Sunday Scribblings, "Celebrate"

The prompt over at Sunday Scribblings is Celebrate.

It’s Not A Party Until Somebody Gets Hurt

It’s my 75th birthday.
I know my family has gone all-out for the celebration, I’m a little deaf, but not senile, at least not yet anyway. They talk around me like I am, but I guess I don’t mind.
There won’t be a surprise party – no coming home and having a house full of people jump out from the shadows and my heart giving out and I drop like a stone to the floor – this much I know. The triple bypass was years ago, and they still treat me like a child on the titty.
I agree to wear the shirt they got me for the occasion, a gaudy Hawaiian number that I guess is supposed to bring back fond memories of my Navy days with the Pacific Fleet.
I draw the line on the paper party hat, glitter-covered dunce cap, you ask me.
There’s Champagne, the real stuff, since I sprung for it. Of course, we’re drinking it from paper cups with stars and what? -comets on them.
The shindig is catered by the local supermarket, which isn’t so bad, really. Fried chicken, mashed potatoes (reconstituted from flakes, looks like), rolls, a fruit salad that slowly congealed into paste.
I settle into my favorite chair and await the presents, the new underwear and undershirts, the handkerchiefs (please God, no more ties), the ugly shirts, the fruit-of-the-month gift certificate and all the other plastic squares, those gift card things, from people too uninspired (when really what I’d like is a bottle of Johnny Walker Black and a couple of Cubans, hell, Dominicans in a pinch – but they never ask).
And my younger daughter bursts in (the black sheep, our little fuck-up, bless her), late (as usual) begs forgiveness, gives me a big wet one on the cheek and immediately finds a Champagne bottle and takes long, slow pull. My other daughters immediately surround her, push her into the kitchen. Then, low murmurs, accusations, tears.
“Daddy, Christine would like us to do the cake first,” says Claire, the oldest, smoothing out her silk blouse (and frowning).
“Pops, I outdid myself, really,” Chrissy says. “Wait here - Jimmy!”
And some guy in a leather biker outfit pushes this gigantic, three-tiered monstrosity in from the French doors. With a small propane torch, Mr. Scruffy lights a series of silvery sparklers, filling the room with hot embers and thick, acrid smoke.
And out jumps a scantily-clad woman – a scantily-clad mature woman – who looks a little like Lana Turner (if you squint, maybe; and I knew Lana, as that sweet blond bombshell got me through several long nights at sea).
This artificial substitute (a poor one at that), starts to gyrate as much as the obvious artificial hip will allow and with a flourish, she undoes the lacy bra with the scarlet tassels.
And her tits cascade down her chest landed on her stretch-marked-scarred belly (maybe I just imagined the thud).
Everyone stares in horrified silence.
Until Claire walks up, quietly hands the dancer her husband’s suit jacket and with both hands on her hips, and hisses:
“Jesus, Christine!”
“What? Lana Turner Right? Daddy, am I right?” Chrissy bawls. “You know how hard it is to find anyone who even knows who that is? I mean, chrissakes, Claire, it's daddy's birthday!”


A Girl Named Me said...

Funny. Well-written.

I like the description of the younger daughter "the black sheep, out little fuck-up, bless her"


rebecca said...

Funny. It's scary getting old, isn't it?

Dee Martin said...

Oh my gawd - this had me rolling. I could picture the whole thing - I love it!! I think it made my mother laugh and she's long dead for heaven's sake.

Jennifer Hicks said...

wellll done! I'm grinning ear to ear. I was there the whole had me. Great job!

Tumblewords: said...

This has to be true. Maybe not today, but... Laughing AND holding back tears! I know the 'black sheep', she may be me!

Tammy said...

OMG That is the funniest birthday story ever! I sure hope that was fiction. lol

Jay said...

Hahaha! I love it - very funny!

And sadly true that many kids don't really know their parents that well. We try, we really do - but the generation gap often blocks us from really knowing them.

For my Mum's 80th, we hired a hall and invited the relatives, got someone nice in to cater, and left the music to my brother. He booked a disco. Let's just say there was no conversation. None of the aged ones could hear a damn thing! LOL!

Anonymous said...

wasnt reading mcuh blogs off late .. been buy ! this one was so refreshing !!