Monday, January 15, 2007

I'm Thinking This Party Is More Painful Than the Actual Birth...

Holy fuckshit, I'm exhausted. The old lady did decide to come home last night, which was nice of her, and things have kinda gotten back to normal. Oh, except, of course, that there was no school today, so I got to spend even more quality time with the spawn, who by now, really can't fucking stand the sight of me. And frankly, can you blame them?

I guess I said I was going to talk about the birthday party I took Miss O to yesterday. Shit. I dunno, it was at this big health club/athletic facility place that I've always wondered about. Now, we're YMCA people, but I've always kinda wondered what goes on in one of these bigass uber-gym places. I mean, it would be nice to not have to bring my own towel, maybe sit in a whirlpool, lather my meaty-bits in my own private shower stall for once, perhaps?

Well, I discovered that all of that can indeed be mine, for the low, low price of a $400 initiation fee and $180 dollars a month. I still can't comprehend that. That's $2500 dollars a year, right? Who the shit pays that? Seriously, is that not a lot of money for a place to work out at two or three times a week? Is it me? It's them, isn't it?

I don't know. Anyway, the place wasn't even that fucking fancy. Sure, they had a restaurant, and a shitload of weights and bikes and shit that I'd never use, but it was kinda dingy in there. The carpet was all splotchy, like a movie theater carpet, and the lockers looked just like the 1982 cabinets we just had ripped out of our old kitchen. $2500 bucks?! For that kinda cashish, they better fill that fucking pool with San Pellegrino and have dolphins and shit doing some kind of Sea World show while I'm doing laps. Assholes.

Anyway, the party. Yeah, it was classic Miss O. We got there, and the first hour consisted of a bunch of games in this gym area. There was this maze, where they played hide and seek, and they did some lame running games like "What's the Time, Mr. Fox" and "You Better Jump over This Rope or You're Fucking Out." Miss O was having none of it. She refused to divulge her name and her favorite flavor of ice-cream when they were going through the introductions. Then she stomped around and whined whenever she got caught or lost a race. Classic Miss O. Then I had the old, "Maybe we should just go home if you're not going to try to have fun" talk with her, which actually didn't work all that well. Eventually, I think she just decided I had suffered enough and joined in.

After an hour or so of that, it was time for swimming. Since they were all girls, except for two lil' dudes, they headed to the women's lockerroom. I showed amazing restraint, and waited outside. One of the moms, we'll call her "The Overly Helpful Mom," assured me that she would help Miss O get into her bathing suit, while patting me on the shoulder like I was either 8 years old or was on my first day as a parent. I told her that Miss O could dress herself and that she might try to stop being so fucking patronizing. Actually, I think I said, "Thank you."

So, yeah, they got in the pool, which was three feet at its deepest point, which rocked, and I kicked back on the chaise and zoned out for an hour or so. Miss O had a blast and didn't drown. Then, it was time for cake, and the Overly Helpful Mom, again, told me that she would help Miss O get dressed. I'm telling you -- these fucking moms. Five bucks I spend more time with my kids than she does with hers, but I'm the one feeling like a goddamn chunderhead. It's Dadism, I'm telling ya. Dadism!

Really, there's not much to this story, I'm realizing. They had pizza, which Miss O refused, and cake, which she picked at. I didn't grab a piece because I knew Miss O wouldn't eat hers, so there I was finishing her piece off when Overly Helpful Mom comes by, again, and says, "Oh, you should never eat your kid's leftovers. That's a good way to get sick." Hey lady, saying shit like that to me is a good way for you to get a fistful of frosting crammed into your nosey-ass face hole. Dadism!

Then we watched the birthday girl open her 900 Bratz and Fairytopia dolls. I swear, these people are so fucking simple-minded. These are the same moms who say, "Gee, I don't know where she gets it? She just LOVES pink things and fairies. Always has. She's just all girl!" I go to one of these parties and I'm thinking, "This shit is never going to end. No matter how hard we try to create a gender-neutral environment for our kids at home, the minute they step out the goddamn door, it's all down the crapper." Morons, I'm telling ya. Morons!

Well, then Miss O got her goddamn fairy goodie-bag, and we know how I feel about those, don't we? Fucking whistle, a superball, some pink hand-lotion and a RULER!?! Then we bolted. FOUR HOURS, this party was. Ripped the ass clean outta me. That's it. No more birthday parties. I'm done. We'll send the kid a check in the mail. Finito.

There you go -- the thrilling birthday party story.

Good night.

2 comments:

Jon said...

That's the worst "grab bag" ever. What little kid needs lotion? Lots of kids with psoriasis at this party? And I bet you were loving that whistle after about a minute.

crabbydad said...

The whistle strangely disappeared within minutes of getting home. Strange. And yeah, goddamn lotion?! What do they hand out for Halloween... unguent?

Morons, I'm tellin' ya.