Page 60 of An Introvert's Guide to Life and Love
“Okay. Wow,” I say again. I don’t know why, but the idea of an impromptu visit makes me feel defensive. Gramps and I have a decent rhythm going, and I don’t want my parents to mess it up.
“And we’ll needyouto help with the logistics.” She says this in the same tone of voice she might use to tell me I’d won a shopping spree at Nordstrom.
“Logistics?”
“Booking the party room, ordering a cake from Publix, buying decorations. Trish will handle the caterers for the dinner buffet. Of course, we can sneak in and help you set everything up before the party.”
“Party room?” I repeat, feeling ten steps behind.
“The party room there at the condo, Mallory. Inquire today because it sometimes books up well in advance.”
“Inquire today.”
“Are you feeling all right? You seem a little slow this morning.”
“I’m fine, I just ripped up some carpet yesterday,” I say, as though this reason would make sense to anyone other than myself.
I expect Mom to skim right over this detail—she’s not usually one for details—but she snags on it instead.
“You—what? Carpet? Where? Pebble Cottage?”
“Yeah. It needs new floors. And paint.”Don’t laugh—I really need her not to laugh. If one more person laughs at my attempts, especially now that I feel like I did the hardest workout of my life, I might just give up.
“Look at you taking initiative!” Her voice surprises me by sounding like it’s full of admiration instead of hilarity. “Mallory is taking initiative!” This last bit sounds like she yelled it at my dad in another room.
“I’ve taken initiative before,” I grumble. “I think.”
“What kind of flooring are you going with? Because I think a nice vinyl plank would really—”
“Mom,” I snap, pressing my fingers to the bridge of my nose. An elderly couple a few tables away looks up at me in alarm. I lower my voice. “I can handle it.”
“Of course you can, darling. So, the family guest list will be Trish and co., your father and me, Lenore, and Eddy. Make sure you invite Gramps’s friends from Sandy Shores, too—you know, Angela and whoever else he’s spending time with these days.”
“You wantmeto invite his friends?”
“Yes! You live there now, don’t you? Text me after you’ve secured the party room. I have to run. Love to you and Gramps!”
So now I have this on my to-do list on top of everything else. I wish my mom hadn’t surprised me with this on a Monday morning. My Mondays are always packed full of meetings, and I’m finding it hard to concentrate. What did she mean by decorations? Balloons and streamers? What would Lottie have done? Probably something sophisticated, but I can’t for the life of me think what that might be.
Sometime after lunch, as I’m listening to a drip-voiced co-worker drone on about the “learnings” from an all-hands last week and then something about “solidifying the asks that we’re bringing to leadership,” a tidal wave of resentment crashes over me. Do I resent that I have a steady, decently paying job? No way. But I do resent that I’m sitting here right now, bored to numbness, when I have so many other things that need my attention. Things that, frankly, I would much rather be doing. Active, tangible things, like running around town to organize a party, and using my own two hands to beautifya house. Things that seem a lot more interesting and rewarding than sitting through meetings full of corporate jargon, tapping out notes so I don’t instantly forget what people say.
I have a break from meetings at three o’clock. (I have my calendar permanently blocked for lunch at noon Seattle time, and people occasionally respect that.) The rest of the afternoon is full of meetings that I only have to listen to. Sitting cross-legged on my seashell-covered bed, I wish I could work on the house while listening to these meetings, but there’s no internet at Pebble Cottage.
Maybe I should fix that. I mean, it is my house. I could get it hooked up to the internet, and then my future tenants could pay me for the internet instead of having to set it up themselves.
Two hours later, I’ve gone down a rabbit hole of internet service providers in the Tampa area. Somehow, I haven’t absorbed a word of the meetings I’ve been in, nor have I made any progress toward planning Gramps’s party.Nice.But I did manage to make an appointment with the internet guys, so at least I have that.
It’s almost five, so I decide to try to figure out the party room situation. If only I could ask Gramps where the party room is—but he’s not supposed to know about the party. I vaguely remember where it is from family reunions past, so, after setting my Slack status to “BRB,” I take the elevator to the ground floor and wander toward the building that contains the gym and the library.
My sandals slap against the cold tile floor as I walk through the empty lobby. It’s sumptuously—and thematically—decorated with watercolor paintings of egrets and whales, huge mirrors framed with borders of milky-green sea glass, and aquamarine floor vases overflowing with tufts of dried ornamental grass.
At the end of one hallway is a door with a helpful placard that reads,PARTY ROOM. The room is empty. I half expected there to besome sort of party room receptionist manning a desk. But there is no desk, just a large room full of couches, a TV, a pool table, some scattered tables, and a kitchenette.
I sigh. Why didn’t my mom tell mehowto book the party room? That detail would have been helpful. I’m just thinking that I could ask Angela next time I see her, when I spot it: a bulletin board in the kitchen. It contains a few flyers and notices, and right in the middle is a sign-up sheet titledPARTY ROOM RESERVATIONS.Perfect—so I don’t even have to talk to anyone. I can just add my name.
I scan the sheet to see how it’s done. At the top, the short instructions say that the room can be reserved up to twice a day, for a minimum of two hours and a maximum of four hours. The cleaners come by once at the end of each night, so morning parties are responsible for their own cleanup. Works for me.
Running one finger down the list, I find the date of Gramps’s birthday, June 10. My heart sinks. In small, cursive handwriting, someone has written, “Susan Goodwin, 5–9P.M.” So that means either we can have the party in the morning or we have to choose a different date. Why didn’t Mom tell me about this sooner? Would she and Trish be opposed to a brunch party instead of a dinner party?
