Pamper Guests - The Parklander Magazine

HUMOR:BY VICTORIA LANDISDirtySexyNew Year(With apologies to Meghan McCain)New Year’s Eve makes people do things they never imaginedthey would do. Is it those treacherous tiny bubblesin the champagne that make tossing caution intothe Jacuzzi an option? The silly hats? The kazoo-type noisemakers?Whatever it is warping the normally sensible person onthat night, it’s fun and fascinating to watch it in progress.Maybe the lapses in judgment come from the euphoria ofknowing there’s a fresh start in the morning. The slate getswiped clean. We press the do-over button in our minds. So thelogic might follow that we had better take this last chance onthis last night of the year to be mischievous. Tomorrow, I’ll begood as gold. I promise.As a teenager, I spent most of my New Year’sEves babysitting. A few times, the couples camehome enrobed in a frosty silence. One occasion inparticular stands out. For my benefit, Mr. and Mrs.“Smith” adopted frozen smiles as they paid me at 2a.m. Terse little comments directed at their spousalunit escaped from those resolute lips. I’m sure theythought I had no clue they were fighting about something,due to their convincing cover-up performances,but I could tell. Mr. Smith noticed I’d done all thedishes (even the ones they’d left from lunch) and said,“Thanks. I’ll definitely call on you again.” From behindclenched teeth, Mrs. Smith muttered, “That’s what you toldNancy, too.” Mr. Smith blanched. I pretended I didn’t hearMrs. Smith and hurried out the door.I grew up in a small town where everybody knew everybodyor their relatives. The next day, the gossip flew throughthe neighborhood. Aunt Bea and Clara from Mayberry hadnothing compared to the ladies on our street. Mrs. Jones fromnext door hustled to our back porch to borrow a cup of flour(excuse) and, once seated at the kitchen table, just aboutexploded from holding in the scandalous news while hinting Ishould find something else to do. My mother shooed me away,so I did the time-honored teenager thing and perched on thestairs around the corner to listen. It was about Mr. Smith’s flirtingwith the very married hostess at her New Year’s party.Except he didn’t just flirt. Things were getting steamy in thecoat closet beneath the front staircase when a departing guestwent for her coat and got treated to a most revealing view ofMr. Smith and hostess Nancy.Mom and Mrs. Jones agreed that Mr. Smith was a wellknownhound dog, but it could have been the booze. Momrecited a short poem. That was the first time I’d heard ofDorothy Parker and her famous quote about too many martinisand you wind up under the host. I vowed to never drinkmartinis (but I do, and I love them) and to check out DorothyParker on my next trip to the library. And they decided thatNancy-the-hostess probably didn’t put up much resistance, onaccount of her husband being a diabetic. I had no idea whatthat meant, but I’d find out. For those of you who are youngerthan us baby boomers, this was how we learned about life —the old-fashioned way. Nobody ever told you directly aboutanything. You had to remember inferences and then ask your56 DECEMBER 2010