September 25, 2006

• Matchmaking
  I was in the ninth grade when I had my fifteenth birthday party. That March, I had two wildly entertaining crushes on two separate schoolboys: one on a tall, lanky, blonde guitarist in a black leather jacket and another on a dark, pool-eyed writer who wore a brown leather jacket. Both schoolboys came to that birthday party, their presence gifted to me by a snarl-haired, grubby-mitted acquaintance (we’ll call her Jane) whose true motive in bringing them was not to strengthen a relationship with me, a fellow alto in 5th period choir, but rather to use my party (which she undoubtedly hyped to get them to attend) as an opportunity to savor time alone with these cute art-boys, holding them hostage in her car on the dark, wet ride over. Imagine them wincing quietly, turning their faces to the rain-beaded passenger windows as she massacres a Cure song, singing the wrong words off-key:

  Whhhhyyy, can’t I-hi-hi-hi be yoooouuuu?
  Cringe.

  For the party, I wore a light blue baby-T and torn jeans. My hair was in a pony, with a touch of fringe, and my face shone with the unrelenting oil slick of adolescence. My braces flashed in the warm lamplight of my family’s living room: a jagged silver trap. Before the annoying acquaintance came with boys in tow, my small, wire-framed glasses reflected the faces of my few friends: Brian, my best boy-pal; Ellen, my fellow sardonic Amazon; Keith, the pout-lipped tenor who I befriended under the pretense that he was a she; Yumiko the exchange student; and Lindsay the midget. I had invited many others from school, but was not entirely surprised when only a very small turn out attended the party of an outspoken, bizarrely humored, metal-headed giant such as myself.

  The knock on the front door came just as we were seeing who could cram the most pretzels into their mouth at once; Keith was wearing a purple skirt of mine, as he’d split his seams doing the splits in our kitchen a half-an-hour earlier. We’d added a touch of lipstick to his face, just to make sure all was well matched. Galloping to the door like a wounded ape, I was sure that I would find the pizza delivery boy on the other side. I was surprised when it was not.

  “Jane! You came!”
  “And I brought boys!”

  Jane was the type of person who no one particularly liked, but for some reason (most likely her unrelenting nosiness), she was good at matchmaking, connecting others to both new friendships and romance. It was her one true gift and no matter how annoying she could be, everyone not only stomached her, but also appreciated her for this gift on a far deeper level. I blushed to see Eric and Shaun crowding the small front landing, leather jacket-clad, nodding their hellos. I wiped pretzel crumbs from my face, “We were just…”
  “…Listening to music.” Keith to the rescue.

  The night continued: games of truth or dare that always held too many “I-dare-you-to-drink-a relish-milk-and-bullion-cube-cocktail’s” and not enough “I-dare-you-to-kiss-the-birthday-girl’s.” Luckily, the much-crushed on schoolboys were nice about all of this. Especially the brown leather jacked one, Shaun.

  As I got older, my parties grew grander. The following year, at my sixteenth birthday party, I sang along with friends to Luscious Jackson CDs with all of the old friends and a few newer friends we’d made along the way, including my very own brown-leather jacket-wearing boyfriend. My old pals and boyfriend were still along for the ride during my eighteenth birthday party, which swelled with even more new friends – it was a full house, that’s for sure. I was still the bizarrely humored giant that I was born to be, but the people at school just eventually got used to it.

  Sprawling on the couch last Thursday evening, waiting to see who would arrive, I thought of these birthday parties, these faraway March nights because on Tuesday evening, Shaun and I dropped invitations into everyone’s mail slots:

  Have a drink with us!
  Shaun and Truly (flat 2/2) just moved in Friday from Chicago and are eager to meet their new neighbors! Please stop by anytime Thursday evening after 7 pm for a drink and some friendly conversation. Hope to see you there!

  We got a number of notes and one cute little thank-you card with butterflies on it stuck in our mail slot on Wednesday and Thursday, telling us “thanks, but we are unable to attend.” One neighbor, a smiley, blonde, pixie-type named Sam, knocked on our door to personally thank us for the invite (although she was unable to attend). Sam stuck around for a bit and with her authentic Glaswegian accent, taught us how to use our Scottish heating system (the dial is kind of weird to use if you aren’t used to it).

  As for the party Thursday night, our baby-fridge was stocked with Tennants, Strongbow, and McEwans Export. 7 pm ticked by quietly. And 7:30; 8:00. Shaun and I decided that even if no one came to the party, we could declare it a success since the invites alone let us meet Sam and get fun little notes through our mail slot. I mean, in the States if a complete stranger invites you over to a party and you can’t make it, you wouldn’t really RSVP; you’d just skip it and go along your merry way. But the people here are nice and we talked about that and munched lime chips and sampled our beer selection. We laughed as we tried to read the newspaper aloud in Scottish accents (I can only do one if I impersonate the mom from the movie, So I Married an Axe Murderer). We played music and danced around like goof balls.

  And then there was a knock on the door.
  “Did you order a pizza?”

  Nope. It was neighbors! We got to know a quiet, willowy violinist (Emily?) who lives below us and another, pleasantly boisterous neighbor (Sara?) who is in the process of moving down the street to live with her boyfriend.

  The conversation was great – my bizarre sense of humor tends to go over better with adults than it ever did with teenagers. We talked about travel and puffins and work and Germany and speaking Spanish and writing and television shows (apparently the Britt-com Chewing the Fat, available on DVD, is supposed to take place in Glasgow), and all sorts of things. Shaun and I got helpful tips about stuff like who the cheap Internet providers are, various Scottish islands to visit, and who has the best curry (Mother India across from the Kalvingrove Museum).

  Apparently, our building does not board students exclusively, which makes sense since it is a block-large tenement house. The University is our landlord, but they don’t own the building, only our flat. According to Emily and Sara, Shaun is the only university student in our portion of the building. The rest are young couples, one middle-aged woman who looks after her ailing mother, and a sweet old lady.

  As time goes on and we meet more people, I’m sure our parties will grow larger and a social life will be born. But as of now, our social life is still in zygote stage; only a handful of the especially brave, especially good will attend our soriees. If we are smart, we’ll keep inviting these good sports back. If we are lucky, they will come with new friends and refreshments in tow. And the most important thing for us to remember: if we are charmed enough to meet a true matchmaker, we’ll treat them well no matter how often they may sing off-key.
  ________________________________________________________________________________________
  How do you make friends?

  ::Random Tangent::
  For those of you who are interested, Shaun wrote a little blog on The Lochness Blog. It is below this one.

  In other news, I was invited to a job interview on Friday. But it was heinous. First, I passed the restaurant and the entire front of the place had fake-me-out Archibald Motley, Jr. style paintings on it, and as if plagiarizing art weren’t bad enough, instead of painting dancing black people, the people were all WHITE! (For the full effect, click here to see Motley’s work and imagine the painting with all white people.) While I’m not entirely convinced the Glaswegians who operate this restaurant have any idea how racist and slanderous what they’ve done is, I know. And I wouldn’t feel right marketing such a thing. As if white Americans haven’t took enough from blacks in the jazz age: now we’ve robbed them of their art and culture, too! Yikes.

  Also, I start driving lessons on Wednesday to learn to drive a stick. Wish me luck!

  • 8:58 am
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