A tale of woe or the 10th birthday party.
It turns out that our daughter is turning 10 next week. The big 1-0. It doesn't sound as daunting as the big 5-0, but she's feeling the years. Double digits. A few months ago one of her friends turned 10 and her mama had a limo take them to the mall and then to Cici's Pizza. (I'm thinking Cici's because they couldn't afford anything else after the limo.) Anyway, I was praying that Cressy wouldn't say she wanted a limo. (Jeez, a limo. I haven't even ridden in a limo. Life is so unfair.)
Anyhoo, she picked having a party at home. Theme: the 60s. I don't know why it was the 60s, but I went with it. I broke out the lava lamp and went to Party City. Party City will now be putting their kids through college courtesy of me.
We sent out invites. I talked Cressy into a few extras. I put a RSVP on it. You know what? One person called to RSVP. ONE PERSON. Then I got an email on the day of the party. I was all, like, FFS. If I got invited to a party I would be the one dopey person who called to RSVP. (It means to tell the host whether or not you're coming to the party, so they know how much food to buy, dumbasses.) So we ended up with 7 girls, one henna artist, two parents, and a moron cat hiding under the bed upstairs. (Poor little dumb bastard, or possibly I should say smart little dumb bastard.)