This is an almost fabulous ensemble for a Midsummer’s Eve fete, which reminds me I say I’m going to host one every year. If you’re ready to send out invites, this year’s summer solstice falls on Friday, June 21st. It’s a perfect holiday to hang twinkly lights and wear all white without feeling cheap.
Sadly this party never makes my calendar because between May 25th and June 25th I’m solely focused on the metric shit-ton of planning necessary to execute the royal birthday celebration for the tiny princess. This always occurs on the Saturday closest to June 25th. Countless dollars and hours are spent organizing, negotiating and managing a once-in-a-lifetime party that happens every year, for a human who couldn’t exist alone for more than 10 hours.
The other obstacle that thwarts my midsummer’s eve party is Father’s Day, which typically falls right between my birthday, and the birthday of the future heir to nothing. This is a significant holiday, but requires less planning. Maybe a half-metric turd-ton? But we still go to great lengths to celebrate, because Anna’s dad is really awesome even though he didn’t want to have sex with me except for that one time.
Also, thinking of planning a third party, with the Memorial Day party just one day away, made the bile back up in my throat. So I stopped to ask myself: what would happen if I didn’t make my life tv-ready for the month of June? What if I wasn’t the busiest person in the county that month?
I would be sad that heroin ate my dad’s liver and he’s not here anymore.
Turns out June is a 30-day emotional volcano I pour freezing water over when no one’s looking. My guts feel like smoldering black rock by July 1st, and I robotically turn my attention to another party-planning extravaganza, lunging at my guests with pork products to honor the half-truths in our nation’s history books for the 4th of July. Hooray!
Obviously I’ve neatly avoided dealing with my dads’ death.
I’ve fantasized about having that spectacular Steel Magnolias funeral-scene-breakdown, but I think only Sally Field and a crew of 78 people can pull that off.
I just plan more parties, serve too much food, and stand at the sink washing my hands over and over. It’s my way of politely wringing my hands without anyone noticing I’m collapsing under my smile. Tangerine soap is my favorite. It reminds me to forget the smell of hospital halls and despair.
Being human molten lava isn’t cute. Neither is overcommitting myself every June to outrun the heartbreak monster.
I finally chose to experience my deepest loss rather than face another shitshow June, and I had the full Sally Field experience. With more snot, and no make-up person.
I hated it, but it didn’t kill me.
Now that I don’t have to fill every minute of June fussing over unnecessary details, Anna’s party is going to be the best one yet. We’re getting a grocery store birthday cake and ice cream, and hanging out at the pool with seven little girls. No Eloise gift boxes shipped from The Plaza in New York, no WEDDING cakes with edible pearls (not kidding). Just no. I’m going to have fun celebrating a milestone with my girl – the last year her age will be a single digit.
I’m also going to host that Midsummers eve’s party – by sprinkling my dad’s ashes under the stars and telling him, “you kicked ASS while you were here. I miss you every day. And it’s totally okay.”