Fields of Heather

I can tell you off the top of my head some of my shortcomings- I am terribly insensitive . I have a sense of humor that no one other than my immediate family may enjoy. I have the worst case of foot-in-mouth syndrome, along with the worst memory whatsoever. I am a horrible party-planner. There may be two months to get a cookout or wine-tasting together, but I will not have a single supply, spoon, or crudite until the day before. My in-laws are completely the opposite. They have every birthday down by heart, and coordinate weeks ahead on the who-brings-what by the fantastic Rand phone chain. They actually discuss at each birthday party what they are designated to bring at the NEXT party. I can't even think that far ahead, mostly because I'm too full (tipsy) to concentrate. After five years of trying to keep up with them, I have finally given up.

So it happens sunday that we are attending a 30th birthday for one of the Rands at the Firefighter's Hall in Brockton, and the first thing anyone can notice if the forementioned's wife, frenetically pacing by the grill, re-arranging sausage links and nervously sipping a beer with a look on her face that would indicate something has seriously gone wrong. And it has.

They need ice.

She swearing "jesus christ," waving a Motorola, and glaring at us as if we have purposefully brought the rain, melted all the ice, and drank her precious supply of shitty beer and white zin. I meekly smile and offer to run down the street for a few bags of ice, but am waved off quickly. This apparently would diffuse the drama. She prefers to scream into the phone to her sister as if the potato salad had suddenly gone bad, "We need four bags of ice! STAT! "

I know the only thing that would drive the Rands from a party would be a shortage of Budweiser (trust me, it happened at my wedding) so this really isn't such a big deal, and we all know she had this party planned down to every last single table confetti more than a week ago. So it cracks me up. I, on the other hand, have been known to shop at Costco for hamburgers and buns 30 minutes before my guests are due to arrive, and could give a s*#t if the food is served on the appropriate platters or squares of plywood. So I hereby appoint myself the worst, ever, hostess in the history of the Rand family. All in favor, say 'aye'.