playing grown-up

7/8/99

We went over to Daryl and Beth’s for dinner tonight. More about that later.

While we were preparing (that means I was making Rice Krispie Treats and John was cleaning the bedroom,) I stepped out the kitchen door to drop a few bottles into the recycle bin and ran into the neighbor kids. Two of them, from the back apartment, were reasonably intelligent and polite. They told me over and over how much they love Julia. (I make lots and lots of friends because of my cat. She’s not at all shy.) The third kid lives in the front apartment, about 4 years old, and very rude. Brash and egocentric, always interrupting and then accusing others of interrupting. I could barely understand him, as he spoke in a sort of Southern dialect, and about half baby talk.

This little kid first tried to walk into my house when I opened the door, wanting to know where my toys were. He wanted some of the “cereal” on the counter. (It was really cat food.) Then, when the other two boys petted Julie, he crouched by her and started thumping her side with his palm. Julie whipped around and hissed, showing teeth and scaring the wits out of the little bastard.

The other kids jumped to her defense. “I’ve never seen Julia try to bie anyone before! She must not like you!” Since when are the neighbors on a first name basis with my cat? It was pretty funny. The offensive little brat walked right into my kitchen then and asked for some “cereal.” I showed him that it was cat food, and he opened my refrigerator to look for food. I offered him a raw potato, but he said he wanted Jell-o. I told him it was cat Jell-o.

Daryl and Beth just moved into a large, brand-new house in a suburban sub-division. They’re the same age as John and me. They were married a year ago; she teaches elementary music and he’s in grad school, and they’re expecting a daughter in seven weeks. Wow.

Beth’s showing. She’s the first pregnant person who’s my age that I’ve seen up close. That’s not counting the pregnant girls in high school. I should say Beth’s the first pregnant woman my age whom I’ve known.

So John and I took Rice Krispie Treats, our standard bottle of wine being inappropriate for the occasion. Beth made lasagna, and two desserts: brownies and Jell-o cake. We had plenty of desserts. Talked like yuppie grown-ups for a while, then moved to the living room where John and Daryl turned into little kids about the Sony Playstation. Except that no kids would be allowed to play the Resident Evil game they were playing.

Daryl and Beth are perfect. They are beautiful: Daryl’s the right combination of post-geek and hip goatee-style, and Beth has fair skin, freckles, long curly red hair. Being eight months pregnant, she couldn’t look any more feminine. They had a perfect wedding: their house is full of pictures of Daryl and Beth getting married, Daryl and Beth kissing, Daryl and Beth smiling happily. They registered for and received perfect gifts: matching sets of dishes, silverware, furniture. Decorative plates that say “Beth and Daryl, August 1, 1998.” They had a perfect baby shower: the nursery is decorated in Pooh.

John and I, while far from perfect, fit in well enough. Our decorating style is more grad-student chic, combined with utilitarian clutter. While Daryl and Beth seemed to go straight from dorm room to country club, John and are in a more gradual transition. I had quite a hippie-style going on in Ann Arbor, with psychedelic tapestries, furniture culled from relatives, and mismatched sheets/dishes/linens/rugs/etc. Mixed with John’s electronics and both of our toys, we had a mess.

We’re paring down, everything is looking more respectable—we even have a couch and a chair that match each other—but I just don’t know how people our age get everything to match like that. Somebody must be focusing energy on Daryl and Beth’s house. Where does that energy come from? (Our matching furniture was donated by my grandmother, by the way.)

At the end of the evening, Beth handed us a plastic bag with lasagna and dessert leftovers. So we won’t have to cook while we’re packing. She’s just my age—when did she become such an adult?