I took Miss O to her friend Miss C's birthday party today. It was supposed to be a drop-off, but Miss O felt it necessary for me to stick around for the two-and-a-half hours, standing awkwardly in the kitchen with the birthday girl's parents, talking about kids, cake, kids, schools and cake. Did I mention I stood there for two-and-a-half hours? And talked about cake? They were nice folk, though. ("Blended family," they call them. Both divorced with a kid each, and they're expecting a new one. Sounds like a fucking nightmare to me.) They did have a very cute boxer puppy, though, that I was petting for the entire two-and-a-half hours. I think I wore a bald spot on its back.
For the party they rented one of these fuckers for their backyard:
At first I thought they were insane -- who rents a fucking moonwalk for a birthday party? But then I thought back to the wretched netherworld that was Mr. Z's last birthday party at Caesarland, and I realized that they were brilliant. In fact, part of me wants to buy one of those fuckers, stick it in the backyard and attach slides from the kids' windows into the goddamn thing, so they can zip on in whenever they damn well please, instead of waking me up at 7:30 on a Saturday morning.
Did I mention I had three pieces of Oreo cake?
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