birthday parties belong at home

Families have a lot of reasons to celebrate. There are birthdays, anniversaries, graduations, job promotions, engagements, baby showers, and the occasional going-away party for that uncle who’s going to live with the Pygmies. And that’s a good thing. There should be moments in between the doctor visits, meetings with your boss, and colonoscopies when we squeeze out a little joy with the ones we love.

But if your celebrations are larger than six people and the restaurant can’t give you a private room, forget the restaurant, cancel the reservation, and celebrate at home.

At home a family makes sense. They’re a herd of people who gather around their usual watering hole, eating the same foods and passing out on their spot on the couch. But out in public that same family becomes a confused stampede out of its element, thrashing around, causing nothing but trouble. There’s nothing scarier than seeing a large family stomping into a restaurant with stacks of presents and Mylar balloons. This is not the making of a good time. This is the making of a riot.

They burst through the door of the TGI Fridays like pirates ransacking a town. Parties of two and three scurry out of their way and run for cover. Busboys begin to weep. The hostess stutters as she looks down at the reservation list and checks in the party of twelve she was hoping would cancel.

The first problem is that a group that big takes up a lot of space. Too much space. Anytime they have to start putting tables together and looking for extra chairs, it’s a sign that the group would be better off in a public park at a picnic table.

Another sign that they don’t belong is the noise. Have you ever sat next to a group that big? You and your date are ready to enjoy some quiet conversation when the party bus rolls in like a screaming bachelorette party wearing inappropriate inflatable hats. They immediately start yelling. They yell about where they are going to sit. They yell their gigantic drink orders. They yell at the waiter. They yell at each other. They yell with their mouths full of all-you-can-eat appetizers. Then they get drunk and yell some more.

Even worse than having to observe this fiasco is having to be a part of it. It’s a terrible attempt at a party. No one even wants to be there. The young kids certainly don’t. They don’t want to be dressed in their uncomfortable formal outfits and have to sit in one place for hours. That’s not fun. That only happens in church and school. Now you’re going to make them sit at this table and have to listen to the adults talk about politics and real estate?

And what kind of party sticks all of their guests at a long table? If you were having a party at home, would you invite people over and then force them to sit in one chair, for three hours, where they can only talk to the people next to them? No. Unless you are into some weird S-M interrogation thing, you wouldn’t.

So now you’re stuck with the people you’re sitting next to and, chances are, they won’t be the good ones. Let’s face it, in any group of more than six people there’re going to be some who are kind of lame and some who are even worse. And there you are, trapped between these jellyfish who have nothing to say. You can do your best to survive, but trying to keep a conversation going with them is like throwing stones into a pile of wet mud.

And, to make matters worse, you hear laughter coming from the other end of the table. Loud, joyous laughter in response to some great story where all the cool people are, while you sit next to Aunt Sonya and her liver breath.

Then the ordering. Holy crab cakes, the ordering! I can’t handle it. It takes too long! Way too long! If everyone knew what they were doing it would be a mess, and now add in all these people who act like talking to a waiter is like communicating with an alien being.

The children who don’t know how to order from a menu have been left on their own, at the kid end of the table, and now they have to do the two things they fear the most: talk to a stranger and make decisions on the fly. The waitress looks at them and first they freeze, then they panic, and finally, in a moment of desperation, they order the lobster tails and knock over all the water glasses.

The old people are even worse. This is the one place where someone still has to listen to them, and they go all-out. It doesn’t matter that they’re confused and can’t see or hear. It doesn’t matter that they have a list of dietary restrictions a mile long. They are there to be served like the kings and queens they were in the old days and this waiter is going to have to listen to them. Not just their waiter. Every waiter working every station and every busboy, cook, valet, even the guy at the next table is, in their old mind, there to serve them. I cringe every time they start waving their wrinkly hand and blurting out orders.

“I want a cocktail. Does the bartender know how to make a Rusty Nail? The right way?”

“I don’t know, I can check,” mumbles the sixteen-year-old waiter.

“What about a highball? I had a highball when I was in Chicago once. It was cold and rainy. I was at the zoo. Or was it the opera? What were we talking about?”

Shut up and order it, you imbecile! You’re not alone. You’re in a group. Get it together and move it along. Why doesn’t someone take control and tell this group of babbling idiots that everyone is getting water and be done with it? I’ll tell you why: because no one is in charge! If we had a leader with any brains we’d be at home right now.

This party is already a mess and the food hasn’t even come out yet.

When it does, what are the chances that this poor waiter is going to get everything right? What are the odds that someone at this table won’t be screwed out of their chicken fingers? What are the odds it’s going to be me? Very high!

But for the good of the team I will not send it back. I’m not slowing things down. I don’t send anything back. That’s just more time. I have eaten an entire dish of wet fish with a side of cold beets that I didn’t order and I never said a word. I’ll choke down whatever I have to as long as it gets us closer to the cake.

The cake is a sign that we’re getting close to leaving. Bring it out, put candles on it, and start singing. Have you ever noticed that “Happy Birthday” is the longest song ever written? Forget “The Star-Spangled Banner,” forget “Stairway to Heaven”; singing “Happy Birthday” in a crowded restaurant literally slows time.

Everyone in the entire restaurant rolls their eyes, one person claps, and we all dig in to the dessert that eighty-year-old Grandpa just spit all over, trying to blow out the candles.

All that’s left to do is get the check and fight over who’s paying. In a panic, everyone takes out their reading glasses and starts doing long math on their cellphones, screaming about who ate what and how many drinks they’ve all had. I always keep extra cash on me, because whatever tip this group comes up with for this struggling waiter is not going to be nearly enough.

This wasn’t a celebration, it was something to be endured. But finally we are free to go, until someone suggests the worst thing anyone could suggest at this moment.

“Why don’t we open the presents here?”

That’s when I call the waiter over and order a bottle of tequila and a gun.