Not a single member of the family has both oars in the water. Miss Sasha’s bachelorette party plans to cruise the side of New Brunswick where I spent fifteen years at, under and behind the bar. Ordinarily, I’d say mine was a problem with prepositions but I might have to mame my drinking buddies for drooling on the beautiful girl who looks like a miniature, blond, girlie, smiling, youthful version of…okay, she looks nothing like me. If there were a resemblance, the barflies might figure it out and cower at the other end of the room. Geez, I know my friends. I would have Miss Sasha dusted for fingerprints Sunday morning if I hadn’t issued strict orders to the cousins that the group stay out of my local.
My kitchen looks like Mario Batali’s briefcase exploded in marinated mushroom and garlic breadstick shrapnel. Serving bowls and platters, squeaky clean, are stacked on even the smallest bit of surface space. Dad, via email, growls about the hour at which bread can be purchased, and why no one knows where to find a decent Italian bakery outside of New York and Philadelphia. Sisters #2 and #3 have remained calm, but #1 is going to have an aneurysm if I tell So-And-So that I know what happened with You-Know-Who, and #1 can’t be blamed because nobody would trust her and she’ll never tell me another secret if I blabb. If I don’t hem a pair of pants tonight, nobody’s going to say to me tomorrow, “She’s going to make a lovely bride.” No. They’ll say, “Tata, darling, you look lovely but, um, where are your pants?” and, “Blue’s not your best color, dear.” I hate to wish away twenty-eight hours of my life but I can’t wait to survey the wreckage of a rented hall, all the tulle a party of 30 could swing from and the ruins of meringues and vegetable kebabs and gasp, “I meant to do that…”
Oh God, I hate bridal showers.