It was difficult enough forcing my mouth to move as it had gotten a jumpstart on my post-flight nap. I didn’t know whether to be insulted or culturally sensitive. But before I could identify the proper response, we had arrived on our floor, and the doorman was already wheeling the most monstrous of the suitcases to our flat. That may have been the first of many times that I reiterated the phrase to Gabriella, “Well, Dorothy. We’re not in Kansas anymore.”

On another occasion in London, I was out for lunch with a client showing off my new WAP phone, which was the newest gadget in circulation. “Look,” I said scrolling through my options with the roller ball. “I can check out the latest headlines. Let’s see. Plane Crashes into World Trade Center. Well, that’s bad driving, isn’t it?” In my mind, someone in a little glider plane ran into the corner of the building, ricocheted right off and flew on to safety. I did not read on because it seemed a silly story on a slow-news day. I had no clue. Who could? It wasn’t until I got back to the office where my co-workers briefed me and where I slowly floated into a state of shock.

Then of course there were the years of Oscars and Olympics.

Before the Oscars, we tried to get out and see as many films as we could, but most of the nominated films reached the UK months after the Oscars. They would be screening in Spain or Sweden before they ever showed up in the UK. There were few Brits who cared to join us for an Oscar Party or even discuss the contenders.

Watching the Olympics was just plain painful. The British programmers ONLY televised the British athletes in each event. I might be more forgiving if they ever placed in the top three in anything. I don’t mean to be unkind, but watching the Olympics becomes quite dull when the coverage is exactly the same. “And here comes our courageous Nathaniel Blowtid-Buttum bringing up the rear. He’s got to be happy with that stonking performance after his abysmal performance in the last Olympics. Wouldn’t you agree, Bradley?” “Right you are, Chris. 17th place is certainly nothing to sneeze at. I’m sure all his family are well pleased with him today.” (Because they say “family are” in England. I know. Shocking.)

Seven years in England may not seem a very long time, but our life there was not insignificant. In that time, we got married, got knocked up, gave birth and experienced motherhood for the first 2 ½ years of Asher’s life. We made wonderful friends at work and in our neighbourhood. And I still haven’t completely discarded all the Brit-speak and pronunciations like describing my natural birth experience as a va-JAHY-nul birth. Well, I admit I say that one in particular because it makes me giggle to say it out loud. Give it a go.

I’d like to get over this distance I feel witnessing life from what I perceive is the wrong part of the world. I’ll have to spend the day preparing some last-minute celebratory (pron. seh-leh-BRAY-tree) activities to close the gap a bit. We’ll toast the betrothed over a few glasses of Bucks Fizz and make drunk-calls to our dear friends in Blighty. I’m also thinking of driving on the left side of the road all day. (You might want to stay home.) Perhaps, I'll even run out and get some sweets. Unlike the happy couple and their guests, however, we will not be eating what is the traditional wedding cake in Britain--fruitcake. Ick.

Something familiar, something peculiar

A funny thing happened on the way to the forum. No, seriously. We went to see A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum at the Paper Mill Playhouse, and a funny thing happened. Well, it wasn’t exactly funny ha ha. It was more like funny peculiar and even a little tragic.

We are a half-hour train ride away from NYC, and a significant percentage of the people here either work on Broadway, attend Broadway productions or both. And so it wouldn’t surprise you to learn that we also boast a significant Jewish and/or gay population, would it? It probably also wouldn’t surprise you to learn that there are many other options for theater closer to home than midtown Manhattan serving all us Jews and gays. The Paper Mill Playhouse is a hop, skip and a sashay away from our house and is not your every day community theater. The performers and crew are all professional theater people as opposed to lawyers and computer programmers who always wanted to be on stage but had neither the opportunity nor the talent to get there. Nay, theater at the Paper Mill is the real deal.

Before show time, Gabriella and I attended Paper Mill’s 4th Lavender Night, which is a private cocktail party in the theater’s carriage house for the LGBT ticket holders. Nothing like canapés and conversation with the queers before a show, I say. We had the added benefit of hanging out with famed stager manager, Lois Griffing and some of the delightfully talented cast members.

“Where’s the funny peculiar thing, Deborah? You left us hanging!”

Yes, my pets, I do apologize for carrying on so, but I have now escorted you to the very scene in question. We were all sipping our drinks and mingling and such when we saw 2 men in the courtyard just outside the carriage house. I will dub them with names inspired by musicals in honor of the event. As politically incorrect as they may be, they serve to illustrate without revealing too many identifiable details.

Miss Saigon and Daddy Whore-butts positioned themselves in the center of the courtyard and in front of the expansive windows of the carriage house for all to see and fully aware of their audience. We didn’t take much notice of them until Miss Saigon bent down on one knee and held Daddy Whore-butts’s hand in his.

“He’s proposing!” Gabriella announced.

“Gabriella, take the camera and get a picture!” I squealed. (Lest you think that I take joy in having Gabriella do my bidding, she is, in fact, the better photographer. And also I like her to do my bidding.)

Gabriella trotted outside, and we all watched as she took a couple of shots. I thought she might linger until DWB accepted MS’s proposal, but she came trotting right back inside. “It’s not going so well,” she explained. “Daddy Whore-butts won’t say ‘yes’.”

“He’s not getting any younger,” said a gay. “Neither am I. I need another drink,” said another.

We all watched and waited, but DWB would not agree to wed MS, and MS would not get up off his knee. Minutes passed and then a few more. They continued to talk while MS stayed put on his knee and DWB kept hold of his hand. MS then presented a ring that DWB refused to accept.

“How embarrassing,” said one of the gays. “Maybe they should take it inside,” said another. “Is there a therapist in the house?” I added.

Over the next half-hour, we tired of their slow moving drama and turned our backs on our unrequited lovers. We focused our attention on our drinks and our friends, checking in with DWB and MS only occasionally. Eventually, MS placed his wallet underneath his knee. “Guess, he’s not used to being down there so long,” observed a gay. “No wonder he doesn't want to marry him,” responded another.

Just as we were finishing our last drops of drink and gathering our bags and jackets, MS stood, and the two embraced for what was literally another 5 minutes. MS returned the ring to his pocket, and they walked into the theater un-engaged. They disappeared during intermission.

I was sad for them at first, but then it occurred to me that this was probably not the first public performance they had staged-and I do mean to call them both out. They seemed awfully comfortable and calm in the center ring for all to see and capture on film. DWB could have taken MS somewhere more private or even walked away in protest, but he stood as long as MS knelt in the center of the open courtyard with an audience of many. So, I’m left feeling cold about the whole affair. Drama for drama’s sake is just not attractive. And frankly I was just not in the mood. Tragedy tomorrow. Comedy tonight!

Good luck gentlemen, wherever you are. But the next time you come to Lavender Night, leave the drama to the professionals.

Shopping, returning & learning

I just spent an obscene amount of money. O – B – SEEEEEEN cash on a wardrobe for 2 small children for a Bar Mitzvah weekend extravaganza consisting of a Friday night dinner, Saturday morning service, Saturday evening party and Sunday brunch. My task for the next few days is to return as much as I can and find alternative wear that is borrowed or cheap but does not make my children look like they had to pick through the leftovers at the Appalachian flea market. And for as often as I hear myself say, “My boys are NEVER going to have a Bar Mitzvah like this”, I know I can’t be sure. Every mom has repeated the same thing to me. “That’s what I said, too.” And then they send out invitations for their, son or daughter’s Jewish Coming Out Ball. I’m telling you, William and Kate got nothing next to Jews with Shekels, man. It’s just that one event – that one wedding for those reserved British types. One event? Pussies!

I bought 2 dresses for myself (on sale, of course), and I need to squeeze into the spring outfits that I wore a size or two ago. It’s a good thing I just spent all our money on clothing because I can’t afford to eat. If only I could sell my fat to starving children around the world. I’d make some cash. They’d have a little padding to tide them over until their next meal, and everyone would be happy. What?

While I’m driving from mall to mall doing the math in my head, I’m also adding notes to my Bar Mitzvah Planning File for our sons in 2016 and 2019.

BAR MITZVAH FILE

• Don’t spend what you don’t have. No really. Don’t.
• Don’t try to keep up with the Jones-enbaums. You can’t even afford the party favors, so don’t even try. Re party favors: see Hawaiian leis at Oriental Trading Company and save all Halloween candy from 2011 onwards (keep in chest freezer).
• At every Bar Mitzvah we attend, ask the bar mitzvah boy if we can have his suit after he’s finished. Someone is bound to give us one.*
• Videotape Bar Mitzvah dance parties and upload to YouTube. Play videos on wide screen at party instead of hiring DJ. Note: don’t forget to dub over names when DJ shouts out to the Bar Mitzvah boy.
• Consider a destination Bar Mitzvah. Somalia? Benin? Detroit?

*Gabriella reviewed this list and said, “You know that’s a good idea about the suit.”

I intend to keep the Bar Mitzvah file next to the Open The Day You Start to Shrink file.

YOU’RE OLD: PUT ON YOUR GLASSES AND READ THIS

• Wear a fucking hearing aid. Everyone hates having to repeat themselves more than 3 times – slower and louder with every repetition.
• Get a goddam driver and cut up your license. You think you can drive, but you CAN’T! You’re a menace and you are a traffic light away from killing some kid is on his way to get a suit for his Bar Mitzvah.
• If your doctor prescribes happy pills, take 2X the recommended dosage. Yes, life sucks when you’re old. Your body is breaking down. All of your friends are either dead or sick or just as miserable as you are. There is no way you can be happy without some serious medication.
• Keep your yap shut. Age does not necessarily make you wise. And even if you are smarter than everyone else, that doesn’t give you the right to tell everyone what you think about their children, their partners, their jobs or their lives. No one will want to take you into his or her home and take care of you when you are too old to wipe your own ass if you have been a cranky old bitch. If you don’t have anything nice to say, pop another Xanex and shut the fuck up.

Life provides one lesson after another, and it is up to us to learn those lessons and file them away for future reference.

Gabriella just left with the shopping bag of gorgeous and expensive clothes along with a receipt that was as long as a whale’s schlong.

While I know she’ll come home with outfits that are sufficiently stylish, I’ll always remember the ensembles that got away.