We threw a surprise seventieth for my great aunt this weekend. Amidst pink flatware and stale, suburban topics, everyone divided the time between nervous preparations and cooing over the only child my family's been able to produce in fifteen years. But I don't go much in for kissing ass (my aunt and I are much alike and have a relationship based on fond respect for each other's terrible tempers), and I've become something of a family joke due to my absolute intolerance for children and their absolute enjoyment of me, so I was left to my own devices.
This ended with me seeking out my father's equally unsociable brother and giving my catty tendencies free reign. Together we wound through the house like greedy ghosts, catalouging my aunt's possessions and divying the goods between us. All of the old green pottery for him, the huge dining room picture for me ("Darlin', you can keep it!"), the pair of marble candleholders for him, the green chairs for me. (The mother of pearl Last Supper was the only thing kept off limits, by silent agreement.) By the end of a diligent half an hour we each had completed our own glittering piles and our own mental checklists and were grinning like dragons.
Needless to say, we yelled our "Surprise!"s with unnatural verve.
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