Stuff Happening

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.

That's what I think of the sixties, unless I mention that I missed out on the Summer of Love because I was in kindergarten.  Also for those of you playing the game, slug-a-bug.

So Cressy decided on birthday party at home.  We wanted something special, so she got it in her head that she wanted a henna artist for the party.  Henna tattooing is pretty cool but it is long-lasting (a week to a month).  I had to pre-warn parents.  (BEWARE!  Fancy-shmancy stuff happening here!  If you think your ten year old is too young, warn me!  We also have glittery ones that wash right off!  Party poopers.)

This is what I wanted all the kids to get.  But the next one is what we got.  Oh well, it's still pretty.

The girls were initially more interested in watching the henna artist than anything else, including pizza and cupcakes.  (OMG!)

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.)

Everything went well until the first cupcake hit the carpet.  Then the sugar high set in and it turns out that our house can be used as an indoor race track for multiple 10 year olds.  I think records might have been set.  I'm surprised that an ambulance didn't need to be called for someone.

Advice for the future: if you have toilets that have a push button on top (one on the left is for peepee, the one on the right is for poopoo) please inform your young guests before they freak out because they can't figure out how to use the toilet.