A Word From the Weiss

        My daughter Allegra and her BFF Samara have been “best-ies” for so long that I often refer to myself as Sam’s “other mother,” and she often jokingly calls me “Mom.” There was no question that I would be honored to attend when she graduated from Smith College last weekend. So we were thrilled weeks ago to get the invite in the mail – or should I say the email?
        This also would give us a rare chance to spend time with Sam’s parents, Laurel (Allegra’s own “other mother”) and Chengiah, two of our own very closest friends, who moved back to South Africa in January so that Laurel could accept a job as head of a medical school in Johannesburg.
        Further sweetening the already irresistible deal was the fact that we had learned recently that the person giving the keynote address was none other than comic actress Jane Lynch, best known for her continuing role as Sue Sylvester, the wickedly crusty, deliriously spiteful and politically uber-incorrect gym teacher you love to hate on Glee.
        So please understand that when I balked last week at an updated email from Sam suggesting that we arrive by 8:30 sharp on Sunday morning at Smith, which is a good hour’s drive away, it was not out of any reluctance to attend this illustrious event. It was simply that I am really, really not a morning person… and neither is Nice Jewish Dad.
        So, although I had no doubts about Sam’s warnings that parking might be a challenge, we resolved merely to do our best to arrive before things got underway at 10.
        That, at least, was our game plan, until a few days earlier, when I heard from Amy.
        Amy and her husband Rich are the parents of Michelle, one of Allegra and Sam’s other BFFs, and they also were invited to the festivities. The problem was that Amy had to attend a cousin’s bridal shower that day, so Rich was hoping to hitch a ride with us.
        I instantly agreed to have him come along, with the stipulation that they understand that we were not willing to leave at the crack of dawn. In fact, we had to drop the dog at daycare that morning, probably wouldn’t take off much before 9, and might even be late.
        I love both Amy and Rich dearly – I really, really do -- and I was eager to have Rich join us. But to a mixture I felt of both slight amusement and just as slight frustration, rather than either declining our offer or accepting our terms, Amy began emailing me to debate our schedule and exhort us to depart much, much earlier.
        She cautioned me that there was only one way into the town from the highway, and that this probably would be mobbed, due to graduation. She also tried to impress upon me the urgency of our arriving on time. “I think they feel we all are family,” she wrote.
        This simply amused me even further. I also think of all of these people as family. On the other hand, my actual family knows us well enough to never expect us to arrive anywhere close to on time, let alone manage to turn up anywhere early in the morning.
        At her urging, though, I decided to capitulate somewhat. We arranged to board the dog on Saturday night so we could make a quicker getaway, and agreed to leave at 8.
        Even this didn’t appease Amy, however. She said that Rich would be at our house at 7:45 a.m., but was willing to come even earlier if we were willing to reconsider.
        “Would hate for you guys to be late and miss something,” she wrote.
        “Miss something?” I thought to myself. How could we possibly miss something? Having been to two graduations in recent years, for both Allegra and her older brother Aidan, I knew that these events are endless and they unravel at a glacier’s pace, since you watch hundreds of students and faculty march in before a single word is even said.
        I also began to think back to Allegra’s graduation last May, when the only people who attended on her behalf were her dad and me. Granted, we invited dozens of people to come the weekend before for her solo senior recital -- the culmination of her four years as a jazz vocal performance major at New England Conservatory of Music -- and many of them, including Laurel, Chengiah and Sam, traveled quite a distance to do so.
        However, when Aidan graduated from Brown three years earlier, we only had our immediate family and my late mom, who was still alive then and well enough to join us. We didn’t even invite my brother’s family because we figured that they lived over three hours away and wouldn’t be eager to shell out for multiple nights at an exorbitant hotel. (For graduation weekend, rates were jacked up astronomically and there was a two or three-night minimum.)
        Then again, we’d been thrilled to be included in my nephew Charlie’s graduation at Wesleyan, which we were invited to in part because it was only half an hour from our home. So I began thinking that perhaps we’d been invited to Sam’s event because one of Laurel’s two brothers lives in Arizona, the other is out of the country, and Chengiah’s family are all in South Africa. So presumably we were the stand-ins for the real relatives.
        Maybe Amy was right. We were like family and, like it or not, we should try to hustle.
        But as I easily could have anticipated, we didn’t get to bed until 1:30 a.m. the night before. As I also easily could’ve anticipated, Rich didn’t arrive at 7:45 a.m. He got there several minutes earlier, and not one of us was dressed sufficiently yet to open the door.
        My husband soon let him in, though, and when I finally got downstairs (after much calling and cajoling by Rich to stop fussing over my beauty regimen and get a move on), I discovered that he had arrived with breakfast for everyone – not just bagels and cream cheese, but individual bottles of OJ, plastic plates and knives, and pretty little napkins, presumably so that we could make this a moveable feast and get right into the car.
        This is something I also could have anticipated. Once, when Nice Jewish Dad had his first hip replacement and I came down with the actual, full-fledged flu, Rich showed up on my doorstep with two bulging bags of groceries. He’s that much of a mensch.
        He’s also quite a story-teller and wise-cracking raconteur. (“Do you know the four levels of graduation?” he inquired, to get us into the mood for things to come. “There’s summa cum laude, magna cum laude, cum laude, and ‘how cum’?”). I got so distracted listening to him in the car that I accidentally drove several miles in the wrong direction. But by some miracle we arrived in the town of Northampton, Mass., just after 9:30 a.m.
        Unfortunately, we did have the devil of a time parking, and by the time we walked to the campus, the quad was a mob scene. Saving seats, I’d learned from the college’s Web site, was verboten, so we couldn’t join Sam’s folks, who were seated way up front. However, we managed to score four adjoining chairs in the blazing sun just as the clock struck 10 and the lengthy procession of black-robed students and faculty got underway.
        With 734 students receiving degrees, including both undergraduates and grad students, this procession was so lengthy and slow-moving that Rich and my husband decided to seek the facilities before anything significant could happen. Unfortunately, this caused them to miss not only the bagpipe band, but also Ms. Lynch, who passed within three feet of us decked out in her honorary-degree regalia while they were gone.
        They also missed our first sighting of Sam, who marched by proudly in her robe, prompting Allegra and me to shriek her name, then choke up and dissolve in tears.
        But even after the menfolk returned, the parade continued. Then we had to listen to an invocation by the dean of religious life, plus a welcome from the college president, who’s named Carol T. Christ. (Clearly, I was not at my own alma mater, Brandeis, anymore.)
        Smith, if you aren’t already aware, is known not just for its academic rigor, fine faculty and long tradition of turning out capable, quirky, and staunchly independent-minded young women. As one of a handful of remaining so-called Seven Sisters schools to resist succumbing to co-education, it is also well-known for having a large proportion of lesbians, both on campus and in the surrounding town of Northampton.
        In fact, so many people present, among both the graduating students and the viewing audience, were of such indeterminate sexuality that it was no major surprise when senior class president Caitlyn Kirby began her own address with the salutation, “Good morning ladies, gentlemen, and everyone in between.”
        But finally Ms. Lynch, one of five candidates for honorary degrees, was up at bat.
        She started off by acknowledging her fellow honorary degree recipients, “who I am so proud to be in the company of. We have an architect, a climate scientist, a writer – and I get to talk because I’m on Glee!”
        She also, of course, congratulated the graduating students… Sue Sylvester style. “Today is all about you. But just a little bit about me.”
        Being there inspired her to reflect back on her “four mostly unfocused years as a solid ‘C’ student at Illinois State University, in the aptly named Normal, Illinois,” she said. However, she knew quite a bit about so-called “Smithies,” too, “because I married one.”
        She said that she’d spent much of her own youth feeling deeply disgruntled because nothing ever went quite the way she wanted it. “I wanted to ride my bike with my shirt off all summer. I wanted to play Little League baseball. I did not want to wear a dress or curl my hair.”
        Similarly, when she’d first finished grad school as “a classically trained pain in the ass,” she’d initially looked askance at her first big break, a chance to join Second City, Chicago’s famed improv troupe, because she fancied herself a serious actress.
        “Sketch comedy was not on my radar,” she said. “In fact, it was a bit beneath me.”
        But she had since learned the delicate art of approaching all situations by saying, “Yes, and…”
        “Yes, and…” is the only fundamental rule of improvisation,” she explained, noting, “Never deny your fellow actor. You should be willing and able to accept whatever your fellow improviser throws at you. For instance, if I say to you ‘Stick ’em up!’ and you say, ‘That’s not a gun, that’s your finger,’ then we’ve got nowhere to go.”
        Similarly, we all need to learn to accept the world as is, along with every single situation that is dealt to us, “the good, the bad, the thrilling, the heartbreaking; every emotion, occurrence, event, person, place or thing... That’s the ‘YES’ I’m talking about.”
        The “and…” part was doing whatever was within your power to change the status quo. “You accept influence, and then you exert influence. You can’t make a cloudy day a sunny day, but can embrace it and decide it’s going to be a good day after all.”
        This was an approach that she was sure would serve the graduates well in the many years ahead, as tough as it might sometimes be. “I guarantee that you will come upon countless times in which the last thing you’re gonna want to say is ‘Yes, and…’ You will experience loss, heartache, the death of a loved one. You’ll probably have to say goodbye to a lover. You’ll experience rejection, maybe have to deal with a bad diagnosis. You’ll age.”
        The trick wasn’t to try to avoid or ignore tough experiences, because you can’t, she said. Instead, you need to step up to them courageously and embrace them, realizing that they’ll both strengthen you and soften you by making you more compassionate.
        “If life gives you lemons, grab it by the horns and drive,” she said, quickly adding, “Yes I just mixed three metaphors. Remember, I was a ‘C’ student.”
        It was both an uplifting speech and an uproarious one, not to mention rather apt, since we then continued to sit there for a good hour or so while students marched up one by one to receive their diplomas, and it was unbearably hot out there, and we realized that just as you cannot make a cloudy day into a sunny one, you also can’t make a sunny day cloudy, and I had inadvertently left the suntan lotion back in the car.
        Then again, unlike the rest of my family, I was at least wearing a rather large hat.
        Allegra, who was burning up beside me, made the best of this extended time by using it to write an effusive inscription on the card I’d purchased for Sam. And it was a good thing that there were 700 names or so to go because, as with my Mother’s Day card last week, she managed to fill both pages inside and half the back.
        As soon as Sam’s name was announced, though, and we’d cheered loudly enough to risk laryngitis, Laurel came by to greet us and understandably kvell. Then, to my slight surprise, I saw that Laurel’s brother Hillel and his lovely wife Jenny were with her. They’d flown in from Tucson to be there for the graduation, after all. Not having children of their own, they explained to me, particularly made this a do-not-miss.
        Also with them were Laurel’s friend Lynn and her daughter Nora, who’d driven about four hours up from New York for the occasion. After introducing us, Laurel made a quick departure, saying that she needed to cook lunch before everyone else arrived.
        “Everyone else?” I asked, a bit mystified. “How many people are you expecting?”
        “About 40,” she said with the shrug. She declined my offer to come help, however, saying that the only thing she needed me to do was get Chengiah and Sam back to Sam’s house in time for the party, which would start whenever they were ready to come. (When it comes to punctuality, Sam and her folks are even more laid-back than we are.)
        This seemed like a simple enough task. But only minutes after the ceremony ended, I managed to lose Chengiah in the crowd when I got distracted snapping more photos of Jane Lynch and a very impressive "Mom" tattoo that I spied on the arm of a female attendee.
        This threw us all into a momentary state of panic. Chengiah may be extremely youthful and spirited for a man in his late 70s. But he was not just the father of the new graduate  (or as Rich had just congratulated him for being, “the oldest person I know who’s finally no longer paying tuition”). He’s also a world treasure, a renowned peace activist once exiled for 25 years from his native South Africa, where he served as a pre-eminent leader of the anti-Apartheid movement with Nelson Mandela during the 1960s.
        Rich quickly assured me, however, that I would not need to explain to Laurel how I’d managed to misplace her husband, because if we all began yelling “Chengiah!” in unison, no one else in this crowd of thousands was all that likely to turn around.
        Indeed, we finally found him seeking refuge in the shade just as Sam emerged, and I got to snap countless photos of my real and honorary daughters smiling radiantly.
        Next, I trained my camera on the proud dad and his daughter and got to capture the moment for eternity, far more priceless than celluloid proof of any celebrity sighting.
        And then we managed to endure the long trek back to my car and drive over to Sam’s, where at least 40 people were indeed gathered, so that the party could begin.
        There were so many people present that I never managed to meet everyone there, but also on hand were Laurel’s childhood friend Marla, who’d flown in from Chicago; several past graduates who’d come from as far as Vermont and New Orleans; and of course Sam’s older brother Avi, down from Montreal.
        Granted, many were taking advantage of this rare chance to see the proud parents in the Western hemisphere. But mostly, all of them were there because, like me, they felt like Sam and her “fam” really were family, and they wanted to help celebrate this milestone and wish them mazel tov.
        And no such celebration would be complete without a toast or two. So after an ample lunch, which, like our hosts, was an eclectic Indian-Jewish mix of baked salmon, green salad, tomato curry with boiled eggs and rice with dal, we all raised many a glass.
        Allegra, starting off the proceedings, talked about how they’d always been there for each other, ever since the day back in middle school when she’d first spied Sam wearing purple glasses (her favorite hue). Then, gushing about how proud she was of her gorgeous, confident and fiercely independent friend, she once again dissolved in a flood of emotion and tears.
        Laurel, bidding everyone and her daughter a rousing “l’Chaim,” noted that Samara was actually Sam’s middle name, and that her formal given moniker was in fact Shanthi, a Hindu name meaning “blessing,” which is what her lovely daughter had always been.
        Chengiah, a longtime college professor (and as he terms himself on emails, “currently an Intellectual Derelict at the Academic Sweatshops of Adjuncts”), waxed philosophical on the vagaries of today’s educational system. (Other than that, I’m not exactly sure what it was that he said, but I'm sure it was extremely brilliant and eloquent.)
        Avi and several of Sam’s close friends also held forth on her many notable strengths and just as notable eccentricities. Then, being Sam’s other mother, I felt moved to raise a glass myself, echoing the words I’d inscribed on her graduation card:

        Samara,
        I would say that I know you’ll go far, but I fear that will only encourage you to stray farther away from us than we can bear… like your parents already have.
        I’d say that I know you’ll amaze us all, but frankly, dear, nothing you do amazes me.
        I’d say that wherever you go, you’re always welcome to come back and stay with us… but that goes without saying.
        So I’ll just say that we love you and are proud of you – proud of all you have done already, and all that you are destined to do next.
                 
        After all the toasts and a good old-fashioned Carvel ice cream cake, I joined a group of core participants outside, and we took turns photographing our hosts, then the girls and we “other mothers,” and finally, with the help of a passerby, the entire “family.”
        Then it was time for Sam, at last, to make a speech of her own to all of us.
        A confirmed free spirit and committed social activist, she has taken a year off from school to travel in India (the reason that she was graduating a full year after Allegra), participated in the recent “Occupy” movement and countless other causes, and even briefly landed in jail for civil disobedience. So you might say that she’s a chip off the old block. But I would say she’s totally her own woman.
        And so, quite plainly, would she.

        She told us how much it meant to her to have all of us there on her special day. She said that we were the people on earth who mattered to her most, and how much she loved each and every one of us. But most of all, she said that she loved the person whom she was and had grown up to be, and that she owed this fact largely to all of us.
        These were words that it was well worth getting up at the crack of dawn for, driving for hours on a beautiful day, and risking sunstroke and almost anything else to hear.
        Yes, I may have been among a cast of thousands (or in Sam’s case, a cast of 40). But as her “other mother” – her other Nice Jewish mother -- I really couldn’t be prouder.
        Amy was right. We wouldn’t have wanted to miss a thing. But even though we were a bit late, I’m happy to say that we did and saw it all. We didn’t miss one moment.
        Maybe Rich was right, too. When some kids graduate, you wonder, “How come?” But in this case, whether she finished with honors or not, it was an indescribable honor to be there.
        And Jane Lynch was also right. There are so many things in life that require us to compromise and strive, or accept what we can’t change and make the best of things.
        But sometimes – just sometimes – there are perfect days when there is no “and…” There’s actually nothing at all you would possibly want to change. There is only “Yes!”

A Word From the Weiss

        Happy Mother’s Day, everyone, from everyone at NiceJewishMom.com (i.e.. me)!
        And before I say another word, I need to issue a few provisos and disclaimers for what I’m about to write. I would probably be best off simply not saying another word, period, considering that my daughter has implored, discouraged and all but forbidden me to post anything about this subject, and my son, upon hearing that I was even contemplating it, promptly seconded the motion, on the grounds that I was all but guaranteed to end up offending someone, if not almost everyone involved.
        My husband, on the other hand, has urged me to report on this event anyway, on the grounds that he found my account to be illuminating and thought others might, too.
        I must hasten to point out, however, that I usually find my kids to have pretty sound judgment, which is a case of the apple not just falling far from the tree, but in a whole ’nother orchard – and I am not speaking exclusively about myself, if you get my drift.
        So as hazardous as it may sound, I’m going to proceed, but proceed with caution, simply because I think the subject is kind of interesting on a cultural basis. Also, I have nothing negative to say about the issue, so if I hurt anyone -- well, it’s truly inadvertent.
        The event I am referring to is a bridal shower I attended, and before you note that this is not exactly controversial or offensive territory (last summer’s madcap mega-hit Bridesmaids notwithstanding), then let me just explain that the bride who was being showered with gifts in this case was the fiancée of my daughter’s high school boyfriend.
        And if you wonder why my daughter and I were both invited for the occasion, then let me explain that our families were close before she and Spencer began dating, way back in middle school, and although their relationship ended nearly five years ago, our longtime family friendship easily survived its demise and continues to thrive to this day.
        I must confess that I wasn’t terribly surprised by my own invitation, since Spencer’s mother and I remain very close, and we four parents still go out as couples all the time. Allegra’s inclusion came as a bit more of a surprise, though, because the typical bride is not necessarily keen on having her future husband’s old flames attend the festivities.
        Heightening the delicacy of the situation somewhat was that the bride, Rachel, happened to be a member of Allegra’s high school class. Then again, Allegra has remained friendly with both Spencer and his mom. So, to Rachel’s enormous credit, she was gracious enough to invite us both, not just to the upcoming wedding, but also her bridal shower.
        It also may be to my daughter’s credit that she was gracious enough to accept the invitation and fully participate in sincerely wishing the bride well and a hearty mazel tov. 
        Given the circumstances, though, I must confess that I felt a little self-conscious about attending the shower and wanted to do as little as possible to call attention to ourselves there. So I wanted to make sure that we both wore appropriate attire and brought presents that were tasteful and absolutely beyond reproach. Yet not having attended a bridal shower in decades, I didn’t have a clue how to proceed. (When I got hitched, a few friends took me out for a bachelorette party and tried to embarrass me with kinky lingerie, but I didn’t think that sort of stuff would seem right coming from us.)
        I considered consulting friends whose kids are older and already on the wedding circuit. But instead I simply Googled the gift quandary and read that it’s routine to select an item for the shower from the couple’s wedding registry. This seemed like the safest bet, anyway, since I don’t know the bride well and cannot presume to know her taste.
        As for the clothing, the event was a Sunday brunch at the maid of honor’s house. So we both bought new spring dresses, convinced that we couldn’t go wrong with that.
        Allegra came home from New York City the night before just for the occasion, and Nice Jewish Dad agreed to stay home with Latke, our new puppy, while we were gone. We anticipated that this would involve a couple of hours or so. So my husband was a bit mystified when we left the house at 11:30 a.m. and returned more than four hours later.
        What the heck had we been up to all that time? Wasn’t this just, essentially, lunch?
        Clearly, husbands have no idea what happens at bridal showers. And maybe you don’t know either. Having been to only that one during this century, I can’t swear that this one was typical. But I’m happy to fill you in on the festivities, which went as follows:
        We worried that we might be overdressed, but arrived to find dozens of women mostly decked out in garden party-type dresses, just like us (except for the bride, who was a vision in afternoon white). Phew! We’d called it right.
        On the way in, I ran into Spencer’s ever-youthful and stylish maternal grandmother, Lorry, who greeted me warmly, saying how much she missed those wonderful days gone by when we’d see each other regularly at the kids’ school concerts and other events, and my beloved late mom would often be there. OK, everyone cries at weddings, but bridal showers? I’d barely set foot inside the door and was already fighting back tears. But this was no time to turn into a puddle. Lunch was being served.
        After helping myself to the ample buffet of bagels, fruit salad and crudités, I was urged to make my way quickly into the living room and finish filling out the bridal quiz. With dozens of women already there – I was told 57 of them had RSVP’d to accept – the place was already mobbed, but Allegra and I managed to find seats in the back beside her good friend Emily and another couple of former high school classmates.
        The quiz, a copy of which had been placed on each seat, turned out to be a multiple-choice affair designed to test our knowledge of the bride and groom’s romantic history. What was the name of the local preschool at which the two had first met? How had they happened to reunite in recent years, long after graduating from high school together? Where had they gone on their very first date, and where had he proposed?
        Having read the detailed account posted on their official wedding Web site, I knew that they had met when they first attended the Lollipop Tree; that they had reconnected one summer during college when the bride had worked at a local pharmacy (the exact same place where Rachel’s own grandparents had met 60 years earlier); and that he had proposed on the top of a mountain in Vermont last summer. I took a good guess that their first date had taken place at The Cheesecake Factory, which his family favors.
        I also knew that our temple, where the happy couple will marry this summer, was where both the groom’s parents and maternal grandparents had also once tied the knot. But with luck I managed to get the last of the eight questions, about the bride, wrong.
        I say “with luck,” for this turned out to be a rather fortunate thing. Because after all the answers were revealed, everyone who’d gotten a perfect score was asked to stand. Then, before submitting to a bonus question to help break the tie, the nine or 10 winners were asked to each make a speech, explaining to the crowd how they knew the bride.
        This hadn’t been mentioned beforehand. And seriously, what would I have said?
        At the time, nothing quite appropriate came to mind, and I think I might’ve just stood there looking somewhat embarrassed, hemming and hawing rather awkwardly. In retrospect, of course, I realize now that I could simply have explained that, although my daughter had gone to school with Rachel, we were essentially there from the groom’s side… that Spencer’s older brother and my son were bff’s, we’d been family friends forever, there weren’t finer people to be found anywhere on earth, and so Rachel was about to acquire the best possible in-laws (and grandparents-in-law) on the planet.
        But never mind that. Two winners were winnowed out by Round Two’s bonus question (“At which game does Rachel always manage to beat Spencer? a) Scrabble, b) Monopoly, c) Risk or d) Set?).
        Who knew? The answer turned out to be d) Set.
        “What’s Set?” I asked Allegra. But we were already getting set for the next shower game.
        The guests were divided into groups of five or six, sequestered in different areas of the house and given a single roll of toilet paper per team. Our mission? To designate one team member as the bride, then spend about 10 minutes fashioning a wedding dress for her, complete with veil, bouquet and any other accessories we could manage to create using that one roll. Afterwards, the “brides” would walk down the center aisle in the living room, and the actual bride would judge our creations and designate a winner.
        I found myself paired up with Allegra, Emily, and their friends Adina and Ruthie, and this turned out to be even more fun than it may sound. As you can imagine, Allegra was not a plausible contender to play the bridal role. Neither was Adina, a local rabbi’s daughter, who had married Rachel’s high school boyfriend, now a rabbi in training. Fortunately, Emily quickly cottoned (or should I say Cottonelle’d?) to the idea and volunteered to submit to this honor herself.
        I didn’t hesitate for a second when Allegra pronounced me a sort of team captain, considering that I was both our group’s only grown-up and years ago had gotten my start in journalism as a fashion writer. Ripping off a generous hank of “cloth,” I directed the girls to fasten this around Emily’s waist and tie a large bow in the back. We could then use this to attach a row of paper panels encircling her waist to form a skirt, which we decided to make short in the front and longer in the back. (Irregular hemlines are in!)
        Emily mugged for the camera as the girls proceeded to tuck more toilet tissue into her neckline to create a bodice, then added a paper rosette at the shoulder. They also fashioned a headdress and shoes, plus a bouquet (which looked more like the Statue of Liberty’s torch) by crumpling a few spare squares into the empty cardboard tube.
        Then I got our design team to pose with their model for some final parting shots.
        We all felt rather proud of our handiwork. In fact, the exercise gave me an idea. Despite the insane expense to which most brides go these days for their wedding attire – the average gown cost over $1,000 in both 2010 and 2011 – the fact remains that these organza and silk confections in white will be worn one day and one day only. Perhaps when the time comes, Allegra could be convinced to economize in this novel way on her own get-up. We’d set aside more than 10 minutes for the design, of course. I’d also gladly spring for a second roll of (ultra-absorbent, premium, two-ply) toilet tissue. Maybe even a third.
        Moments later, everyone reassembled back in the living room, and here came the brides!
         Everyone cheered as the assorted contenders “squared off,” and I must say that each looked even more Charmin’ than the last. We were so overcome with hilarity that we barely minded when we lost the competition to Spencer’s adorable cousin Jessica, who, with her Empire-style gown and perfect paper rose in her hair, easily wiped us all.
       Afterwards, we all repaired to the outside deck where dessert was being served. Many guests had brought along home-made offerings. (Should I have baked one too? Who knew?) The picnic table groaned under the weight of at least three dozen different irresistible confections, including heart-shaped brownies, raspberry-studded cheesecake, chocolate micro-cupcakes embellished with blueberries, and a massive, mouthwatering whipped cream cake studded with fresh fruit and slivered almonds, created by the mother of Spencer’s older brother Andrew’s gorgeous girlfriend Lana.
        Then we went back inside for the shower’s main event, which turned out to be not just the traditional opening of the gifts, but a high-spirited round of Bridal Shower Bingo.
        Placed on each seat was a card printed with a bingo grid, with the center space occupied by the image of a wrapped gift. Instead of writing in numbers as they were called out, we were instructed to fill in the remaining 24 blanks with items the bride might receive as gifts. We were also given a sheet depicting probable prospects -- from a blender and toaster-oven to a vaccuum cleaner and crockpot -- to stimulate our imaginations.
        Having perused the bridal registry, not to mention once been a bride myself, I knew the drill and had little trouble coming up with two dozen plausible offerings, ranging from glasses and serving utensils to crystal vases and salad bowls.
        This being Allegra’s very first time at the rodeo, as it were, she entered a few similar housewares, then evidently drew a blank and finished by scribbling in the words “jewelry” and “lingerie” multiple times.
        Then the bride was seated at the head of the room and the gifts, which had been safely stored in another room, were brought to her one by one to be unwrapped before the assembled crowd. The idea of the game was that every time she opened a gift that matched one of the entries on your grid, you were to cross it off. The first few guests to achieve “bingo” would receive a prize (although hopefully not need to make a speech).
        Having purchased an extremely innocuous item from the registry, I figured that I had nothing to worry about… until I saw the first gift carried in and realized it was mine.
        I know this was probably no big deal, but I had really wanted to keep a low profile, and (whether it’s being the first brave soul to hit the dance floor or the first to sport a new style) it’s never easy taking the lead. I braced myself as she read the signature on the gift card aloud and called out my name. Then I raised my hand to identify myself, imagining that everyone was gaping and someone must be whispering to her neighbor, “Wait, isn’t that Allegra’s mother? Why is she here?”
        I watched as Rachel reached through the wads of tissue paper I’d crumpled inside the beribboned silver-gray gift bag from Macy’s bridal registry and carefully extracted… drum roll, please -- a box containing four Crystal D’Arques 12-inch highball glasses. Then, lest I appear cheap before the crowd, I clunkily hastened to point out that there was a second box bearing another identical set of four such tumblers inside.
        Nobody oohed. Nor ahhed. But the bride’s mother smiled broadly at me, declaring that now the happy couple would be able to entertain both sets of in-laws at once. I beamed back. And with that, both my despair and my moment in the spotlight were over.
        Allegra fared much better with her own offering. With her approval, I had picked up on her behalf another even more mundane item from the bridal registry: a Calphalon 12-cup muffin tin. But as a contemporary of the bride, she’d dared to get more creative by supplementing this with a pair of relatively funky related items – a set of measuring cups shaped like nesting Russian Matrushka dolls and a matching set of measuring spoons.
        The bride gushed with pleasure, and now many an ooh and ah resounded around the room, even before I remarked that we’d found these at the Museum of Modern Art.
        Other notable items included an exquisite cheese board, a set of three (strictly kosher) cookbooks, and an enormous wooden Dansk salad bowl and matching servers. Representing the “jewelry” category was a single silver bracelet with a heart-shaped charm. But the closest thing to lingerie presented was a gift card from Victoria’s Secret. (Sorry, Allegra -- although somehow she still managed to achieve five in a row before me.)
        In keeping with bridal shower tradition, as each item was unwrapped and its donor acknowledged, Allegra’s friend Ruthie retrieved the ribbons from the corresponding gift and attached them to a paper plate. By the time the last crystal goblet and vase had been opened, she had created a rather frilly, froufrou and ungapatchka hat for the bride to don as photos were snapped all around… plus, at least a dozen guests had declared “Bingo!”
        The climax came, however, when the last gift was presented by my friend Suzy, after which she brought out yet one more box. This one was totally devoid of ribbons, though, because it wasn’t intended for her future daughter-in-law. The groom – along with his father, his maternal grandfather and the father of the bride – had been allowed to join us just in time to see the gifts opened, and this final box was meant for him.
        After the wedding, he and Rachel will be moving to Philadelphia, where Spencer, a stellar student, will enroll in a Ph.D. program in biological engineering at his alma mater, the University of Pennsylvania, and Rachel, a lovely, brilliant, and multi-talented girl, will enroll in a nearby program to achieve her ambition of becoming a physician’s assistant.
        Toward this end, Suzy had packed a box for her son to take to their new home. This included a bag of his favorite brand of jasmine rice and a few once-cherished childhood keepsakes, including a large stuffed teddy bear known simply as Teddy Bear. “As you know, Spence, he’s been in a box under your bed for several years,” Suzy said.
        At this, Spencer piped up and blushed deeper than the azalea-pink shirt he had on. “More than several!” he protested plaintively. Everyone laughed.
        When all the tittering died down, however, Suzy went on to explain that she’d assembled only this handful of items because she was in no hurry to see him leave, nor was she viewing this as losing a son. Rather, as the mother of two boys, she was finally gaining the daughter she’d always longed for. And she couldn’t be happier because the daughter she was gaining was perfect for her son and was beautiful both inside and out.
        What did I say about crying at showers? There was barely a dry eye in the house.
        Neither was there an empty hand, because as people began to bid each other lengthy Jewish goodbyes (WASPS, as they say, leave and never say goodbye, while Jews say goodbye but never leave), Suzy began to pass out the novel party favors she’d assembled for the occasion, colorful felt “flower pots” filled with tissue paper leaves and fake Gerber daisies, with cute heart-shaped manicure kits tucked inside.
        We also were directed to pass through the kitchen and make plates to go, helping ourselves to the copious desserts that had been left over from the lavish buffet. Presumably, the bride and her entire wedding party wished to make sure that they’ll still fit into their (actual cloth) gowns and other stylish attire for the wedding this coming summer.
        That, however, is a whole other affair. And as much as I look forward to attending it, I doubt that there will be any more games involved. Nor do I believe that it’s remotely fair game to cover. So (along with once again hoping that I haven’t upset anyone involved), I can assure the bride and everyone else that I won’t be blogging about that.