Saturday was my son Drew’s
3rd birthday party.
Both my kids have a cold, and Saturday was a culmination of way too many
stimulating factors. I should have foreseen that this was going to go 120 mph
right into a brick wall, but I’m a Mom. I’m at the forefront in the field of
Personal Denial and Facades. I have a PHD in Fakery.
This party, while not a disaster, has definitely given me
cause to reevaluate future gatherings with my family amongst non-family members
that may judge me.
Lets look at the dynamic of this party, shall we??
My dad was in the back yard getting shit faced. I guess
the130 calories he consumed prior to 4pm didn’t seem to be a match for 4
Budweisers in 1 hour. I overheard him tirade on subjects like the wind (yes-
really- the wind REALLY angers my dad), Obama’s stance on Mexico’s border,
super small salt shakers, and “Oriental” power tools. Yeah. This doesn’t
exactly bode well for my party guests. Like deers in headlights, they were all
frozen. Scared to move or say anything that might spark another angry diatribe
from the cranky man in Tevas.
My mom, who is humorously and eternally naïve about SO many
things, became visually upset when she learned that the “gays stole her
rainbow”.
“What? The rainbow? Are you kidding? It’s THE RAINBOW. I
can’t use it without someone thinking I’m a gay?”
“It’s not A gay, Mom. It’s just gay. And I’m not sure that
you personally need to worry about this issue. I don’t think that people will
automatically make that jump with you.”
“I’m a little upset by this. I feel like the gays stole my
rainbow. I really like my rainbow patio umbrella. Do I need to get rid of it???
Now all the neighbors will think we’re gay or something.”
“Again, Mom, I don’t think your rainbow umbrella will send
the message to your neighborhood of 23 years that you’re gay…living with your
husband. Keep your rainbow umbrella. “
This conversation went on for a painful amount of time before I excused myself to make myself a cocktail.
Then there is my loud Polish husband. I love him dearly, but
his drunk antics really freak me out sometimes. He kept pulling his shirt away
from his stomach and covering Sam and Drews head. They don't care for this...at all. Then he started with me. I really
hate that. It’s like one of my biggest pet peeves with him. I said “Hey. Just
please. Stop” He didn’t hear my quiet rage. He does it again making weird
chomping sounds as if his belly and shirt are eating me. “AAAAHH! Stop it!
DICK!!” Completely ignoring me, he does it again. This time it’s not to me. It’s
to a neighbor girl. She is 12 and she. is. mortified. She probably touched his
bellybutton hair and is permanently scarred. The drunk crazy neighbor is now
molesting her with his large belly and stretched- out shirt. Yeah. He was THAT
guy.
My son Drew isn’t much for crowds. He retreated, for most of
the party, underneath a table where he befriended an earwig and some lint. He
was fairly quiet. For this I was thankful.
Moving on to my daughter, Sam- This last weekend was the Super Moon.
–Look it up-. I didn’t know this till today, but now it all makes too much
sense. My daughter, Sam, is INCREDIBLY affected by atmospheric changes and
meteorological phenomena. I’ve made this observation over the last 6 months
with things like full moons, changes in barometric pressure, and eclipses. In
short, it makes her temporarily insane. She’s like a 4 yr old on an elephant’s
dose of hormone replacement therapy. Her mood swings give me whiplash and
usually end up making ME cry in frustration. So my normally bubbly and kind kid was off her game in a big way. After alienating all the
children at the party, for one reason or another, she quietly leaves the crowd.
She then suddenly appears with a very scary mannequin head she has named Deborah.
---Let me interrupt myself long enough to explain that I’m
using a newly acquired mannequin head to demo an instructional protocol for
esthetics. I keep my new friend in a “work suitcase.” –
She’s cradling Deb in her arms and then starts singing
“…we’re up all night to get lucky..”. Then she starts swinging her hips around
and adds some odd pelvic thrust. The whole party shuts up. Their stunned
silence assures me that this is every bit as creepy as it seems.
Before I can say
anything, my drunk husband yells, VERY loudly, “SAM!!! PUT DEBORAH AWAY!!! SHE
BELONGS IN THE SUITCASE!!!”
Still silence.
Then Sam SCREAMS, “BUT I LOVE DEBORAH AND SHE LOVES ME!!!”
That’s when my son, Drew, goes right up to Deb, in Sam’s
arms, and plants one on her cold latex lips. Apparently this violated some law
about mannequin head possession, and Sam lost her shit. I could feel the weight
of everyone’s eyes as I gently approach Sam and the head. Trying to coax
Deborah out of those arms was an exercise in futility. She was not giving up
that head. So I gave up. I told Sam that Deb could chill with her for a
while, before I had to put her back in the suitcase. Then Sam cried and thanked
me for my generosity. She really loves Deb.
Are you getting all this? My party was a thinly veiled train
wreck. If I really cared about what people thought of my family and all their
dysfunction I would have likely cried after everyone left. I didn’t, though. I
drank most of a bottle of wine. It seems my family has a lot of comedic
potential if not blackmailing opportunities for the future.
Plus, as I write this, I am growing quite proud of how
imperfectly perfect my odd family is; earwigs, mannequin heads and all.
