Today was the day for the annual Christmas brunch at our country club up the street. Ordinarily, I would not be caught dead belonging to a country club, but for some reason, my husband had decided to sign us up. We don’t do much with our membership. We are doing good if we make our mandatory food and beverage cost. It infuriates my husband that some months we have to pay for food we didn’t eat. We do use the pool in the summertime, at least our daughter does, because multiple of her babysitters lifeguard there. I, of course, won’t be caught dead in a bathing suit at any price. I felt this way even when I was fairly trim, but mysteriously, I am now forty pounds overweight and hate to be caught dead in clothes.
Amanda wanted to dress all up for the occasion, which means wearing her heels. Yes, the seven year old child has heels. They are cute little sparkly sandals with rhinestones and little kitten heels. I don’t know what I was thinking. I selected a tent-like outfit designed to conceal my various bulges, and brought my camera to ensure that no one else would be allowed to take pictures of me.
On our way in, we saw Mrs. Claus ascending the steps into the country club. I immediately dubbed her Grandma Claus, because she was extremely rickety and her climbing stairs necessitated much assistance and made me quite nervous. She was wearing a red fur-trimmed dress and what looked like a Dickens-era sleeping cap. There was no sign of the Claus himself.
We were seated, as my husband said, in the lower forty, at least eight miles from the buffet itself. Apparently we do not rate. We spotted a family who was ensconced between two partitions, and we decided they must be terribly important to merit such concealment. We walked the acre to the buffet and inspected it. Kevin and I are both on Atkins diet (he doesn’t need it and it is working perfectly for him, I need it desperately and I am not losing a damn thing), so we were scoping out the breakfast eggs and meat.
Kevin loaded a plate for Amanda, with a pancake and some green beans (what a combo) and then we turned to filling our own two plates. Atkins equals heart attack on a plate. I had scrambled eggs, sausage, bacon and ham. Kevin had the same plus a fried chicken leg, which he was picking the breading off of. Kevin has taught our daughter the awful habit of putting ketchup on her eggs, which to me is terribly blue collar and says, “I grew up in a trailer.” Of course, he did grow up in a trailer so I guess I shouldn’t act surprised. He has come a long way from his roots, but the table manners still persist. As a parting shot, he shoveled ice cubes out of his glass and onto his plate because his tea was “too cold.” He then made a gangplank out of his spoon and grinned triumphantly at me. The bad table manner trifecta. I shouldn’t go on about it so much but I was raised by June Cleaver with fangs, and such things were simply not allowed at our table at home.
After we ate it was time for crafts and pictures with Santa. Of course, Amanda had already messed her hair up somehow, and half of it was lying on the wrong side of her part. It would be interesting to have one of those pristine children whose hair bows and ringlets are always tidy and untouched, but it’s not going to happen. Amanda is too busy to be bothered with such things, and rightly so. Kevin wanted to fix her hair for the Santa pictures, but I told him we might as well get her the way she really looks.
Every year, they have a craft table left out for the kids. This year you could glue sequins and buttons onto a foam Christmas tree, scratch black off an angel to uncover rainbow colors underneath, or fill a red and white heart with a drawing of one’s interpretation of the season. Kevin insisted on regluing all of Amanda’s buttons onto her tree, on the grounds that she hadn’t put on enough glue and they were all going to fall off. The lady behind the table suggested that perhaps he might like to take home a tree for himself, since he obviously had such an urge to craft. I happen to know that his urge to craft is nil. His urge for ideal solutions and perfection is, however, insurmountable.
A few people recognized me as a local ob/gyn and questioned me about some changes that are being implented in town with regards to our venues for baby delivery. Or should I say, venue, as we are unfortunately consolidating all deliveries into one location. The town is not pleased. I was informed that I had delivered Amy So-and-So’s baby, whom of course I did not remember (the baby or the Amy in question). I made polite small talk and tried not to notice how skinny the ladies all around me were.
It was raining and Kevin went and got the van to pick us up. Amanda had gotten a candy cane from Santa and was swinging it around her fingers to ensure that it fall to the floor and be broken in as many places as possible. She succeeded in her mission. She then wanted to eat the candy cane “since it was broken anyway.” Nice try. We loaded up into the van with the sticky glued tree, a paper plate with an angel on it, and a fractured candy cane. We were all full of eggs and Meat. Christmas brunch was over for another year.