Crazypants

 

You can’t call an 11 year old girl a whore, even if she two times your fantastically handsome, smart, and funny 10 year old son.  Apparently, it’s frowned upon.  Society and their rules.  *eye roll*  So for the first time on this wild and wonderful journey of parenthood, I’ll zip my lips.  I didn’t at first.  You can imagine the plenty I had to say.  It wasn’t well received.  In fact, it’s a sad day when your fifth grader lets you know with one look, “get a hold of yourself, Mom.”  Time to reel it back.  I’m more upset than he is.  His exact words were, “I was absolutely fine without a girlfriend, so if I don’t have one now… I’m sure it will be okay.” 

So basically I gave birth to Jesus.  Wise and forgiving.  I’ll wait while your applause wash over me and my part of this wonderfully relaxed and genuinely cool character.  Question is, where in the hell did Chubba come from?  Where?  I’m quite positive even my uterus has an enormous attitude problem laced with more than enough vindictive qualities to wipe out a small country.  I’m all about smiting. 

Bukka.  Definitely my child.  You slight Bukka in the least, and he raises his brow to say, “Maybe not today.  Maybe not tomorrow.  Someday though.  Someday you will feel the wrath of my burning fury.”  Bukka doesn’t know what smiting is yet, but I’m sure he’ll approve one day.

 

I’m planning two parties this month. Chubba turns 11 years old next week. I know, I KNOW… Where did the time go?

I agreed to let him have a tween sleepover. Boy sleepovers include video games, weird smells (all boys stink, collectively they smell like the dump), candy, tackle football in the front yard, grass tracked in the house, etc… Do you catch my drift? Not stressful as in crying and girl shrieking, but stressful as in cleaning up after more boys for over 12 hours. I already have 5, 6 including the dog, to clean up after every day. Boys.

I’m keeping this one simple. Chili dogs and/or Frito chili pie. Homemade buttercream frosting cupcakes (pictures to follow). Piñata with candy. I hope other parents don’t expect me to be 100% sober.  They won’t, right?  Breakfast casserole the next morning. Thanks for coming AND GOODBYE. Done and Done. I will be (undoubtedly) exhausted Sunday morning, and my house will be sullied.

Moving right into finalized stages of my husband’s birthday. Big party. Big plans. Big spreadsheets.

This is what I do, Folks. I get a hair up my ass one morning over coffee, “Let’s invite 769 people over to celebrate something. Your birthday is coming up, and after last year’s fiasco, my birthday should be revoke for at least 5 years. Let’s have a birthday party for you”. Neveryoumind, we both have ridiculously large families, and we have tons of friends that don’t know one another. “EVERYONE will come. It will be fun. Ooooooo. I’ll start the menu.”

Two weeks before said event, I begin hyperventilating while mulling over the selfishness of those who forgo RSVP to just show up. My hands begin to shake as I update spreadsheets for guest lists, menu, menu timelines, grocery lists, serving tray arrangements, house cleaning goals, and recipe print offs.

Last night, I went over said details with birthday boy to hear these words, “we should probably just do turkey and dressing.”  Okay.  Spongebob.  I have an hors d'oeuvres menu, which took me a week and a half to put together, ranging from elegant fruit trays to crab rolls to a goddamn carving station and your feedback is,

Turkey.

And.

Dressing.

No.  No.  Don’t worry, My Pretties.  I didn’t stab him in his face.  I didn’t.  I stared at him for a really long time without saying a word.  I’m fairly certain he was kidding.  If he wasn’t, I don’t want to know.   

Moving on.

Let’s be very clear… I’m crazy.  I know I’m crazy.  Everyone knows I’m crazy.  It’s something known and not spoken about often.  That crazy… well, it comes seeping from every crevice while in the throws of planning an event.  I have a vision.  I worked in catering for 5 years.  Catering people are difficult.  Any suggestion, help, or idea varying from that vision can turn into an episode of Snapped quickly. 

 

Ummmm… noooo, we will not put seating in the garage. *nervous laugh, insincere smile*  I told you about the twinkle lights and chiminea display on the front porch.  How does a dirty, already stinky, unflattering halogen-lit hellhole compare to that?  Ambience.  Ambience.  Ambience.  I mean, really?  Thanks for your input, but the mixture of beauty and pinion will keep them warm OR they can give up smoking 8 years ago like some of us did and remain inside.    

 

Ummm…. nooo, a second fire display will not be necessary to warm the guests.  A fire pit on the front porch?  That.  That.  No.   All that fire and heavy drinking just sounds like a bad idea waiting to come to fruition. *whispers*  Why are you trying to ruin my party…err, I mean your party?

<------- Do you want this?

 

See.  People offer to help, which is somewhat pointless because I’m a slight control freak. The vision. The only living souls, thus far, that have successfully talked me down? 

My mom—she’s just as spazzy as me.  In fact, I can’t compete with her spazzy.  It’s a frightening level of spazzy that has been going since 1943.  I let her help, because I’m afraid of her.

My best friend—she pours me a drink and paints my fingernails.  Knowing   1. I will be still for this activity. Who wants botched nails while hosting a party?  2. I’ll get drunk and forget why silver tongs were so important earlier in the day.

I’m sure these details have made you think I’m horrible to party with----- not true.  Two hours before the event the stress builds, and I crack open a bottle of red.  I get hammered and become an absolute riot, or idiot depending upon your position.  I forget to add dips with the appropriate foods and really don’t care at go time.  Last year, I was cutting cheese and meats with the wrong side of the knife when my guests arrived. 

Everything works out in the end.  Two timing girls.  Boy sleepover parties.  Neurotic 34 year old women planning their husband’s birthday bash.