Life on Ganymede

The incidents of self-awareness -- moments in which one is privvy to how others see her, and may either be either mortified, satisfied, or galvanized to change that image -- are thick and fast in life. But only at a certain level of maturity or readiness are we in a position to make such an incident meaningful or pivotal to change.

I had such a moment recently. The surrounding circumstances are intricate and funny (to me). But I think it goes back to another incident that happened about 8 years ago, when my sisters and aunts were assembling for an outing to the symphony. Someone asked, "Who's driving?" and one of my sisters answered, "Colleen." In less than a heartbeat, several of my sisters and aunts started laughing and one said, "Colleen? No way."

It turns out that it was my Aunt Colleen who was driving. But the laughter and scoffing answer stayed with me for hours -- days -- afterward. It wasn't that I am a horrible driver. Well, I am a nervous driver and I don't particularly like it. But the scoffing was directed toward the fact that I never drive, I never pull my weight and take my turn at the task of driving. And by their laughter, everyone clearly knew this about me. I did not carry my weight and shoulder my responsibilities.

I did not want that legacy. So since that night, I definitely drive -- probably more than my fair share (making up for lost time) -- when we all go out. For me, this means absolutely no drinking or any other funny business. Do you know what a drunk driving arrest costs -- and not just in terms of dollars? It falls under the heading of Unacceptable Losses. No. Just...no.

So for the past several years, there have been quite a few rock concerts, parties, birthdays, etc. that I have taken straight, just so I can sit behind the wheel and convey my loved ones home safely. As I said, I am making up for lost time.

So on the occasion of my oldest sister's birthday party, I was driving and not drinking. I was driving my other sister Ophelia, my brother's longtime girlfriend Susan, and myself to a Girl's Night at one of Desdemona's friends' homes in the hills east of my town. Two lane highway. Gnarly, precarious parking. Insanely huge house lit up like a national monument with Christmas lights, flaming tiki torches, etc. The entire setting announced "EVENT!" I think Ophelia's, Susan's and my mouths were hanging open as we tripped up the path to the enormous front door.

The door swung open to a beautiful and very very sooper-dooper decorated foyer... pine boughs, holly swags, lights, a beautiful Christmas tree...and the loud, shrieky laughter of nearly 50 women at the back of the house. Mhaaadness.

Ladies, ladies everywhere! Clack clack of heels on travertine. Glasses in hands, arms raised in whooping greeting! Music! Music from some room toward the back of the sprawling house! Girls' Night! Giiiirls!! Niiiihhht!!

Girls' Night is something I have only a nodding aquaintance with. I just don't know that many "girls." I have neither inclination nor knack to make scores of friends. I am sure the narrow scope of friends I do have says something about a parsimony of spirit on my part. It makes me feel marginally better when Susan, a VP at a Fortune 500 national software corporation, grabs my arm and says "Where did she get ALL THESE FRIENDS?"

God Susan, I really don't know. Desdemona is the "Mom" of my sisters. The super square. The one who buckled down and financed her own way through veterinary school, with a preceptorship in New Zealand. She has known what she wants to do with her life since she was about 10. She looked down her little midget nose at all of us as we used the F word, dated and drank our way through high school and college and got really really good at rolling joints. The one who buys Anne Colter's books in hardback, who votes party line, who raises her eyebrows at each of us as we act out and up and over the edge at any and all family gatherings. Gesus Krahst, Desdemona, loosen up. Oh!! I almost forgot!! She has a daughter. While none of us was allowed to have a Barbie growing up, Desdemona allows her daughter to have Barbies, but Barbie must always be clothed. No naked Barbies allowed in the house at any time. UN REAL. My house is a Barbie-free-zone. But seriously...how uptight do you need to be to have the Naked Barbie Rule?

God. There is so much more I could say about Desdemona. She is just...the most uptight person I know. But I love her. I feel protective of her. She's wound up so tightly.

Back to the party. OK. So there are more extremely excited dressy women here than at a Louis Viutton warehouse sale. Dressy!!! High heels!! Sparkly tops!! Woo! Wooooo!!! We are underdressed. I see a vaguely familiar woman. Karen!! Desdemona's pal from Vet School! She is clutching my arm, hissing in my ear, desperately glad to see us. "O My God I am so happy to see you." Karen says in an elevated whisper. She, like us, knows no one. We explore the huge house together.

There is a margarita machine in the back yard, poolside, and a wet bar set up in the wine cellar. Ladies doing California Shooters. Killer food, cute waiters with trays. So many of the women are harassing the hapless waiters. Ophelia and I are pinching each other's arms in abject embarrassment.

Music!! Dancing!! Screamy, tipsy women, waving their arms in the air to Sister Sledge. Dear God... "We! Are! Fa-mi-ly!! I Got All Mah Sistahs With Me!" No no no!! Desdemona is yelling for her sisters to join her on the dance floor. Ophelia and Susan shrink behind me. Refusing. Nonono.

You need to understand: She gets like this. I have seen the tippy tip tip of the iceberg before. Refusing does nothing but make it worse. You need to give in, dance around a little with her, whoop and shriek for a few minutes, then she will leave you alone. If you keep refusing and dig in your heels, it just causes a big scene and it's hell. Susan does not understand this and pays the price the whole night.

There is a big loud hairy deal when it comes time to open the gifts. Dear God some of the gifts are so embarassing they make my ears bleed. I just have my fist shoved in my teeth. Ophelia's mouth drops open and she retreats to the margarita machine. Susan grabs my elbow, noticing that I am drinking Coke and nothing more: "Man, You are taking this bullet without any anesthetic." she notes.

There is a roast. Slurred speeches that refer to and center around some events Desdemona has obviously been involved in...gnarly, alcohol-soaked, shady events I can scarcely believe she is party to. Kinda dorky.

Susan, Karen, Ophelia and I are on our own little outbound satellite moon to this huge Jupiter planet of shrieky pals. We are the tiny moon Ganymede. We, on Ganymede, keep elbowing each other as each scatalogical, freaky, off-color gift is opened and shreiked over.

Let me pause here and just mention that it is not that I feel above Desdemona or am looking down on her for having this "other side." If I could just express to you how completely out of character is all is. She is so thoroughly wholesome. So square. She has made a career out of pointing out how Ophelia, my little brother Patrick and I are the black sheep, the Bad Kids, the ones who ruined her wedding reception by being drunk and loud (we weren't). When she asks me to help her to find an outfit for some party or event, she asks me to wait OUTSIDE THE DRESSING ROOM, until she is dressed. God help me if I glimpsed her underoos.

OK. So the party continues. The Screamy Dressy Ladies are forcing Des to drink from some kind of bedpan (seriously). I think. There is a quiz. "Facts" about Desdemona. Most of them are innocuous, but seriously cringe-worthy. Some are borderline mean, actually. We on Ganymede start to get a little protective and offended that the roast has taken an edgy turn. Des is weird, yes, but let's not get mean, ladies. Karen, Susan and I have our arms crossed, with stony looks on our faces. Ophelia has excused herself to tour the back yard, embarassed by the last round of racy "gifts."

At some point, Desdemona corners me and (she must be pretending to shoot the tequila, because she is reassuringly sober-ish)makes me promise that what happens here stays here. (Obviously she does not know I write everything down.)

Self-aware moment: She has trusted me in inviting me to this event. And she trusts me not to spread this madness around. I can see in her sober-ish face that she is embarassed and chagrined by the evening, but still grateful that she can trust me not to throw it all back in her face.

What a master she is. By demonstrating her trust in me, she knows I am pitifully eager to rise to the occasion and not disappoint her faith in me. I will not be making sport of her over this odd night.


Even later, after I drive my charges home, and we gather around my kitchen counter to Readers' Digest the whole thing for Zorro (mouth open and shocked, even though we are very very much soft-pedaling the whole thing for him), I see in Susan's face that this is all going to be just an edited chapter. I will be surtprised if I ever hear her refer to this weird night again outside of an "entre nous" with Ophelia.

But next time I use the F word and Desdemona looks disapprovingly at me and gives me a cold shoulder, I will understand that the real act is her Holier-Than-Thou attitude. Because after this night, it just ain't going to wash with me any more.