The domestic partner's grandmother's 95th birthday was quite lovely this weekend. There was a private party in a charming little café just outside of Dayton, and friends and family from across the country were there to help celebrate.
And did I mention the food? It was delicious. In fact, it was so delicious that it prompted me to violate almost all the I'm-40-now-so-I-should-develop-responsible-eating-habits eating habits I'd been adhering to for almost two weeks.
And when it came time to bring out her cake, there was a surprise cake right behind it. Her lovely family—who actually scheduled their matriarch's 95th birthday party so it wouldn't conflict with my 40th birthday party the week before even though I've been making googly eyes with their adorable gay grandson for only a year and a half—also bought me a cake and had me share the spotlight for a brief part of the evening. And the cake they bought me was way more delicious than that boiled piece of crap I called a cake at my party. Behold their cake's chocolaty awesomeness:
After we were all packed full of the deliciousness of cake, the grandmother opened her presents. (The domestic partner and I got her DVDs of some old Hollywood musicals. Because that's the kind of stuff we're contractually obligated to give.) Then she started asking people in the room to make little speeches. Which was nice because she was asking the people closest to her who'd known her the longest, and they had some lovely stories about their lives and the role she'd played in them.
Then she started asking a wider circle of people to speak. And they did. And I started getting nervous that she'd work her way down the family org chart and eventually ask me—the big ol' gay and relatively new domestic partner of the big ol' gay grandson—to say something. Which of course she eventually did. I was the last one she asked. I was already feeling very conspicuous having just shared her spotlight at cake time, and now I had to be the closing act to the floor show. But I did have a few warm memories to share and an observation about the love her family clearly has for her. And it all seemed to go over well.
That night, a bunch of us young-uns went to the karaoke bar at our hotel to enjoy the pitchy vocal stylings of ... um ... whoever all those people are who are clearly singing at that bar every night. I am not a fan of karaoke for many reasons: mostly because I firmly believe nobody sounds good on karaoke. Also because on the rare occasions I get up to sing karaoke, I will only perform selections from my personal karaoke repertoire, which is: Elvis Presley's In the Ghetto. (Don't you just love that song? It's absolutely grotesque in its tackiness! But it has a message! So it makes the world a better place! Plus it has backup singers!) But not many karaoke libraries feature my signature song, so there is practically no chance I'll be lending my pitchy vocal stylings to a karaoke bar near you.
And his mama cries ...