Category Archives: parties

Fuck-Me Cheese

Standard

On Sunday, the girl had a birthday party for a friend. Thank goodness it was a late afternoon party, since we had mr b’s 50th birthday party the night before and there was some serious ass-dragging going on. But we somehow managed to get ourselves to the party on time, and I managed to stay upright, and not punch anyone the entire time. What’s that? It doesn’t seem like an accomplishment to not punch anyone at a child’s birthday party? Well, I forgot to tell you the party was at Check E Cheese.

Ahhhh, now you understand, don’t you? Hungover at Fuck Me Cheese: not so fun.

The party was for a friend from day care. She is the daughter of an old friend’s sister. I’ve talked about my friend Tammy before – she died in 1992 of a brain tumor. I usually re-post my story of her every year on her birthday and this year, I was in the middle of my own crazy and I missed it – I thought about it a few days before and then forgot. I was on my way to the party when I remembered. I felt bad, though I guess it’s more about not thinking about her that day than an actual blog entry. It happens, though – she’s been gone almost as long as she was alive. It’s hard to imagine what she’d be like today. I’d like to think we’d still be friends, that we’d have kids who played together.

I got to the party and saw her sister, and then her mother, and then another sister and a cousin and it hit me. They all look so much alike. I can look at them and imagine what Tammy would look like today. I had to fight back tears. It’s a weird thing to feel grief for someone and then think, damn, I can’t let myself show it, because who am I to grieve – my grief can’t compare to theirs. But it’s still there. It’s still mine.

******************************

OK, on to other things – like the assholes at Fuck Me Cheese. Good lord. I understand that your kids drive you crazy. I understand that you need a break. Believe me – I UNDERSTAND! However, just because the insane mousehouse has the hand-stamping kidnapping prevention does NOT mean that your child should just run around completely unattended. There was one little girl who latched onto the girl in the games area. She only had a couple of tokens left to the girl’s full cup. When she ran out, the girl was giving her some (because she is a rocking, make-your-mom-proud, OMG-my-kid-is-awesome sharer), but this kid wouldn’t quit. She wanted tokens, tickets, whatever. She wanted to play this game, not that game. When the girl had finally had enough and wouldn’t give her more tokens, she looked me square in the face and demanded more. “I need more tokens!” I told her she needed to go ask her mom or dad. She said, “They don’t have any” Well, I’m sorry then kid. Where the fuck were her parents? This went on for over an hour and I never once saw an adult anywhere near this kid. Not once.

******************************

And let’s talk about the hand stamp system. When the girl and I left, you couldn’t even read the hand stamps anymore, after washing our hands a bunch of times. And yet, they let us out. There was no way they could tell for sure that the girl belonged with me. So Mr and/or Mrs. I Need A Break From My Kid need to step up their give-a-shit a little.

And she was the only one. During my two and a half hours there, I had to help a kid get strapped into a ride, help a toddler off of another ride, get an employee to fix a game for another kid, stop not one, not two, but THREE insane children from throwing skee balls instead of rolling them. Also – seriously – skee-ball for toddlers? Worst idea ever. I watched multiple children almost get their skulls cracked open by the flying spheres of death.

******************************

Sadly, Fuck Me Cheese wasn’t the worst experience of my weekend. No, that would be reserved for the girl jumping on me and knocking my camera to the cement floor. The lens popped off and won’t stay on properly. Awesome. I’m heartbroken over it. I love that camera. I mean LOVE it. It’s not the best camera, but it’s the best one I can afford, and I saved and bargain shopped for a long time before I got it. And I’m not sure I can afford to have it fixed – or if it’s even possible. I know I can’t afford a new one. But damn it, I need to do something, because it’s my one “thing.” I don’t like fancy jewelry. I don’t buy designer purses or shoes. I don’t spend money on clothes. I’m not a gadget lover. I get my books free from the library. I don’t care about new, fancy cars. But I ADORE my camera.

******************************

I can’t wait to get some photos up from the party (pre-camera/heart break). I didn’t take any candid or party photos, but I did take ones of every guest wearing a special Make Fun of Mr B Getup. It was awesome. More on that later.

WTF, Dog??

Standard

So the impromptu I-didn’t-know-I-was-having-it party on Saturday was a lot of fun. Only a few of the invitees were able to come and I ended up extending the invitation to a few of my family members and friends, and our neighbors dropped by (no – not crazy the asshole neighbors), and it turned out to be a great time. There was drinking and game-playing and karaoke singing and crazy blond wig wearing and terrible, untalented move-bustin. And good food.

And other than the fact that the dog seems to hate my cousin’s husband, John, for no reason – a good time was had my all. Except by the dog. Because he hates wearing crazy blond wigs almost as much as he hates John. (which, seriously – wtf, Dog? Wigs are fun. And so is John. He’s loved far and wide by dogs and kids alike. And the dog used to love my cousin, but he’s not too wild about her either, now that she’s carrying his spawn. So clearly she has to divorce him now, which is too bad because he’s a nice guy. WTF, Dog??) We had a ton of alcohol left over from my birthday party, so it was a good way to get rid of it. Except that everyone brought something to drink and we somehow have more booze than when we started. Isn’t that just awful? I think I’ll go console myself with a glass of my choice of seven different wines. Or a beer. Or a mojito. Or a daiquiri. Or a rum and coke.

Oh – also – for my birthday, Hedge and Rapunzel gave me a blender, since I was lamenting not having one (I have broken two in the past 6 years by making frozen drinks. And not smoothies – big surprise). So anyway, I inaugurated it Saturday night and was feeling all warm and fuzzy about my friends being so awesome and giving me a gift that clearly shows their love and affection for me (because nothing say love like a delicious frozen alcoholic drink). Until I realized that they were trying to kill me. Yes – my dear friends clearly rigged the blender so it would malfunction and cause my death.

You see, I made a batch of daiquiris – non-alcoholic for my pregnant cousin and the kids. And since they didn’t have any extra liquid (rum) in them and I was too drunk stupid to replace the rum with another liquid – like water – they were very thick. I had to spoon them out rather than pour them. I got drinks my cousin and non-drinking SIL (not my BFF SIL, Weenie – by midnight, she was half passed out on the dog pillow – you guess if she’s a teetotaler) and was trying to spoon the last of it out for the kids when the bottom of the pitcher (with the blades) fell off and landed on my foot. At first, I didn’t realize the magnitude of my injury because it just hurts when something lands on your foot. But then, a split second later, I looked down to see my entire foot covered in blood and a growing puddle of it on the floor. My first thought was, “Holy shit, I cut my foot.” My second thought was “Goddammit, I just cleaned this floor!”

Then, I spotted something on the floor. It was pale pink and toe-shaped and covered in blood. And my next thought was “Oh my God, I cut off my toe!” I sat down to inspect it before I got anyone upset about my toe-ectomy and discovered I hadn’t in fact cut off my toe – it was just a toe-shaped drop of extra-thick daiquiri, which was definitely good news. But the bad news is that my toe was still bleeding like crazy. Everyone was running around like crazy with towels and bandages and Neosporin (except for my faints at the sight of blood friend who expressed her concern from the relative safety of the family room). My non-passed-out-on-the-dog-pillow SIL was insisting that I needed to go to the ER, and all I could think about at this point was that if I had to go to the ER, it would ruin this party.

We eventually got it to stop bleeding, after approxmately 10 paper towels, lots of pressure, 16 feet of gauze, 8 pounds of cotton, and 8 Dora band-aids. Needless to say, I didn’t go to the hospital. Which isn’t as stupid as it sounds. Because even though the current version of the story involves almost bleeding to death, an explosion, a desperate dive to safety, snakes, giant, whirring blades that narrowly missed my carotid artery, and – depending on how hungover I am when I’m telling it – insane ninjas, it really wasn’t that bad. Except for the profuse bleeding. And the ninjas.

I Love You Guys!

Standard

I really do love you guys, but I’m actually referring to the drunken version of “I love you guys.”

You know – the kind where your husband has a surprise party for you for your 40th birthday and you are so excited and touched that everyone came.

And then you drink, and you get all, “OMG, I am so lucky to have these people, they are awesome!

And then you drink some more and you’re like, “You guys rock! I wish you were here EVERY DAY!!”

And then you have another mojito and start with the “I LOVE YOU GUYS!!!”

And then you have yet another mojito and get all, “This is so much fun. We need to do this more often. How about next Saturday? Everyone can come and we’ll have a big girl’s night party and you’ll all stay over and IT’LL BE AWESOME!!!!!

And then you have a couple more drinks and then you pass out go to sleep and then you don’t think about it again.

And then five days later your sister-in-law calls you and asks if you are still on for tomorrow and you’re happy because you were planning on SIL and N(iece)IL coming down for a the night and you say, “Yeah – I was hoping you were still coming!” And then she says, “ALL of us?” And then you start hearing the Psycho shower scene music in your head, because you have no idea who “all of us” entails and have no recollection of inviting anyone except Weenie and Scabs. But you know you get all “I Love You Guys” when you drink and OMG he has a huge family and even with just the girls there are six sisters and countless nieces and niece-in-laws and great nieces and Oh! My! God!

But then you remember that you finally have some room for people in the house and you have been waiting for years for just that so you could entertain, and there is HELLA leftover beer and wine and rum, and they will all bring food, because they don’t know how to go anywhere without gobs of food, and so what if you have to clean the house and all its crevices tonight and tomorrow (and again on Sunday) and know you will have a great time because YOU LOVE THOSE GUYS!!

Future Star

Standard
You know what is great? Vacation. You know what sucks balls? Getting ready for vacation. I swear – I need a week before the vacation to get ready and a week after to recover. But if I had to choose the two, I think I’d pick the week before. Because in addition to the regular household chores and giant mountains several loads of laundry, I have to gather all the vacation-related items, organize clothes, buy sunscreen and other beachy sundries, clean the car, get and oil change and tire rotation, and get everything packed. All while struggling to finish up the urgent work projects that invariably pop up the week before I go on vacation. Good tires.

You can always tell vacation is coming by my wardrobe. I don’t’ want to wear anything that I will be taking with me (since I have a hard enough time getting things washed once, much less twice), so I end up heading out to work and the grocery store and family picnics wearing the dregs of my wardrobe. And since I am in that happy, in-between stage of weight loss, that means things that are either a) too big and must held up with an ugly man-belt, b) too big and allowing my enormous, sagging bosoms to be viewed by all when I am sitting at my desk (today’s look), or c) not quite too small, but just small enough to make me feel like everyone who sees me is pointing and laughing and then going home and blogging about this woman in the ugly, outdated skirt that was too small for her fat ass. Again – good times.

But come Wednesday morning at about 5:00 am, it will all be worth it. I’m heading out with the kids and my mom to Virginia beach until Monday. We’re going down to celebrate my baby!! cousin’s graduation. The whole family is going (minus mr b who has to work and my dad, who is not insane) and Aunt Twin (who is a travel agent) got us a great deal on beachfront rooms. I’m sure there will be moments of wanting to shoot myself –after all I am going with my mother – but all in all I expect some actual good times.

On Friday, I once again earned my Mother of the Year award by letting my kids get sunburned. In my defense, I put sunscreen on them 346 times, so it wasn’t all my fault. But the kids had fun swimming and I had fun cheating on my diet with six pounds a couple cheese fries

Then Saturday I went to an old high school friend’s 40th birthday party. She’s much older than me. Much Much MUCH older. Ok, that was a lie. She’s only three moths older, but I am playing it for all it’s worth. We had a great time – it was nice to have the old gang together again. We are all still friends, but not as close as we once were. And there are friends that each of us have that others don’t like, etc. but Friday it was just the five od us that were really close in school and it was great. We drank (too much) and ate (too much) and made fun of the karaoke singers in the bar. I love karaoke. Not singing it, so much. But making fun of the ones who are. I love bad singers. My favrotire are the ones where you go, WTF is he singing? My least favorite are the good ones. You know, the ones that the first time they sing, you think, wow, she’s got a good voice. But the 8th time they sing, you think, Jesus H, would you give a tone deaf loser a chance already? You’re not goods enough for a record deal, so move the fuck on.

Sunday we had a family party for a great niece’s graduation. In keeping with the theme, there was too much eating going on,. And also karaoke. Because with family, we try to outbad each other and that’s always fun. This time, I actually got up and sang. Sadly for you all, there are no known photos of me dancing around like I was on stage. Even sadder – no audio. But the biggest surprise of the evening was the girl. My tiny baby got up in front of all those people – several times – and belted it. She has always lived to sing – she sang as soon as she started talking. And I noticed right away that she is pretty good. She’s always on pitch and she her timing is perfect. But the reaction of the people there was priceless – between “Holy shit is she cute” and “Holy shit, that little girl can sing” The DJ approached afterwards and said I would be remiss if I didn’t enroll her in some musical training because he thought she could actually go far. It was a little freaky since I am not the stage mommy type. I mean, I always thought she was good, but I’m a bit biased. He assured me that he hears people singing (badly) every day and that she really is good. Wow.

All in all, it was a fun weekend. And now, I give you the American Idol 2020:


Also – I’ve had this suit for years, and recently when I saw the one for her, something came over me and I had to buy it. When did I become one of those mothers???