24-Hour Party People

Baby Sister elopes and she gets not one, not two, but three receptions (of sorts).

And after all the shit she's been through, and to celebrate the happiness and new lease on life that she found and created, she's deserving of more.

So party #2 was at my parents' place last Saturday. Mum pretty much made everything and even found time to decorate with tulle and white flowers. Mum served pastizzi. The universe appeared to be in order.

I was going to make vegetables but was told, at the last minute, not to bother because there was going to be too much food. So I came over early, helped prep, and did my best to act as associate hostess/garbage collector/Mum's lackey.

A few of, er, I used to call him The Boyfriend. Now what? Let's call him Home Chef. Okay, a few of Home Chef's aunts and uncles came, along with his super nice parents. Two of Baby Sister's oldest friends came as well, which it's always great because they're so fun and warm. But, by far, the party was made up of my relatives, and lots of them.

Many people from both my father's side and my mother's side came. And they stayed! A few of my cousins come to family gatherings for a couple of hours and then leave early, but my mother was thrilled that everyone stuck around and seemed to be really enjoying themselves. The good thing is that there's history between my maternal and paternal families (no, my parents aren't cousins; that's not why I'm weird), so everyone gets along. Though they may only get together like this once in a decade, it's still very friendly. It also helps that my family (both sides) are 24-hour party people. And I mean that in the best sense.

One of the coolest things that has evolved is that the newest generation, mine and my cousin's kids, just fall in together. Some of these kids never see each other, but you'd never had known if you saw how they played last Saturday.

And there's lots of relatives. My dad is the fourth child of eight, and my mum is the second-born in a similarly relentless Catholic family. Still, we all came home with doggy bags of food.

Of course, some things didn't go as planned. I had hoped to do some party games. I even had prizes for the brave souls who wanted to participate in my Newlywed and Not-So-Newlywed Game, but I couldn't really see a break in the party to rev the sucker up. Mum had me set up all the appies in the living room but the party was obviously going on outside at that point, so I moved everything out there after a while. Mum also set up a nursing room for my cousin J but she's breastfeeding her second kid. All shred of dignity leaves women long before that second kid pops out, let me tell you. No, J nursed where the party is. I'm sure she's also at the point where she's thirsting for adult conversation. Ah, yes. I know it well...

Where these were just little blips and really not even the slightest deal, the fucking elephant in the room was my mother's black-hearted brother. He wasn't invited but he came because no one else could drive my grandmother. Mum knows quite well my feelings for this bottom-feeder, so she told me of his attendance a few days before.

"Don't expect me to even so much as make eye contact with the scum-sucker."

"I wouldn't dream of it, darling."

"And don't force my kids to be all nicey-nicey with him, either. He lost that privilege."

"Don't worry. I won't be drunk that day."

Oh, you may be thinking, "Jen, c'mon. How bad can this guy be?" Well, let's just paint the picture with the very first thing he did when he walked in the door and if it isn't enough to make you even THINK that there may be one brick short of a load in that pea brain of his, correct me.

Again, he came in and went into the kitchen where Baby Sister and Home Chef were. I discretely backed off giving him the familial hugs and kisses. If I want a disease, I'll go somewhere exciting like Africa ... or Halifax. Anyway, the guy shakes Home Chef's hand and says, "Uh, hello, er, (insert Middle Sister's husband's name here). So! You're number two, eh?"

Home Chef's eyes widened. Baby Sister turned her heels and walked out. I stood there ready to remove the fucker's vocal chords with a potato peeler.

Seriously. Okay, you got Home Chef's name wrong. Fine. You probably haven't met Middle Sister's husband either. But is the only thing you could say to Home Chef is, "You're number two"? What did you really mean?

"So! You're next in line, eh?"

"So! You bought a used car, eh?"

"So! I have the social graces of a crazed, homeless junkie with the farts, eh?"

I can only hope to God that he crawls back under that rock he came from and then we don't have to see him again until the next solar eclipse. Or ever.

But the rest of my family? I can't wait until the next time. Honest.