A Silly New Year's Tale

...At Least I Have 800 MG Ibuprofens

When I was a reporter in Louisiana I once asked my hard-drinking editor (seriously, put me to shame) what he was doing for New Year’s Eve.

He looked up, scowled, and said “Amateur night? We stay home.”

That is advice I have taken to heart since, especially because my birthday is January 2.

The worst – the absolute worst – day to be born.

As a kid, the calendar worked out that from first to fifth grade, it was the day we went back to school.

Grr.

The date also gave my cheap relatives the opportunity to give “combination presents” – yup, its proximity to Christmas somehow justified one box of Legos instead of two.

Bastards.

And as a grown-up, it’s the day everyone goes back to work, so that’s no fun.

Obviously, when little I could not have a birthday party – a dozen or so neighborhood friends and fellow hockey players – on my actual birthday. I assume it could have been done on the First but even at that early age I understood that having a dozen screaming kids over while fighting pounding hangovers was too much of an ask of one’s parents.

So the party would have to be a week before or a week after or whatever – as long as I got ice cream cake, that was not that big a deal – except once, when scandal occurred.

We had dogs and horses (and cats, um, ish - the less said about them the better) and the dogs were not fixed. Buffy (really) the girl dalmatian happened to go into heat around the beginning of each year. Beaver, the golden retriever (by the way the smartest dog ever and leader of the neighborhood house pet pack which he would take hunting in the game preserve beyond the horse paddock – really, deer were brought down) was relatively free with the affections of his wife. When Buffy had spring puppies, we could pretty much be sure one would be jet black and we would bring that one to the owners of the black lab down the street, etc.

That being said, he would make sure he, um, got his own…

Knowing Buffy had gone into heat and a bunch of kids were on their way, my mother kept Beaver inside and put Buffy out on the deck and all seemed okay.

And then all us kids were sitting at the kitchen table eating ice cream cake and one looked out the big window on to the deck and saw…Buffy and Beaver, in flagrante delicto.

On top of the picnic table – quite a balancing act.

I think we were all about eight years old.

I was kinda used to it (at least twice a year for them, plus the other animals) to forces of nature, but the other kids?

Beaver had been kept inside for the party, but became more and more insistent about being let out as the time passed. So my father let him out and, of course, reproductive hilarity ensured.

Mother was irked/mortified that my friends were being given a free sex show and demanded my father try to separate them.

While we lived in the exurbs, my father was not naturally a, um, country person. Brooklyn born and bred, he was city through and through so I do not think it occurred to him that once dogs are actually doing it that separating them is more than a challenge – it’s impossible until everything’s, um, done.

They also get rather irritated by any attempt, especially when it involves being doused with water.

Again, through the kitchen window, hilarity ensued.

So anyway, the kids – not sworn to silence, wouldn’t have mattered anyway - were picked up by their parents after the party and thank God cell phones didn’t exist then so my mother had at least about 10 minutes until each of the other mothers called to inquire about what the HELL HAD JUST HAPPENED?!? at the birthday party.

Dogs will be dogs, um, at least it wasn’t the horses, um, sorry, sorry, I blame my husband.

And blame him she did – what were you thinking, letting Beaver out?!? You knew Buffy was in heat?!?

And the very Irish-Catholic city boy just looked at her and said “I didn’t think they would do anything in front to the kids.”

And he was serious. Actually truly honestly serious.

And my mother just stopped, mid-rant, and stared at him and realized that he really meant it – he really didn’t think they would do that in front of the kids. She just giggled and turned around.

Oddly enough, my future birthday parties become the ticket of the season…actually no, but at least two mothers mentioned the incident when I was over at a friend’s house months later,

Anyhoo, if went out for amateur night and are feeling a bit rough, I have the best recipe ever for a Bloody Mary – psych, I’m taking that to my early grave; BTW, the NY Times food critic said (unofficially) it was best he ever had.

Of course, if you happen to know anyone in the mixer business, have them shoot me an email.

Happy New Year!!!