When I posted the photos of Sarah's party, Jeremiah noted that we'd managed not to get any of Grammy Margie. This, I'm pretty sure, is because she'd shied away from the tattoo station in the kitchen and couldn't be found by the beer coolers. You see, in most cases, we were not the ones taking the pictures. There were only about 11 kids there but there were probably 25 adults on hand and the place was kind of rowdy. I'm pleasantly surprised the camera emerged unscathed.
The party was scheduled from 4-6PM. I thought this made such wonderful sense. We'd have munchies, feed everyone an early dinner and then all the kids could go home, unwind and get into bed at a decent hour. When you're talking about a 2-hour party, people do not arrive fashionably late, but the coals were taking forever to heat up and our dog and burger making machine (Jeremiah) couldn't spring into action until the grill was suitably hot. So, things were delayed. No one cared. I'd made hummus and salsa and we had lots of fruits and veggies and chips and whatever to hold us over. Once the meat was served up, everyone crammed their dinner in as fast as they could in order to get to the cupcake part of the evening. The whole thing wound down around 7:30. The house was amusingly trashed. Balloons everywhere, wrapping paper, a huge pile of gifts that Sarah had not yet been convinced to open, food, the little clear pieces of plastic that covered each tattoo clinging with static to any available surface (I'm still finding those)...
At that point Margie, Jeremiah, Steve, Joy and I all sat around the kitchen table, polishing off a couple bottles of wine and chatting. Kate & Sarah passed out hard, pretty much right on cue. The next morning, still tattooed (except for Kate, whose battle with eczema has escalated to full-blown war, more on this later), we oozed over to Parish (Yum, so very yum. The link has music, be warned) for brunch. HERE, we managed to get pictures of Grammy Margie. Here's what you do at Parish, when you're waiting for the main restaurant to open: eat (my kinda place!)
Upstairs in the restaurant (which, if you live near-by, you really should try; the food is wonderful. I have developed a habit of stopping into the market on my way to work for a latte and croissant. I often take a different route to work to be able to avoid doing this. I'm going to put this out here, though: their croissants are the best in the city. There. I said it.) where was I? Oh yeah, up in the restaurant there's a life-size statue of a man and woman in the buff. I was walking a restless Sarah around and she pointed to the art and said, loudly, "she has boobs!" I said "yes, she's a statue" as audibly as possible so that none of the other guests would think my 2-year-old was commenting on her rack. So anyway. It's a week later. Margie's gone home (Kate keeps asking why she went so far away) and the party guests have long since moved on. The house is still kind of trashed. We really need a maid.
*The 25th is Grampy Provost's birthday. By the time that date rolled around 2 years ago, Sarah was 2 days past her due date. Grampy Provost decided this meant she was planning to be born on his birthday. When she held off another day, he informed me he was writing her out of the will. I was upset about it, too, but mostly because I desperately wanted that kid out of me.
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