Normally on this day my parents host their families to celebrate the year's birth. My mom makes pork for good luck, and collard greens and wax beans like my grandmother did when she hosted New Year's Day. There's spirits for the adults and gifts for the kids, and everyone is glad for the Mormon contingent in the Pope-pourri family because it's one less person to battle at the punch bowl.
I, myself, do not eat the collard greens and wax beans. I see no need for vegetables or legumes on New Year's Day. It's a party for Pete's sake. For 364 days a year I have to eat healthy if I want to see the next 364 days of eating healthy. I'm not eating fiber and manganese at a party. You're lucky I don't pull up a chair and stick my face in the punch bowl.
But this New Year's Day was different. My mom was only a month out from her near death experience. Expressly forbidden from hosting a party by, well, everyone, our New Year's celebration was in real danger of heading to the Archipelago of Last Years a la Happy the Baby New Year - wandering, lost, targeted by a deadly fowl.
So, yes. In this scenario, I am Rudolph. I chased down that New Year's Day party and hauled it's ass to my house. For five glorious hours, my family tramped in and out of my house with desserts, comraderie, and infamous Pope-pourri family tales.
And my mom brought collard greens and wax beans.
The party wore on, kids petered out, people went home. I tidied up, Husband shooed our children off to bed. Over salvaged good luck ham and Pilsbury biscuits, we toasted my family, my mom being well enough to bring the detested health food fare, the success of my first party as substitute matriarch - usually my mom's role. We cued up Homeland. Husband cracked open some beers. I heated up a lava cake.
That was when my brother texted me. Shortly, he and his kids would be heading to my house for the New Year's Day party.
The party that was now sitting in Ziploc bags in my fridge. The party that was now in the recycling bin in my garage. The party that I had just sent off to the Archipelago of Last Years.
I was faced with a choice. I could heat up some food for my brother and teenaged nieces, wrangle up some clean dishes somewhere, open my home for a few more hours.
Or I could check in on Carrie and Brody. Then maybe role play a little Carrie and Brody. If you're picking up what I'm dropping.
Listen, I'm not saying I did the right thing here. I'm just reporting the facts. And the facts are that I chose Clair Danes over Brother and Nieces. I wasn't proud, but I was happy. Punch goes a long way toward easing guilt.
The following week, my mom told me Brother was angry with me for my snub. But more importantly, my dad told me he was partied out. The stress of my mom's hospitalization, coupled with the immediate succession of the holidays, had worn him out. My mom's birthday is in February. My dad's is in March. Mine is in April. My dad wanted none of it.
Since my mom got sick, I have stepped in, occasionally, to fill her matriarchical role within the family. When she can't, for some reason, fulfill her duties, I cover for her. It's not a full-time gig. I'm more of a Biden to her Obama. Queen Elizabeth to her David Cameron. Thomas Cromwell to Her Henry VIII.
I just keep in mind that Henry beheaded Thomas.
Anyway, as Vice-Roy, I declared to the family that we would be celebrating no birthdays until Mother's Day. On Mother's Day, we celebrate Sister and SisterBeta's May birthdays. We would hold no special dinners like we usually do for my mom and dad. My birthday is usually grouped with Easter dinner, but in true matriarchal fashion, I put aside my own needs and looked straight to the girls' birthdays. I said nothing about my own birthday celebration at Easter. We would just reconnoiter in May for the girls.
Who, by the way, are adults.
I was hoping that everyone would see how very magnanimous I was being about my birthday. I thought that maybe everyone would realize that, unlike my parents, my birthday celebration falls on a day when we're together anyway. I hoped for (expected) my usual chocolate chip cookie cake. Some Starbucks gift cards. After all, I had hosted New Year's Day and basically saved my mom's life. Pretty much single-handedly.
But as Easter came closer, there was nary a whisper about my birthday. Husband asked if we would be celebrating my birthday at Easter dinner. I confessed that I was sure I had inadvertently swayed everyone away from acknowledging any birthday until May.
But when we arrived at Aunt's house on Easter Sunday, I could see two big stacks of cards on the coffee table. I smiled inwardly. My cookie cake was probably stashed somewhere in the kitchen, awaiting the completion of our Easter feast.
I casually inspected the stacks of cards. And discovered that none were addressed to me. One was a stack of Easter cards for all the children. One was a stack of sympathy cards for my parents for the recently deceased Lightning. No birthday cards.
 |
| Lightning still gets more attention than me? |
The scenario instantly brought me back to my twenty-fifth birthday. My now-deceased Great-Aunt, every year for twenty-five birthdays, had sent me a $2 - yes $2 - bill. As I opened my card for the twenty-fifth year, I had a little pep talk with myself. I was getting older. I was a professional now, with a salary and car payments. Someday in the future, Great-Aunt would stop sending me $2.
So yeah, that day wasn't as far in the future as I thought.
I would have protested the Easter oversight, but we usually celebrate Uncle's birthday on Easter too, and he was keeping mum. So I had to as well.
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| Happy Birthday to me, Happy birthday to me.... |
Do you think they forgot? Husband asked.
I dismissed the notion. It was, I said, nearly three weeks until my birthday. It was really too soon to expect anything. Plus, I'm everyone's favorite. Who wouldn't want to acknowledge my birthday?
But three weeks later, on my actual birthday, hour after hour rolled by without any contact from my parents. I vacillated between the possibility they forgot and the possibility they may be dead. What is the etiquette here? Does one call to ask A) are you alive and B) have you forgotten my birthday? Or does one just call, verify parental existence, then say goodnight?
Finally, at nine-thirty that night, my parents called. They sang "Happy Birthday".
Are you guys OK? I asked.
As it turns out, not only had they been running around all day, but the evening before had been even worse.
Not wanting to know, but asking anyway, I waited on tenterhooks for the answer.
My mom had gone to a meeting in New Jersey. In a reprisal of our North Carolina trip, she had gone south in New Jersey to get home to Philadelphia.
I donned my Vice-Roy hat. I grilled my mom about the event. She had forgotten her phone. No GPS. No way to call my dad, the ex-Greyhound driver who can get anywhere. I lectured my mom. Home is never south or east unless you're in New England or Ohio. I told her I was buying her a GPS.
"Good talk?" Husband cracked when I hung up.
I think I liked it better when I thought they forgot.
Now Brother - he of the New Year's Day ire - did not acknowledge my birthday at all. It's OK. I still have Carrie and Brody.
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| Hold onto that birthday cash, sister. |
Two days later, I had breakfast with my parents. They arrived laden with - yes- birthday cards for me. As I sat down, my mom told me she had read my blog that week about Hurricane Irene, and while she was loathe to inhibit my creativity, she had to know if my telling was, in fact, the way I remembered the events of that trip.
Because I was wrong.
Once I'd been sufficiently reprimanded, I ordered a hot tea.
My mom was flabbergasted. You don't drink hot tea, she said. My dad had tried to order me a tea and my mom had stopped him. He had pointed out to her that I always get hot tea when he and I have breakfast. My mom had told him he was wrong. Because I don't drink hot tea.
My dad doesn't go to Starbucks. When we meet, I give myself over to the experience. There's no Starbucks in the diner. I get hot tea.
With that out of the way, I told a story about Daughter copping an attitude with me earlier that week. My mom remarked that Daughter, age 10, was certainly hormonal and did she have breast buds yet?
I glanced at my dad. Sometimes, I think he's glad he can't hear well.
After that, our conversation somehow turned to a family member I'll call Relative. Relative is somewhat known for - shall we say - sowing oats. And Relative, my mom pointed out, had a job that made sowing oats very easy.
Who, my dad wanted to know, is this?
Your Relative, my mom said. And, she continued, my dad's father had always said not to poop in your own backyard. And Relative had certainly pooped in his own backyard. Or, my mom said, whatever it was my grandfather used to say.
I asked if I could have a different birthday breakfast next year.
All in all, it was still a good birthday. I learned that -no matter how much I pretend otherwise - my mom is still the matriarch.
I like it that way.
I'm still too self-centered and juvenile to watch out for everyone. I still want a cookie cake and cards at Easter.
I don't want talk of my daughter's impending puberty or my relative's promiscuity. I want hot tea, my mom and dad fawning over me, and ignorance of the role I may someday assume full-time.
But you can still call me Vice-Roy. And my birthday is April 13th. Just in case you want to buy me something next year.
The Binge
Star Trek Beyond will be in theaters July 22nd. Perhaps you are like Husband. Perhaps your loved one is, like me, living for this moment and this moment alone. Perhaps you may be forced to go see Star Trek Beyond with said loved one.
If that's the case, I've prepared a primer on the Star Trek Universe for you. You do not need to view every Star Trek incarnation ever filmed. Just stick to my primer. You have three months to study. And for those already steeped in Star Trek lore, stick around for a recommendation you may not be aware of but will love almost as much as you love July 22nd.
Star Trek. This is The Original Series - your Trekkie may refer to it as "TOS". JJ Abrams is the man behind the curtain for the new crop of Star Trek films ("reboots" in Trekkie parlance). JJ references TOS a lot. You will get way more jokes if you are familiar with TOS. TOS is on Netflix.
Star Trek The Next Generation. This is the second Star Trek series. Think of it as reinforcement of what you learned by watching TOS. Remember in how, in school, you used to get a lesson in class, then have to do a homework assignment on the same lesson? Same thing. Plus, The Big Bang Theory will suddenly make way more sense to you. TNG (again, Trek vocab) is on Netflix and Amazon.
Star Trek II: The Wrath of Kahn. This is the second film with TOS cast members (Shatner et al). Perhaps the best Star Trek movie of all, and maybe one of the best movies ever (yes, I've seen The Godfather. And Gone With the Wind. Neither has Ricardo Montalban). Knowledge of TOS aids your enjoyment of this cinematic masterpiece. It's also helpful to know about the love square that is Kirk, Spock, Carol Marcus, and Kahn. "Kahn", as it's called in Trek-speak, is on Netflix and Amazon.
Star Trek IV: The Voyage Home and Star Trek VI: The Undiscovered Country. These are the fourth and sixth films, respectively and obviously, with TOS cast members. You need to understand about time travel in the Trek-verse and you need to know exactly how bad our relations are with the Klingons. I say "our relations" because you don't know what the Federation is yet. You will! You'll also probably appreciate a few more jokes on any Seth MacFarlane show. Netflix and Amazon.
Star Trek: First Contact. This is one of the films with TNG cast members. It is the only one worth watching, and it provides critical background on warp speed. Amazon.
Star Trek and Star Trek Into Darkness. Ready to practice some of your newfound Trek knowledge? These are the first two reboots (remember?) that are directed by....JJ Abrams. (Very good!). They are spectacular - a close second to Kahn (come on, you know this one!). Darkness stars Benedict Cumberbatch. How can you not love Benedict Cumberbatch? He is probably the only thing that will keep me going once William Shatner and Harrison Ford die. And if none of that is appealing to you, you get to see Alice Eve in her underwear. Black underwear. Amazon.
The Captains. In this documentary by William Shatner, Shatner interviews everyone who has portrayed a captain in the Trek Universe, up to and including the yummy Chris Pine. He even tosses in Christopher Plummer, who technically is not a captain but is a cinematic legend and huge Trekkie. The documentary is amazingly well done - the story of how Patrick Stewart and William Shatner became friends makes it worth watching. It was a major oversight on my part to not include them in either of my documentary binge recommendations. Amazon.
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