Luncheons and Dagos

Well not much to say except that I'm blogging in my kitchen tonight. Im waiting for cream cheese to come to room temperature so that I can make pumpkin cheesecake for the Thanksgiving luncheon at work tomorrow. Its actually called a luncheon.

That word still sounds so weird to me and it brings to mind a bunch of women walking into a tacky Italian restaurant with a facade of white greco-roman columns and mini statues of Venus de Milo and David. The women have giant hair, long finger nails, leather mini skirts and leopard print tops, stiletto heels, Staten Island nasal drawls, and insist on talking only about how much money each one of their husbands, all named Johnny, Joey, or Tony, were making in the stock market. Decorated in numerous bobbles varying in karat weight, alloy, and preciousness they sit down at a table and one inevitably drops a comment about the obligatory absent party. Theories for the absent member of the tribe range from marital troubles, money problems, bad hair day but never even come close to saying that perhaps she just simply did not want to come.

Obviously I used all of the females in my extended family as the characters in my wild imagination combined with all of the tacky banquet halls that were used as the scene for numerous engagement parties, birthdays, and weddings. The absent party is my mother who, at least while I was aware of her, never seemed to fit in with the rest of the women in the family. She was always less concerned about material possessions and was vastly intellectually superior. Later I would find a picture of my mother in some old photo albums from July of 1980. Her hair was high and she had an obscene amount of makeup on and a cigarette hanging out of her mouth, the caption read, "Anne at Baby Shower." I was born one month later.

If some of you need clarification as to what a "Dago" is please see the definitions for Wop, Guinea, or Goombah.