Party Princess

It is important that I share the great as well as the devastating, so that a true picture is painted. As my friend Sarah commented in the last post, the greatest love breeds the deepest grief. Anyone who met my mother was instantly in love with her outgoing sunny personality, her gorgeous smile, and her insane sense of humour. If anyone lit up a room, it was my mother. Losing her was like the sun had just fizzled out.

There was always a great deal of hilarity that ensued with my mother. I don’t even think there are words to really describe how pee-in-your-pants funny my Mom was, because those words don’t exist in our lexicon.

Of course as a teenager, I definitely didn’t think she was so funny. Now 20 years later, I appreciate the genius of her sense of play and mischief.

When I was a few weeks shy of my 16^th birthday, I begged my mother for a Sweet Sixteen party. And by beg, I mean: “Mom you’re horrible if you don’t make me a party and I will hate you forever, and everyone else is having one so why can’t I have one, you’re so mean if you tell me I can’t have a party.”

I was a very reasonable teenager.

Wonderful and tolerant woman that she was, my Mother humoured me and confirmed she would make me a party. I was allowed to invite 5 friends over for my birthday dinner. Anyone who knows me knows I immediately negotiated. I wanted 8 friends, AND I wanted to have music. She rolled her eyes and agreed. I was a really tough customer.

As an aside, I think that was a pretty fair negotiation. I’m pretty sure if I was turning 16 tomorrow, the ask would be for 400 friends, a plethora of Cirque du Soleil acrobats hanging from the ceiling, and a red velvet cake the size of Iowa.

I dreamed about my party. I talked about it every day for 2 weeks. I drove my family crazy. On the day of the party, I helped my Mom put up balloons. I was so excited and couldn’t sit still. An hour before the guests were to arrive I went to look at the table. And that’s when the shit hit the fan.

What 16 year old Amy should have said: “Mom! That looks awesome! You’re the greatest!”

What 16 year old Amy actually said: “Those napkins are ugly. I want the special occasion napkins.”

My mother looked at me. I looked at her. It was a stand-off, and I was determined to win. After a lethal staring contest, she acquiesced and said: “Okay, you can have the special occasion napkins.”

I walked out of the room so proud of myself that I hardly noticed the emphasis she had put on the word SPECIAL.

Soon, the doorbell began to ring, and my friends were ushered in. I was so excited to see my friends that I didn’t once think of the table.  We all walked into the kitchen for dinner, and that’s when I saw what would be humiliatingly etched in my mind forever:

On the table, which was perfectly set, were “special occasion” napkins indeed. Maxi Pads. Always brand Maxi-Pads. Huge, thick, cottony sanitary napkins. She had carefully un-wrapped each pad, peeled off the paper backings, and stuck them firmly to the table, in place of a regular napkin. Each place setting had one, with a fork and knife carefully placed on top.

Naturally I freaked right out.

My mother, laughing at the prank she had just played on her obnoxious child, smirked and said: “Oh, aren’t those the special occasion napkins you wanted?”

It was clear to me in that moment that my mother was the master of practical jokes and searing wit - and I should know better than to mess with her ever again.