Not too long ago I went to a really 'different' Summer party. It was a croquet party. Do I play croquet?, not daily, not monthly.. well...really not at all. It's an old English game with mallets, wooden balls and hoops. You play on the lawn and wear whatever you wore to 'the party'. BUT, toss in some Italians, booze and 'THE GOLDEN MALLET AWARD' and you're ON PAR with mud wrestling.
So, my tiny Fashionisto friend, Italian Miss, invited me to their annual event. I knew I wasn't going to pick up a mallet which is a stick of wood with a flat hammer at the bottom. I was going because I knew Italian people were a lot of fun, much like the GREEKS! They know how to have a good time.
But, when I arrived, too early (I'm one of those punctual peeps who has to be on time), Miss Italy was watching her hubby prepare a Greek Salad. It was huge..and he's not Greek, he's not even ITALIAN! Their small Papillion Dogs were sizing me up (and they're French) while I toured the small but very decorative back yard. Nope, I ain't playing CROQUET...as I looked at the Golden Mallet.
People started arriving in 2's and 3's. Half of them were of Italian background. LOUD, LAUGHING, YOU HAVE TO EAT THIS, OMG- SHUT UP!! and it ensues... the 'talking all at once' the loud and festive feast of Italian culture mixed in with French dogs and Greek food!
Then the time came: Pick out of a hat for your 'Round' of Croquet. I knew I couldn't deflect the challenge. These were Italians afterall, and you don't mess with TRADITION! So, I drew a '1', which meant tee off time for me was immediately.
There are 6 different colours and I pulled out ORANGE; I just do not like the colour orange. I tried to pawn off my colour on this gentle Italian man (who had imposing black) but he refused. I thought, "if I push this colour thing too far he'll hire one of the women to knock me out and drag me into the basement." Too many Godfather films.
So it begins. I don't really know the rules except you have to hit your wooden ball through a set order of hoops and hope to get to the end before sundown. I was a nightmare. I whacked that orange ball out of bounds more times then I could count. I might as well have been gorging on homemade foods and learning some Italian words because this was NOT MY GAME.
Some took it very seriously. Verbal confrontations, a bit of sign language, reminders of the fall-out from last year's competition. PEOPLE BROKE RULES..and that rule book was close by because you DON'T MESS WITH ITALIAN CROQUET RULES! The home-made Sangria's were flowing, the coloured wooden balls were all over the lawn and I was still 'in last place'. The pressure!
When I was young my Granny had a croquet set and we played around her huge back yard. I thought I was superb then. Had the 'golden croquet mallet' existed, I'm sure I would have won it on an annual basis. But, as an adult, I was crumbling fast. Women holding drinks in high heels were passing me! Angry Italian women in high heels, with pita bread in one hand and a glass of wine in the other hand...were passing me! I'm an athletic guy! I'm a jock! I should be good at this, right?
Music was on in the background and I watched my ball slide under a bush for the 17th time. Like Badminton, Lacrosse and Lawn Bowling...this was obviously not my sport...is it a sport? The last time I saw a croquet game was on one of those tight-lipped English movies where every one goes , "Pip, pip my good friend! Jolly good try I do say!" When the Italians got hold of this English game it got ugly, fast.
It's not like my lower lip was quivering or I was sweating from utter humiliation. Maybe I was trying too hard? Maybe they practice at all hours of the night? Maybe I just got a rotten colour and it's bad luck? Maybe I drank too much Sangria? Maybe I fear the loud and gregarious Italians? Whatever the case... I was not making it to ROUND 2...you could bet on that.
So, when it was all over I bowed out with grace and wondered if I'd be invited, next Summer, to a Rugby Party put on by Australians. Light up the BARBY, put on the snags and bangers, drink that PLONK and GEAR UP MATE!
Not too long ago I went to a really 'different' Summer party. It was a croquet party. Do I play croquet?, not daily, not monthly.. well...really not at all. It's an old English game with mallets, wooden balls and hoops. You play on the lawn and wear whatever you wore to 'the party'. BUT, toss in some Italians, booze and 'THE GOLDEN MALLET AWARD' and you're ON PAR with mud wrestling.
But, when I arrived, too early (I'm one of those punctual peeps who has to be on time), Miss Italy was watching her hubby prepare a Greek Salad. It was huge..and he's not Greek, he's not even ITALIAN! Their small Papillion Dogs were sizing me up (and they're French) while I toured the small but very decorative back yard. Nope, I ain't playing CROQUET...as I looked at the Golden Mallet.
Then the time came: Pick out of a hat for your 'Round' of Croquet. I knew I couldn't deflect the challenge. These were Italians afterall, and you don't mess with TRADITION! So, I drew a '1', which meant tee off time for me was immediately.
Some took it very seriously. Verbal confrontations, a bit of sign language, reminders of the fall-out from last year's competition. PEOPLE BROKE RULES..and that rule book was close by because you DON'T MESS WITH ITALIAN CROQUET RULES! The home-made Sangria's were flowing, the coloured wooden balls were all over the lawn and I was still 'in last place'. The pressure!
When I was young my Granny had a croquet set and we played around her huge back yard. I thought I was superb then. Had the 'golden croquet mallet' existed, I'm sure I would have won it on an annual basis. But, as an adult, I was crumbling fast. Women holding drinks in high heels were passing me! Angry Italian women in high heels, with pita bread in one hand and a glass of wine in the other hand...were passing me! I'm an athletic guy! I'm a jock! I should be good at this, right?
It's not like my lower lip was quivering or I was sweating from utter humiliation. Maybe I was trying too hard? Maybe they practice at all hours of the night? Maybe I just got a rotten colour and it's bad luck? Maybe I drank too much Sangria? Maybe I fear the loud and gregarious Italians? Whatever the case... I was not making it to ROUND 2...you could bet on that.
So, when it was all over I bowed out with grace and wondered if I'd be invited, next Summer, to a Rugby Party put on by Australians. Light up the BARBY, put on the snags and bangers, drink that PLONK and GEAR UP MATE!
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