March 5, 2005

• In Praise of the Party
  &copy The Author, 2005

  My fifth birthday party was the first party that I invited friends to. One of the best things about being the first child is that your parents don’t know any better than to appease their child’s more outlandish and impractical requests. In my case, my mom seemed almost as enthusiastic as I was when I said I wanted to invite my entire pre-school class to my fifth birthday party, plus my cousin (and best friend) Sheri. The only attendee that my mom had to talk me out of was my teacher. Like many preschoolers, I loved my teacher and it came as a shock for me when my mom gently told me that she would probably be busy that day. My teacher had a life outside of hanging out with me and my class?!? Outrageous! I wasn’t disappointed for long though, because if I remember correctly, a whopping 25 kids attended this party. Yowza.

  My mom and my grandma played host to this party, which took place at my grandparents’ house where my mom and I lived for a time in a small cute apartment over the garage. My great grandma, who I loved intensely and called Nannar (our family is British and this was my loving variation of the endearing term, Nanna), had previously lived in the apartment, but had recently passed away, leaving it for my mom and I to live in after we discovered our old apartment complex had been haunted by a peeping tom. Anyhow-back to my story.

  I’m sure my mom and grandma took great care in organizing games, and I have seen pictures of the teeming masses munching happily away at cake and ice cream, but the things I remember most about this party was the activities that took place outside of our structured activities.

  For instance, I took great pleasure in introducing my guests to the apartment that my mom and I lived in. I informed my classmates that my Nannar had lived there, but now she was dead and we lived there. Most of these kids were from two parent homes without any dead relatives disrupting their early lives. They had no idea what I was getting at, but they seemed interested nonetheless.

  We also enjoyed swimming in the guests’s coats that had been piled high on my grandparents big king sized bed. I seem to recall the pleasure being brief, interrupted by my Granddad peeking his head around the corner of the room and barking in a playfully scary way for us to skedaddle, but the fun was infinite.

  Another game we played was jumping from one piece of living room furniture to the next. My grandparents had a huge, bouncy sectional sofa and two comfy recliners to move about on. Predicting a bumped head followed by crocodile tears, my grandma nipped that game short as well. I held no grudge for this reigning in of fun—I was too young to feel that sort of thing yet.

  What is important about these invented games and activites is that they were the first time that I experinced the sensation of “cutting loose” at a party. The feeling was so great, that I have been a big fan of the party ever since. I like throwing them, attending them, planning them, and looking at all my pictures of them. I even like cleaning up afterwards.

  I have thrown at least two parties nearly every year, ranging in size from sleepovers of two best friends to parties (our wedding bash) that have had guest lists of over 200. I can truly say—it is not the size of the party that matters. It matters only how much fun you are open to having. And I am always open to fun.

  
  One year at a birthday party, my friends and I decided it would be fun if we plastered our faces in makeup, slicked our hair back in thick crusts of hair gel, hiked out pants up to our chests and created spastic skits based on the various bizarre-o characters we created. These characters married each other, killed each other, ran for president, and even ate human flesh if I remember correctly. See the above picture for the complete visual.

  Another year, my mom made my favorite childhood dish-Spanish rice and beans. From this I learned the importance of catering to your guests, as most of my second grade, white suburban counter parts were unsure of what to make of my dinner of choice. All subsequent parties relied on the mainstays of pizza and subs.

  My fifth grade birthday party took place at Caesarland, which is the pizza chain Little Caesar’s attempt at the more popular children’s party venue, Chucky Cheese’s. At this birthday party, we ran amok, fueled by caffeinated soft drinks and sugary angel food cake. When a disgruntled and underpaid employee sweating away inside of a Caesar costume emerged to mingle with the children, I thought of the perfect way to impress my guests. With a big tug, I pulled the giant proboscis dangling provocatively from the costumes face, unconcerned with how this might affect the human inside the costume. While my friends squealed with glee, the person inside the costume was probably recovering from some sort of costume injury as a result of my prank. “Fuckin’ kid! I’m gonna get you!” Caesar growled. Scared out of my mind, I spent the rest of the party hiding in the tunnel ‘o’ fun.

  My twenty-first birthday was spent sipping Mai Tais and laughing with a handful of good friends in a creepy tiki bar that, due to decor that seemed to be stolen from a set for a David Lynch film, we kiddingly dubbed “The Portal to Hell.”

  My fifteenth birthday actually seemed like a portal to hell, as I was too self-conscious to have the fun I deserved. At the end of the night, I cried myself to sleep. I don’t introduce that downer point to depress, but to demonstrate my success as a host. Judging by the emotional intensity that parties tend to bring about, one party ending sourly out of countless held is a marvelous average. Yes, I am patting myself on the back.

  On my last birthday, before going to dinner with a small group of friends and my husband, I treated myself to a trip to our friendly, neighborhood psychic. I have been to a few psychics before, and I do believe that there are a few who are in touch with the ability that lies within all of us to intuit the universe. This woman was defiantly one of them. I sat down, clasped hands with her, and immediately she looked into my eyes and asked, “Do you know anyone named Nannar?” My jaw dropped. I was flooded with memories of my Nannar, the woman who had played with me and loved me so well untill her death, which resulted in my mom’s inheritance of her apartment. “Nannar’s purpose in the universe is to make sure all your ducks are in a row.” I had always thought that my ducks were suspiciously meticulous. That reunion of sorts with my Nannar was the best birthday present I have yet to receive.

  Tomorrow is my birthday. I enter my twenty third year with an amazing partner, two jobs to sustain me, a strong artistic vision, life goals and plans of action, good health, a cuddly cat, a supportive, beautifully complex and big family, funny and brilliant friends, and a Nannar to assure me that more good is on the way. I can’t even think of what to ask for my birthday. World peace and equality for all would be nice, but improbable. I am happy.

  Just like a kid whose birthday falls on a school night, I am going to be observing my birthday in party form next Friday. My best friend Bryan (click here for your formal introduction to my Bryan) will be in town from Detroit. Along with a group of my very awesome Chicago friends, we will be celebrating the day with a party I have dubbed, Dinner and a Cho. First we will be off to dinner at the yummy Mambo Grill (1/2 price Mojito special, ladies and gentleman!), before we will be whisked off to the Chicago Theater via the ever-so elegant Chicago public transit authority to see my political comrade and fellow feminist, the comedy superstar….MARGARET CHO! After that—we’ll see where the night will take us, but I’m sure it will have something to do with Karaoke, dancing, drag queens, or all of the above. Needless to say, I can’t wait.

  Tomorrow, my love and I will be attempting to bake an angel food cake of our own, and cooking up a mouthwatering pot of eggplant and sweet potato curry. I suspect that a present or two will be involved, and of course, the barrage of happy phone calls from my loving family. I look forward to thanking my mom in particular for the agonizing 23 hours her tiny, young frame spent birthing me, making my life and my beloved birthday possible.

  Last night my husband and I had a little birthday-ish celebration as well, cashing in on a free dinner cruise about the Chicago lakeshore that we won in a drawing while attending the ballet last winter. The night was spent laughing hysterically at the abundant corniness of the cruise wait staff and entertainment, boozing it up from their cheapest bottle of wine, and getting our groove on the dance floor. Like the good party people that we are, we danced non-stop from the first song to the last. I am a Brick House. I am Like a Virgin. And even though I was wearing brown and crème at the time, I am a Lady in Red.

  I am a lucky little Pisces, and come March 6th, I truly will be chicagoartgirl23.

  From left to right: Grandma, Mom, Baby Me, Nannar
  

  • 11:41 pm
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