The Affair by Kim Smith    

I would strongly advise that anyone with even a hint of Attention Deficit Disorder in their system, or anywhere along their ancestral line not attempt to throw a surprise party. My husband just turned 40 this past weekend and I had a rather large party for him. I invited everyone in his life, past and present. I even tried to invite the doctor who delivered him, however, I was unable to reach her as she was busy being involved with Doctors Without Borders and is presently stationed in a remote part of Kenya.

I had a live band. Part of the deal with the band is that they wanted to be a part of the buffet experience. Fine— only come to find out there were seven of them. Oh, and they insisted upon a running tab at the bar. Other than that they were quite reasonable. I had to take a little bit of equity out of the house but they were well worth it, as a party is only as good as the entertainment. When I first hired the band I met with the leader. He was actually more of a president, or maybe a prime minister. A prime minister wearing an orange shirt with pink palm trees. Music people, at least the truly gifted ones, are well aware of their inherent genius abilities and realize that they have tremendous bargaining power.

I love music people. They are well aware of the whole supply and demand thing and they sort of have this worship us attitude, you know, in a good way. So in addition to paying for seven additional buffets at a fancy restaurant in northern Vermont’s upper west side, and a killer bar bill, it was also requested that I have a special table reserved for the band. I did as I was asked and sat them at the head table with the rest of the family. The sax player sat next to my mother-in-law.

When I first met with the Prime Minister of the Funk Collection, I had to ask him if he had ever seen the movie, What About Bob. He said with great regret that he had missed that one. So I went on to explain that there are two kinds of people, those who like Neil Diamond and those who don’t. The blank stare I got from Mr. Prime Minister brought my shame straight to the surface and at lightening speed. I felt naked. Now the entire world, or at least my entire world would know. The closet door had been opened and the hinges removed.

I am not sure if you are aware of this or not, but fifteen wonderful years ago my husband and I entered into a mixed marriage. Yes, it’s true. As my husband is from Massachusetts, so the outlaws are Red Sox fans, every last one of them, and I am from New York where we worship the Yankees. Having to admit that there were now outlaws in my ancestral klan that not only tolerated, but liked the Red Sox—shame became a sensation I was familiar with. So when the Prime Minister gave the signal there they all were out on the dance floor singing their Sweet Caroline anthem, complete with waving arms and intermittent sound affects. That age-old cliché still holds true, that love is blind. It’s blind as a bat in daylight. Well, there is at least one nice thing and that is that in my darling’s 40 years of life thus far, he finally got to see his team win. Maybe our grandchildren will be so lucky.

As far as the ADD piece, most people picture eight-year-old boys bouncing off the walls of the principal’s office. They do not normally envision a mother of five children throwing an eighty-person surprise 40^th birthday party in a town located closer to Santa than any other. Where we live, the Northern Lights is not only a well-known restaurant in Soho, but an actual reflection off the polar ice cap.

When I first booked the restaurant back in June, I felt like I was way ahead of the game and that ultimately, it would be no big deal to pull this off. I told them the date, February 4^th, 2006, then left for a two-week vacation to the beach. It was also no where near my frontal lobe that February 4^th would fall after the busiest, most challenging time of year for a mother of five, especially in materialistic America. Right on schedule, about a week before Thanksgiving, I felt the pre-holiday adrenalin kicking in before the annual six week marathon of cooking, baking, buying, wrapping, concerts, recitals, and ornament-making fundraisers for the annual church bazaar. I have always enjoyed covering little white styrofoam balls with colorful glitter. The best part is that we spend an average of ten dollars per ornament, then we charge $1.50. The same goes for the refreshments table. Each family will spend an average of thirty dollars on baking supplies, sacrifice a full Saturday of valuable life-space only to make fifteen dollars back after selling the cookies for fifty cents a piece. Next year I may suggest that we write a check.

Thanksgiving came and went with a good time had by all and without much a thought given to the 40^th birthday surprise party that was looming. It was the trip to the Dollar Store that brought it all front and center. There I stood, surrounded by cheaply made porcelain elves when it occurred to me that the minute Christmas was over I had to get on the stick and get moving with invitations as our family is sprawled out across the country and they would need notice as far as flights and hotels. I realized that I hadn’t communicated with the Prime Minister of the band since I booked them months ago. Maybe he took my deposit and went on a drinking binge. I better call and solidify things.

Then there was the little issue of money. We have five children, four nieces, four nephews, three godchildren and a partridge in a pear tree. Not to mention grab-bag gifts, gifts for the teachers, and miscellaneous holiday expenses such as the Salvation Army bell-ringers. The bell-ringers are usually stationed outside the exit door of your local Wal-Mart. There is a reason that they are planted right there as you leave instead of as you are walking in with a full wallet and room available on your credit card. The bell-ringers watch you carefully as you struggle to push your overloaded cart through the crowd. They watch you squint to look for your car amidst the crowded parking lot of fellow materialistic holiday shoppers. The bell-ringers can read your thoughts. They know that you are questioning yourself as to how you could have bought of all this stuff and now you’re struggling with putting a five-dollar bill in their little red bucket. They watch you as you attempt to look passed them —as if you do not notice the loud, very distinct sound of cold metal ringing against cold metal.

Not only do they know you are being fueled by guilt for your shallow over-spending, but because they are standing there freezing with their bells and little red buckets doing good things for their less fortunate fellow human beings while you keep your eyes focused on your car doing all you can to ignore them. The bell-ringers count on these shallow, apathetic, compulsive holiday shoppers for their donations. At this point, you could turn around and give them the title to your car and your next born child and this would not be enough, because the bell-ringers have very successfully kicked in your self-loathing cycle and you no longer feel worthy of the air you breathe.  It’s a lucrative business.

Once I figured out how to pace myself with holiday expenses while paying for the party, I was able to take only a small breath before it was time to put up the tree. With a tree comes clutter, lots of clutter. Of course, everybody loves a Christmas tree all lit up, unless you are an ADD mother of five children trying to plan an enormous surprise party. When my outer world is cluttered, my inner world becomes cluttered, and when my inner world becomes cluttered I get ugly. Small things become huge and huge things become intolerable. This is how it works with ADD. Over-stimulation causes short-circuits to happen which in turn causes brain malfunction and heavy drinking.

Of course, at forty-one years old I have learned to manage my ADD quite well for the most part, much as a diabetic gets on sort of a routine plan to manage their issues. After a while they don’t even need to think about it. This is one thing that is different with a person with ADD. We need to consciously be thinking all the time of ways to prevent over-stimulation from happening as once the full-blown ADD frenzy sets in there is no turning back. Family and friends will just need to know to get out of your path, as it is not a safe place to be for anyone.

After Christmas came and went and another good time was had by all, it was time to de-clutter the house and find places for things. I needed to restore balance to my living room. Just taking the tree down helped as it was blocking a rather large window and major artery of light to our living space. I finally felt like I could breathe again. Six weeks of work and it was over in roughly an hour and a half. It would appear that there must be something wrong with this picture. Dr. Phil would say that there must by pay off in it somewhere or we would not continue to do it. I would have to agree. It is said within the psychology world that self-punishment is the most reinforcing of behaviors. This may be something worth looking at.

After I swept up the last of the remaining rust colored pine needles, I retreated to our bedroom where I could plan my husband’s party in secret. I found and old, slightly yellow picture of him when he was three years old. Very cute. I then added the information about the party on the bottom, printed fifty or so just to get started and snuck off to the post office where the plot had officially begun. For the local people I simply decided to go on word of mouth, as I did not want any invitations lying around where they could be seen. Too risky—especially if they were seen by children who could tell my children at school.

Before long, I had only two weeks left. It felt like Christmas was over five minutes ago and the party was tomorrow. The time was just going by too quickly. I still had to order the balloons, napkins, and cake. I decided that I needed a new dress as everyone in town had seen the same old dress I wear to everything. In fact, I think that I will work everything around my slut shoes. There is actually a story around my slut shoes. I had driven down to New Paltz for my sister’s book signing in August with some of our friends from Vermont. It was exciting and being the sister of the author I felt that I should dress up a bit, kind of like the mother of the bride only different. So a week prior I left the woods and took a shopping excursion with my eight-year old daughter Shannon. Eight-year old girls are perfect shoe picker-outers as they are all about the shimmer. Shannie immediately zoomed in on a pair of black spiked heels with rhinestones across the toes. They were exactly what I needed.

A week later, we were all upstairs at my mother’s house getting ready for the event when one of our friends stopped me right in my tracks. My friend Jeffrey and his partner Michael just stared at me, giving me a total once-over. Then Jeffrey said, “Honey, you are just killing me in your throw me down and f—k me shoes. You are absolutely devastating.” That was all that I needed to keep me going for at least a month.. My husband could have said, “Oh, you look nice,” which technically may qualify for a compliment but without the floating on top of a cloud for month kind of affect. My friends Jeffrey and Michael made me feel like the most attractive, most sexy woman in the hallway.

Ever since that moment, I have decided to nurture my inner slut. I decided to work my party outfit around my throw me down shoes. Back to the mall I went on a mission to find the perfect dress for my slut shoes. I was throwing a party for eighty people and deserved a new dress. So there. Then it happened. It called to me from a display on the wall. It had little rhinestones on the straps. I raced to the dressing room and tried it on. It was a perfect fit. It was fun. It was me. I spun around in front of the mirror happier than a child on Christmas morning. Before long I had the entire dress department involved. I needed nylons, only they had to be the right nylons. They couldn’t be dull and boring, not with this dress. I needed lady of the evening nylons, only with a touch of class of course. Wait until Jeffrey sees these.

Now the party couldn’t come soon enough. I was getting at least twenty e-mails a day from family and friends as they had all been carefully directed to my lap top address that I normally use for professional purposes only and my husband does not go near. The over-stimulation was again picking up speed, as I had to stay on top of questions, reservations, and directions daily. I realized that I needed to hire babysitters for our nieces and nephews. How was I going to do this? It will come to me if I go meditate on the back deck for a few days. Maybe I can find a vacant cave somewhere. Then it came to me. Actually it came to my sister as she had rented a suite in a local B & B. Before the end of the week, both sides of the family had taken over the Phineas Swan Bed and Breakfast. And it was a good thing as there has been very little snow and our skier-dependent economy was in the tank. The restaurants, Inns, and general stores were thankful for a 40^th surprise party in the middle of a snow-less ski season. Our families brought with them a midwinter boom in our local economy. After I worked out the babysitter thing, I realized the children would need to eat and every single friend we have would be at the party. I felt like I was living that old brownie scout camp song, “A bear climbed over a mountain.” It goes something like this, “A bear climbed over a mountain, a bear climbed over a mountain, a bear climbed over a mountain to see what he could see.” When he got to the top, “he saw another mountain, he saw another mountain . . .” You get the point. I solved the babysitter thing by hiring my oldest, and I must admit, very responsible son Ryan and one of his friends. We would bring them over an hour early along with my other four children. I had to buy and hide snacks for fifteen children. I pre-ordered pizzas. Thankfully the general store at the bottom of our hill just started delivering a month ago. Delivery is one of those big city luxuries we lack out here in the woods, at least until D & D’s deli started the pizza delivery service in January. There is no such thing as small miracle. That mountain has been conquered.

I got friends to pick up the cake and bring it to the restaurant, Michael and Jeffrey actually. I love those guys. My friends Berta and Lisa were my designated decorating committee. I had ordered confetti and Over the Hill napkins, balloons, etc. Our other friends Roger and Jonathan took care of getting them filled with helium. So far so good.

Before long, the party day was upon us. It felt surreal. I couldn’t believe it was here. Now what do I do. I let go. Whatever is done is done, what isn’t won’t be and oh well. Maybe I should call the restaurant and let them know that I had completely lost track of how many people were coming. Then again, maybe I shouldn’t. My mind felt like a radio caught in between stations. Thoughts were intruding from every direction. I was a walking, breathing raw nerve without that layer of fat that protects it from being constantly stimulated. I was responding to every thought and feeling I had, simultaneously. I think I am going insane. And why did I do this to myself? Because my sweetheart will be so happy. I am so glad that I did this. I wish it was all over. I can’t wait for the party to start. Should I ride the bus or take my lunch…?

An hour before I thought I was going to have a heart attack despite the amount of red wine I had consumed over the last two weeks. After all, heart disease is still the reigning champ for the death of middle-aged women. I’d rather not be a statistic, at least not until the party is over. I’ve put so much into it. I drove over to the Phineas Swan with the babysitters and younger ones in tow, layers of smuggled blankets and pillows in the back seat, snacks piled on top. I was almost there. I wondered to myself how many heartbeats per minute would be considered unhealthy.

As I pulled into the parking lot, I felt agita leap into my throat. Agita is an Italian word that describes that kind of burning, burpy feeling that soars up your esophagus and touches your tonsils. The family had arrived and with lots of children under seven. There were lots of hugs. I really can’t focus now. I still have an hour, and if I go home to an empty house other than the unsuspecting birthday victim it will be the longest hour of my life.

I stalled as long as I could. I am glad that I thought enough to bring the keys to the other car with me so my darling would not be able to sneak out for some reason.  I was beginning to take pride in my sneakiness. I felt like I was having an affair with a surprise party. Only I knew about it, how wonderful it would be, the band, the buffet, the open bar, but most of all the people, old friends and new, the family that had traveled. All of this I have been doing behind my poor, unsuspecting, hard-working, devoted husband’s back. I had been sneaking e-mails and phone calls when he was hard at work trying to support seven people. I am nothing but a whore.

Finally, the time had come for me to return home. My husband was told that we were going out to dinner with a few friends which we always do so he didn’t even think twice about it. He was crabby. I ducked into the bedroom to slip into my new dress and my throw me down shoes. I bought new earrings also. I have to say that I looked darn good for a forty-one year old woman with five children and surprise party anxiety.  

My husband had not moved from his comfortable spot on the couch, still donning his Cat and the Hat jammies and was now snoring. Our friends would be there in twenty minutes. Out I come into the living room completely wanting to be noticed and worshipped in my new dress, as I look so good that the cute police could arrest me and throw me in fashion jail.

My husband opened one eye and asked me why I was so dressed up. He was only going to wear a sweater. One other little secret that I had kept to myself. I hired a limo. My husband likes limos, so I figured that I would tell him that this was his surprise—that we were all going to dinner in a limo. Shortly after he emerged from the bedroom dressed and ready to go, our friends got there. We poured wine. We talked and laughed. Actually they talked and laughed. I politely excused myself and headed for the bathroom where I could hyperventilate privately. I saw the limo pull in through the bathroom window. I splashed water on my face, stood tall, or as I tall as I can for five foot two, and opened the door. We got our jackets on and my husbands glanced at me with a big smile. “What are you up to Kimberly?” he said to me. “Why what would make you think I was up to anything honey?” I responded.

We jumped in the limo, popped open the champagne, and were off. My affair was about to be revealed. The truth was about to set me free.  I drank more champagne. I wished I had a straw, or maybe a Valium.

As we pulled in front of the restaurant, I noticed that people had successfully parked in the back. I could tell my husband had not an inkling of what was to transpire in less than twenty seconds. Imagine, eighty people and no one slipped. Incredible! No blizzards. No flu germs. It had all worked out beautifully. I was so full of gratitude and we had not even walked in the door yet. It felt so good to be alive.

As we got closer to the door, my legs felt like they weighed four hundred pounds apiece. My mouth was stuck. I was beginning to hyperventilate again. He opened the door. We walked through the little hallway. I looked up and watched his face, his eyes so wide, his smile, as he stood there in awe of what he saw in front of him. All of his favorite people in the world were staring back. The Prime Minister gave the signal and they played happy birthday. It was loud and it was happy. Other than our five precious children, this could be the best gift I have ever given him.

So this affair I had—well it’s over now— and we are a stronger, happier couple for it.

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