Melissa Explains It All: Tales From My Abnormally Normal Life (25 page)

Remember how popular spa parties were toward the end of the ’90s? When my friend Christine mentioned that if she could afford it she’d get a professional rubdown every week, I suddenly knew what my Christmas present to my friends would be that year. I invited eleven of my closest girls to my house, hired three massage therapists, three manicurists, a harp player, and a bartender (of course) for a Saturday night spa party. I lit candles, set up massage tables near the fireplace, and ordered personalized stockings for each girl and filled them with candy and inside-joke gifts. I also gave each girl her own bottle of champagne to make sure we were all loose as a goose. We had such a blast that massage-themed holiday parties became an annual tradition for the next nine years that I was in L.A., with surprise additions each time like a DIY facial station for mud masks, paraffin hand treatments, and a reflexologist for foot rubs.

Though I’ve been told I missed my calling as a party planner, sometimes I had to bring in the pros to pull off my bigger ideas. For my twenty-fourth birthday, I hired an expert named Jackson to help me throw a “Greek Orgy” bash for seventy-five guests. I was inspired by the mythological god and goddess paintings I always stared at on the walls of the spa when getting my seaweed body wraps. Jackson hung white drapes that billowed in the wind and arranged wine bottles, goblets, and grapes all over the pool deck. We hired masseuses to massage the guests’ feet as ripped, toga-clad boys fanned us with large palms. It wasn’t exactly Greek-inspired, but Jackson also threw in a few belly dancers and fire throwers for when the sun went down. Anything to up the debauchery ante.

I think my most inspired party of parties, however, was a New Year’s Eve celebration I threw in 2001. I’d had a fine time in Miami at a Y2K bash, but the night wasn’t as memorable as Prince’s “1999” said it would be. Where was the purple sky? The lions in people’s pockets? When I got back to L.A. on January 2, I began planning my own extravaganza in Mom’s grand, marble-columned home, with the elaborate theme of an Italian Renaissance–inspired masquerade ball. Jackson and my assistant Kerry helped tremendously, as did my unlimited budget. It took us almost the entire year to nail down every detail. The invite went out to three hundred people and included suggestions on where to rent formal costumes and masks. I’d also arranged dance lessons with a choreographer for any guests who wanted to participate in a reenactment of the waltz scene from
Shakespeare in Love,
and included a schedule of those as well.
Sabrina
’s wardrobe department worked for months on my four-thousand-dollar Renaissance gown. I hired a string quintet, a fleet of bartenders, and top-notch caterers who presented an elaborate meat-carving station in a massive red velvet tent we had set up in Mom’s backyard. We ran limos like a taxi service all night, which picked up guests at their homes and drove them back when they were good and sloshed. At midnight, guests removed their masks and the DJ kicked it up a notch. The best part of the event, though, was sharing the Hart family’s lentil soup with guests just after the clock struck twelve. Every year, Mom makes this traditional Hungarian dish to bring us good luck in the future. Legend has it that legumes are symbolic of money, and so far, this custom hadn’t let me down. All our guests sampled the soup from a giant bowl, with individual golden spoons. I know it sounds like an extravagant night, but I considered it an investment in lifelong memories. Plus, my ta-tas looked really amazing in that overpriced corset.

*   *   *

I didn’t know it at the time, but my fabulous New Year’s Eve ball doubled as a last hoorah to hosting impressive parties for a while. I soon met and married Mark, who doesn’t like celebrating his birthday, New Year’s Eve, or any event that symbolizes the passing of time. He’s always found these milestones depressing, and no matter how perky or encouraging I am, there’s no forcing fun on my husband. He’ll sulk, play sick to avoid hanging out, or if I throw a party without his blessing, he’ll find a nice cozy corner and stay there all night. I, on the other hand, think creating a night to remember is what makes the aging process a worthwhile and digestible experience. Tomato, to-mah-to.

Early in our marriage, whenever Mark and I had people over in L.A., I tamed our guest list, budget, and attention to detail. What I loved most about entertaining was making guests happy anyway, so I focused on that during low-key dinner parties, movie nights, book clubs, and holidays. I found that intimate groups invited memorable conversation, “Bring a dish!” made neighbors feel useful, and easy décor meant simple cleanup. As a young adult, the only morning-after regrets I had were not giving away more leftovers and running out of vodka by 11
P.M.

There was one teeny problem with feeling like I should entertain like a mature adult, though: nobody really taught me how. I was never the little girl in a frilly nightgown, peering over a mahogany staircase to watch my parents clink glasses from afar. They hosted the random murder mystery or Halloween party growing up, but with five kids, they didn’t have a lot of free time or money to do this with any regularity. So I gathered entertaining tips and tools wherever I could find them—in Colin Cowie’s party books, in collaborations with my more experienced friends, and from studying reruns of
The Martha Stewart Show
. I could keep my book club ladies in Pinot Grigio or groan and cheer with the best of ’em at my annual Super Bowl parties, but any gathering that required a bit more sophisticated flair had the potential to turn into a hot mess.

One of my bigger entertaining catastrophes occurred when I invited both my family and Mark’s to spend our very first married Christmas Eve at our house. Six members from Mark’s immediate family had flown in from Alabama, plus five of my siblings, Mom, and Leslie. I really wanted to prove that I could create a warm, wonderful, and special holiday, especially for the kids. My old Sayville friend Joe and his wife were living in L.A. and dropping by as well, so I convinced Joe to dress up as Santa and run through the backyard as we watched from inside the house. My parents did this when I was young, and it was always a thrill. It’s also why I believed in Santa for many years longer than I should have.

I wanted to keep our meal simple, so I decided that given my limited culinary skills, there was a good chance I could handle making Mom’s legendary lasagna. Sauce, noodles, cheese, repeat. How could that go wrong? I scheduled our night around our big dinner. My plan seemed seamless. I’d go to church with Mark’s Baptist family at 5, we’d eat dinner at 7, Santa would make his appearance around dessert, and then Mark and I would join my Catholic family at their 11
P.M.
service. Done! What I didn’t realize was that the church for Mark’s family was almost an hour away, so by the time we got home, my family was sitting in their cars, in our driveway, in the rain, no less, beyond starving for dinner. I hadn’t even boiled the noodles.

I’d also never cooked for more than four people, and now I had to feed twenty-four at warp speed. I panicked. I stressed. So much for posturing as a competent wife and hostess. My mom and Mark’s helped make the lasagna, get it in the oven, and set the table with our new wedding china and crystal. We didn’t end up eating until about 9
P.M.
The moms also slipped snide comments to each other, fueled by lingering tension from our wedding, and I felt terrible for causing a mess when my intention was to do the opposite. And just when I thought Joe-as-Santa would save the day, he ran through the backyard and scared the shit out of the kids. He bolted past the back glass doors, inches from where they were peeking out for a glimpse of Sneaky Saint Nick. After everyone calmed down, Mark and I sped to our second church service, this time to appease my family. I’ve never prayed so hard for peace on earth and goodwill toward men—especially me.

Christmas mayhem was just a hint of things to come. In future years, I’d make Nanny’s French silk pie for Thanksgiving, which looked like poop soup in a soggy crust. Then there was Mason’s first birthday, with invites that said it was a “green-themed” party. This caused PC moms to call me in an eco-savvy panic about what the appropriate gifts and attire should be. No plastic toys? Organic cotton only? Good thing I meant for the day to revolve around my son’s favorite color, not environmental consciousness. I’ll also never forget the first of many summer lobster bakes in the backyard of our house. I didn’t think to store the live crustaceans out of the children’s reach, so after pulling a few from their boxes, they drove them around in bicycle baskets and sent them down the slide with their claws bound. My dog got hold of one and had her own feast. When it was time to cook the buggers, I was missing so many lobsters that we had to do a search-and-rescue mission in the nearby woods to hunt down a few of the escapees.

My Amelia Bedelia–like entertaining prowess all culminated in a dinner party that I like to blame on my son’s preschool fundraiser auction in Connecticut. I passionately bid on, and won, a day of pheasant hunting with a local Italian chef named Chef Pietro. The prize? After we killed the birds together, he’d then help turn them into a fancy dinner. This seemed like a great idea, since I’m always up for trying something new and I’d get help with the hard cooking part.

I took my friend Lisa out with me on that gloomy New England morning. We skulked around the woods with two hunting dogs, a reputable chef, and loaded rifles. Lisa and I had never shot a rifle outside of a firing range, and after some powerful practice rounds, we surrounded our first bird and began recklessly shooting into the air before realizing we’d better take turns or risk blowing the other person’s cute hunting hat off. Lisa made the first kill when the bird flew overhead, and she fearlessly stuffed it into the large pocket of her fluorescent orange vest. I shot mine as it scurried across a muddy path in front of me. I didn’t want to touch it, so Pietro shoved its bloody body into my jacket, inspiring both sadness and awe in me. Is this how the intrepid Katniss of
The Hunger Games
felt when she fired her arrow into the eyes of squirrels? Though it was brutal stuff, I did like learning to stalk and prepare a meal in a primitive way, should I ever need to feed my family if, I don’t know, there’s a zombie apocalypse or something.

Lisa and I killed five pheasants between us, and with Pietro’s help, I turned them into a feast that night for our friends. I marinated the gamey-tasting birds in veal stock and served them with vegetables. While the sides came out great, guests spent half the night picking feathers and buckshot out of their teeth. They told me the meal was impressive, but I think they were just being nice since I could now shoot a gun. I haven’t hosted a real dinner party since. In fact, when I invite the gang over for pizza and board games, I swear I can hear a collective sigh of relief.

As I get older and our family grows, that spitfire twenty-something who organized massage parties and scavenger hunts feels farther and farther away. The thought of just hiding the million tiny toys and shoes usually thrown around the house by my kids is a chore I can do without. When I entertain now, I give guests plenty of time to book a sitter, not pull together a cheeky costume, and as long as there are drinks and food to go around, people are grateful to dirty someone else’s dishes for three hours. Now I save my biggest bashes for a few nights a year, so I can put more energy into making those parties memorable for everyone. I’m best known for having a New England–style lobster bake in the summer (I keep a better eye on the kids and crustaceans now) and an annual Tacky Sweater Christmas Party come winter. I still splurge on a trusty bartender but have added a housekeeper to help with cleanup. I’m no good at removing red wine stains from the rug or getting that lobster smell out of the kitchen when everyone’s gone.

Once in a while, though, I still have my splash-out moments. My siblings and I recently threw Dad a surprise sixtieth birthday party, and for the first time in years, I unleashed my classic “go big or go home” party-planning instincts. The major difference is that I did a lot of delegating and divvying up of responsibility. We invited one hundred people, including high school friends Dad hadn’t seen in twenty-five years. We put up a large white tent with tables and chairs in my uncle Charlie’s backyard and hired a local BBQ joint to cater most of the food. Dad’s buddy who owns an oyster farm set up an oyster bar, too. My brother Brian bought a shot luge—a huge ice carving that lets you pour liquor at the top and catch it in your mouth at the bottom. A lot of Dad’s female friends pitched in (he’s rather newly divorced), which I appreciated since I was extremely pregnant with my third son, Tucker, and needed the extra hands. Each woman had a different job—one decorated the tables, another kept us in beer. My sister Lizzie ordered an amazing cake that looked like a case of Budweiser, Dad’s brewski of choice, with foaming cans made of fondant balancing on top. We even saddled up the Naked Cowboy, a New York City icon who serenades pedestrians wearing only boots, a hat, and tighty-whiteys. He sang “Happy Birthday” to Dad, who was tipsy on Bud and touched by all our efforts.

Chapter 15

ARE YOU READY FOR SOME FOOTBALL?

I’d heard the term “football widow” thrown around before, but I never thought much of it. When I Googled the phrase, I half expected to find support groups devoted to women whose husbands were killed by flying pigskins. Instead, the first thing that popped up was an Urban Dictionary definition that went like this: “Football widow: A woman who must cope with the temporary death of her relationship during football games.”
Holy moly,
I thought.
That’s me.

Growing up deep on Long Island, I was rarely exposed to the game. First of all, Dad was hardly the athletic type and always preferred to work or go fishing instead of watching “the big game.” I’d only been to one football game in my life, an Army vs. Navy game where I didn’t understand what was happening, but did make lots of “tight end” jokes while drooling over all those uniformed cadets. There were no nearby professional teams to root for, since both of New York’s played at a stadium in New Jersey, and this felt as far away to me as the Alps. And while our small-town high school had a team, it was nothing like the legendary one on
Friday Night Lights,
so I had no interest in learning the game’s complicated rules just to watch a bunch of local jocks chase a ball. When I enrolled in college, which is when most girls begin to take an interest in football (if just to score a broad-shouldered make-out partner at frat parties), I went to NYU. We were only good at tennis and basketball, and if we had a football team, I didn’t know about it.