Birthday Party Blues

So tonight I'm watching the Duggars on TV. Michelle is pregnant again and is about to add another "J" kid's name to this universe*.

And she's about to become a GRANDMOTHER. In fact, her next baby will be Aunt to the grandbaby. But they'll practically be the same age. That's creepy with a capital K.

But, really, what this got me thinking about was the number of birthdays there are to celebrate in the Duggar house. If the birthdays were somehow evenly divided between the days of the year, they'd be celebrating once every 2 weeks.

Now, I'm kinda digging that scene. Talk about taking the pressure off. That makes me want to go out and adopt a hoard of kids so I can get rid of the curse of the birthday party.

Am I the only parent in America that feels that way? I stress WAY TOO MUCH about birthdays.

I think, if I gave the boys fourteen buckets of over-full water balloons and a gob of cupcakes, they would think they died and went to Heaven. That's the LOGICAL side of me talking.

Here's the emotional, "I'm building memories for this generation and generations to come", side of me yakking: The bucket colors should not clash, the balloons must be the right weight to break just as they hit their victim (and color-coordinate, fo' sho'), and the cupcakes must be homemade, individually decorated with perfectly whipped, appropriately colored, buttercream frosting.

I know what you're thinking, "Control freak!"** You think that like it's a BAD thing.

I guess I'm really fortunate that I have boys. I get easy party requests like "swimming" or "watching a movie". I'm the one who complicates them. Or forgets the most important elements.

Like deciding it would be a good idea to throw a party the night before we MOVED? All because I felt bad that I hadn't had the party on the anniversary of the very moment he was born.

Or the time we decided to drive FOREVER to the natatorium where some schmoe of a parent didn't put a proper swim diaper on his/her baby. It was Baby Ruth city in that joint. My arsenal contained paper plates, forks, napkins, and cake. It's kinda hard to entertain pre-pubescent boys for 45 minutes with nothing but chairs and tables after you've tanked them up with sugar and they've been banned from the poo-poo pool.***

Oh, to be Michelle Duggar, if only for one month. I bet she has all the kids help bake a sheet cake, from a mix out of a box, and frosts it with a tub of pre-made frosting. They probably use candles that have been burned before. And I bet there are no birthday invitations or planned activities or anything unnecessary. And, I bet those are some of the best birthday parties in the world.

Now, there's a woman with priorities in the right place. I could learn a thing or two from here.

Maybe I'll try to gain her wisdom. That is, after this weekend's birthday party that starts at a restaurant and moves to a theater. With no back-up activity. I don't even know what kind of cake the b-day boy wants.

Chest pains? Who, ME?


*She's used all the good ones, if you ask me. And some crappy ones, too. Jedidiah got totally hosed. I just hope that kid doesn't have any learning problems or he'll never get past trying to spell his own darn name.

**Emphasis on freak. That's me.

***Lesson learned? Always have a back-up activity.

Muscles Sprains Galore

I sprained my tongue. No joke. I was making all "wah-wah" at Mike, using way-overexagerrated mouth movements, and that sucker just went "ZOING!". Then came this funky pain, that started under the right side of my tongue and radiated all the way down my neck. It was absolutely excruciating and weird all at the same time.

It felt like God had reached down with a baby lightning bolt and interceded on Mike's behalf to get me to SHUT THE HECK UP.*

I was so surprised, I stopped making fun of Mike's situation, which, incidentally, was something like "What restaurant should I leave the house to go to with my friend? The expensive one or the MORE expensive one?" When the menu at home was pb&j with the kids, followed closely by dishes, I felt his dilemma deserved a little well place "wah-wah" action.

What it didn't deserve was a sprained tongue.

Anyway.

Fast forward to two weekends ago. I decided it would be a good idea to "clean out" the flower beds in the backyard. Normally, Mike does this, but he was out of town** with the guys, so I decided to be the "good" wife and surprise him with my ability to pull ill-placed, nuisance weeds.

Today, two weeks later, I still can hardly bend at the waist without the thigh in my left leg going "ZOING!" My days as a weeder have temporarily ended.

Thankfully, for me, my tongue has righted itself, so I have the ability to complain.

This leg issue has been useful in making my kids do the "right thing" by cleaning up the floors of the rooms they manage to cover with Legos, books, and DS games each and every day of my life. The phrase "Mommy can't" followed by a ten-minute tongue wagging on my latest injury is enough to make them spring into action. Just to shut me up.

So, I'm nursing my wound, literally and figuratively, for all it is worth. Probably, a good massage or an hour of yoga would cure my ills. But, then who would be available to complain?

What do you think my boys would do if I stopped all the "wah-wah" talk and went silent? I know the ubiquitous phrase "Silence is golden." But, is it really?

I, for one, am not about to find out.

"BOYS!? Come clean up this room!"

ZOING.


*Yes, this is a recurring theme in my life. You'd think I'd have gotten the hint by now.

**Probably eating at an expensive restaurant. But, I'm not bitter in the least. No.

The restaurant with the MOSTEST

While I was in Houston a couple of weeks ago, I passed by a restaurant named "The Brick House". Of course, being a child of the 70's and 80's, I wanted to break into the old Commodores song of the same title. However, hearkening back to my Helen Reddy fiasco just days before, and wanting to spare the ears of those in the car with me, I refrained.

That didn't stop my brain from moving forward, though. ADD in full-steam-ahead, my brain went "WAIT JUST ONE COTTON-PICKIN' MINUTE! Is that "Shake it down shake it down Shake it down shake it down now" and "thirty-six, twenty-four, thirty-six"*? Must that mean that this state has another "men only" restaurant to join Hooters and Twin Peaks?"

I consulted someone I trust implicitly, and she admitted that, years ago, she and her sister had accidentally ended up in one of these charming establishments in another state. Basically, these two gals walked in blind, were STARVING, and weren't in the mood to get back in the car. So they sucked it up and forged forward.

Their first clue that something was amiss? The sign above the door at the entrance said "Welcome to the Man Cave".

It got a little better when they were seated in Barcaloungers with flip up TV trays to complement the flat screen that was attached to EACH recliner. Yes, friends, even a GIRL can appreciate that.

Bottom line?** If you love the idea of Double D Cup cakes*** and Submissive Baked Potato Soup, you have found the dive for VOUS!

So, I started thinking.**** If restaurant designers were to come up with a "ladies only" restaurant, what would it be like? Here's my list, forward-looking entrepreneurs with some extra coin to spend:

1. When you enter, a man, fully clothed in a Versace suit, and straight off the cover of a romance novel, greets you with a cocktail; your choice of cocktail was prearranged when you made the reservation. You sit in a quiet waiting area with a water feature, soothing music, and as much Godiva chocolate as you can down. If you so desire, comfy, soft slippers and bathrobes are available. For the ultimate relaxation, throw your feet up on a just-the-right-height-for-a-woman's-legs ottoman. Scrap that: ottoWOman.

2. When you've finished your cocktail, Mr. Novel returns with a slightly worried look, gets down on his knees to face you, eye-to-eye, and says "You look like you've had a rough day. Why don't you lie down for a short nap?" He ushers you to a room with a King size bed, complete with silk sheets, a blankie as soft as a baby's butt, and chocolates on the pillow. The sound machine is preset before you arrive and the overhead lights are lowered to the perfect not-too-bright, not-too-dim level. You sleep as long as you want.

3. Upon waking, you press a button beside the bed to alert your cabana boy***** that you are ready for dinner. Within seconds, a sophisticated hospital tray like contraption arrives, complete with the first course of your pre-ordered meal. Every time you finish a course, a new, modelesquely beautiful man enters the room and says "I'll do the dishes, honey. You just relax." Then, he drops a piece of chocolate in your palm and leaves with the dishes! In the event you feel like conversing at dinner, a table big enough for your all your girlfriends is available. When your BFF's join you, their personal chocolate-dropping cabana boys****** are in tow, so as not to take away from YOUR personal service.

4. After you've consumed just short of your yearly intake of calories and taken the needed potty break in your private restroom*******, a new sweetie-pie comes to tuck you in. He is tastefully dressed in Ralph Lauren; just the right mix of casual and cute. You are handed warm, liquid chocolate to drink before you fall asleep AGAIN.

5. One hour later, you are awoken by yet another lovely, who compliments you on how gorgeous you look after your "beauty sleep" and offers you a pound of chocolates as your parting gift.

You feel satisfied, beautiful, and pampered. And, you never see a bill. This whole adventure is charged to your husband's credit card as "groceries", so you never hear the griping that comes along with doing something for yourself.

Investors: Hurry! Call now! This proposal won't last! I'm taking offers to start this business, pronto.

Just remember, since I came up with the concept, I'm in charge of hiring, testing the chocolate, and sleeping.





*A figure which can only be achieved by copious amounts of caffeine, cigarettes and vomiting. How'd you like to kiss that at night? EW.

**If you thought I was making a pun, you outed yourself. I now know you've been to some men-only hideaway. And don't give me the sorry line "But, the wings are SOOOO good." Your Mother would be ashamed.

***A real dessert on the menu. Double EW.

****Always a dangerous proposition.

*****He arrives, fully clothed, in a Tommy Bahama outfit, barefoot.

******Though each man is wearing the same designer's clothes, none of the outfits "match", ruling out being served by anything but missionary-position loving men--though your reason for being at such a place has NOTHING to do with that line of thought. You're here for the lack of whiney children, dirty dishes and the abundance of chocolate. OH, the chocolate.

*******Which is devoid of boy urine.