how very lucky to be a girl

This story is mostly true. Up to the point of how I met my Mother-In-Law.  Not the part about meeting her, but the part that she would ever become my mother in-law.  Though stranger things have happened…

It was a hot summer weekend in New York City. Just like every other weekend had more or less been over the past month.  The concrete jungle inhaled the day’s heat only to exhale it with great force well into the night. There was no relief to be found outdoors. Inside, the comfort of air conditioning offered a respite, but I hardly wished to spend my summer nights indoors.  I jumped at the chance to visit a friend upstate, joining him at an art opening and then a party.

Apparently this party is held every year at a local couple, Don and Joan’s, place. Several thousand people populate their town, and the rumor is that all are invited to their modest house, which sits on about 4 or 5 acres of land.  I’m told Don spends his days leading up to the party in the town square inviting anyone who crosses his path. This makes the handmade entry sign reading, “Private Party. Invitation Only”, kind of hilarious.  I stand before the scrap of plywood with crude white paint.  I’d never met Don or Joan, and I’d been invited.  You probably were, too.

I walked along the long driveway leading to their property to find the party roaming freely throughout the grounds, which were divided north and south by a creek and joined by an arched wooden bridge.  The northeastern side of the lot housed a small handful of tents belonging to those who I imagine either came from afar or didn’t want to have to drive home later.  It was also home to the most enormous bonfire I’ve ever seen.  A few years back, I am told, the surrounding woods caught fire and had to be extinguished by the fire department.  Watching it roar wildly, I wouldn’t have been at all surprised to see that happen again.  Thankfully, it did not.

A permanent wooden stage had been built on the northwestern side, just across the bridge, overlooking the creek and facing the house which sat proudly atop a slight incline on the southwestern side of the property.  A most inviting deck wrapped its way around the house, sidled up next to the creek and looked out onto the stage and surrounding woods.  It stopped at a makeshift bar and the entrance to the house.

Don used to deal antiques. When he closed the shop, he took everything he hadn’t sold and put it in their home.  Entering their house was like slipping through a sinkhole and landing in a tastefully designed episode of Hoarders.   But unlike a hoarder’s, their home was magical.  And overwhelming.  There were 1960′s Mies chairs, steam punk sofas, ’70′s lucite side tables, neon signs, antlers, artwork both beautiful and godawful, a 1947 Seeburg Trashcan jukebox, strangely dressed mannequins, Native American artifacts, books.  Dozens of books.  This house held more than any eye could ingest.  Necessities, luxuries and oddities of all artistic influence and time periods filling every ounce of space from floor to ceiling in their home.  And the only way to navigate its halls was sideways.  There isn’t a movie prop stylist out there who wouldn’t die and go to heaven if they saw this place.  I worked my way through this antiquarian’s Arcadia in search of the hosts.  I found Joan.  Just like her home, she was larger than life and surrounded by a crowd.  I couldn’t work my way in to meet her.  It would have to wait.

In the meantime, I had a mission.  I’d recently been discarded by yet another internet paramour.  I wasn’t looking to meet Mr. Lucky Girl at an eccentric-laden upstate soiree three hours away from where I live, but I was going to meet as many new and interesting people as I could.  I would talk to anyone who would listen, and listen to anyone who would talk.  I was going to have fun and feel powerful, happy and alive.  I was going to discard the sad, broken-hearted bird and bring back the gregarious, vivacious girl.

I started with handsome John.  He stood, stunned, next to me in the living room of the house.  We all stood.  Because that was infinitely easier than finding any sort of clearing that lead to the seating.

Pretty incredible isn’t it?

Sure is.  I love that neon sign.

He nodded his head toward the overhead neon that read “The City Too Busy To Hate”.  Kind of like the house.  It hung next to a glowing bust statue atop a high shelf.  Off to the side was a huge mantel.  Hanging above it, on a wall that was otherwise empty, was an absolutely hideous post-card sized painting.  An oil portrait of a Native American Warrior.

Well, I love that.

He laughed.  Handsome John was even more handsome when he laughed.  Maybe I was going to meet Mr. Lucky Girl!  Maybe I’d just met him.  I asked if he was from around here.

We have a house here, but live in the city.  You?

“We” ?  Bummer.  Not Mr. Lucky Girl.  Still, he was pleasant to talk to.  We spoke for a while, uncovering the fact that not only were we both from the city but, in fact, lived across the street from one another!  He introduced me to Mrs. Handsome John.  Obviously, Pretty Jane.  I needed a drink.  I excused myself and worked my way, sideways, to the bar.

to be continued…

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