Life just barrels on through, doesn't it? Birthday party invitations still arrive, snuggled up with the condolence card from the vet; someone needs to pay the electric bill. So what if I feel as though my life has ended abruptly? Or, perhaps, more accurately, if I wish that were merely so?
I still have to get up, feed the Fox, forage for appropriate, not-too-parts birthday gifts to give his pals, as you all should know that Karma has a way of finding itself smack in the middle of the birthday party gamut - if you give out that necklace making kit, trust me on this one, Santa, or some well-meaning relative without the brains God gave a goose will return the favor with the seventeen hundred piece beading set, the multi-tiered marble mania game, or my personal favorite, the Do It Yourself Soap Box Kit, sporting three thousand pieces, all the size of my toenails.
So off we went today, to not just one, but TWO back to back bday parties, from hell. First stop? McDonald's. Anyone who's read anything I've ever written knows my feeling on Ronald McDonald - a pedophile of the worst order, right up there with Michael Jackson, and well, all those other scary freaks, that get away with everything. Not. A. Fan. But alas, it's our neighbor, so after karate, we trek out to eat total crap, cake, more crap, and the bag of candy that seems to be a pre-requisite item at every kids party.
Off to number two; a party whose invitation needed far more careful scrutiny than I mastered - blast if it wasn't a freaking costume party....and us, sans costume. Forty dollars, and a madcap trip to I-Party later, we're gifted, dressed, and off to paint pumpkins at a small craft store brimming with joy and enthusiasm............as all the kids are sugar-highed to heaven and beyond, and now they're due to sit still, and paint.
No such luck. My pirate took to table dancing, (I kid you not) and smart-mouthing. Fabulous. We left, three goodie bags to the good (depending on your point of view, naturally) and a not-dry-acrylic-painted pumpkin in tow. With glitter. My theory on glitter is.........well.........it should remain in theory. Glitter is friendly. It's adorable. It's a fucking mess. Kids just love to paint their own hair, and that of their neighbors; did I mention the forty dollar costume? Covered in glitter? And red paint? Can we say, not washable? I knew we could.
Who gives out pixie stix, by the way, to kids? I thought only stupid, high teenages ate that junk. I had to employ the seat belt to keep my high as a kite kidergartener off the ceiling of the car, as driving with him up there would have been quite hazardous.
Now, we're home, comtemplating the secondary bash for Danielle, across the street. With the screaming that just floated up from the basement, I'll admit, I'm torn. Let him go work that off with other screaming sugar loaded freaky kids? Or, keep him home? To torture me?
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