More like Junior Raisins Weekend
David Barrett
Notre Bum
I never really understood the concept of Junior Parents Weekend. Why juniors and not seniors? Why parents and not hamsters? Why a weekend and not a month? Why at all?
Don't get me wrong, I love my parents and excruciatingly long speeches about how much I have impacted my class president's collegiate experience. I also love raisins, especially when they comprise two-thirds of my $45 dinner. It's just the discomfort of tight shoes and poor conversation that frustrate me.
Anticipating another Notre Dame shortcoming, my roommates and I had the brilliance to serve up an appetizer to the Friday night "Bright Lights in the Big City" Gala. We offered a menu of cheap suits and awkward silences in our very own T.G.I. Friday's family room. Unfortunately, we lacked the foresight to serve up the mind-numbing booze that might make such a party tolerable.
The party was scripted to erupt at 7:30 p.m. The floors were scrubbed and the toilet paper was stocked. However, the cute couple of Valentine's Day and JPW would surely spell long dinner lines and preclude anyone from arriving before 8 p.m. Fingers crossed, I prayed my roommates would deliver the necessary beverages before the masses rolled in. I prayed and I prayed, but to no avail.
One by one, the families trickled in. One by one, I took their coats. One by one, I led them upstairs to feel my bed linens and marvel at their exceptionally high thread count. One by one, they wanted to leave.
Soon enough the beers did arrive, and my roommates along with them. The doors opened and the good times, they began to roll. We introduced. We entertained. People brought us wines worth more than our couches, which we embarrassingly served in "Solo" cups. We blushed. We watched as our parents transformed from timid teenagers into touchy-feely "50-somethings" over the span of three beers. These weren't freshmen we were hosting, they were our parents, and it was fun.
Our party raged well into the night. Students and proud parents didn't begin to clear out until at least 10 p.m., at which point word had gotten out that the Gala was tremendously disappointing. Fortunately, my family had decided not to book the hot Friday night ticket. Rather, we decided to avoid the long prime-time dinner waits in favor of an 11 p.m. sit-down. Aside from a gravely disappointing lack of bleu cheese dressing, it turned out to be a decent idea.
We got back just in time to catch an alarmingly competitive game of family Beirut. Father-daughter tandems fired flurries of ping-pong balls at one another. They forgot their three-piece suits and evening gowns and for once shared in the drinking games rather than scolding us for playing them. That doesn't mean it was pretty. They cursed, they spit and they spit-up. But they played, they laughed and they assuredly regretted every minute they wasted in the enchanting North Bay of the Joyce Center.
On Saturday we slept late in anticipation of the activity packed evening. We attended the Junior class mass and took considerable comfort in the lush upholstery of alumni seating. Relishing the opportunity to move out of the bleachers and into sight of the hallowed hard wood and home of our volleyball squad, we readied ourselves for the uplift of our melodic folk choir and spiritual celebration. We listened to the wise words of our school's president and swayed to the song of our alma mater. It was perfect.
The dinner that followed wasn't so much. Catering By Design, apparently unaware of our ethnic homogeneity, delivered a potpourri of endless variety. They gave us sea scallops, several species of peppers, and an obscene quantity of raisins. (My deepest sympathies go out to those few thousand who refuse to eat raisins without the plastic baggies and elite fellowship of peanuts, marshmallows and M&Ms.)
As for the atmosphere, it couldn't have been cozier. Perhaps I am just bitter because of my seat location. Ice rink, penalty box. Or maybe it was the fact that even Father Malloy reminded me of a raisin from that distance. Despite all this prior disappointment however, the fireworks provided by the Glee Club and those fire-breathing plants managed to spark most everyone's interest and perhaps save the evening after all.
The Sunday morning brunch proved to be the high point of the weekend. Maybe it was the three hours of sleep, but Coach Brey's speech was the funniest and best that I've heard in some time. He borrowed some inspiration from my fourth grade English folder and told us to "strive to be special." I always do Coach. He, and all the other scheduled speakers, told us to hug and thank our parents. He brought it together for me and helped me understand that this weekend was not a complete waste of time. It was more than raisins and penalty boxes. It was fun.
David Barrett is a junior economics and philosophy major. His column appears every other Monday. Contact him at barrett.43@nd.edu.
The views expressed in this column are those of the author and not necessarily those of The Observer.
All Viewpoint Stories for Monday, February 17, 2003
