There was beer! O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!
No fucking angel cake, though.
Saturday, May 12, 2012
Wednesday, May 9, 2012
Party down
I'm going to my first children's party this Saturday. I mean, not my first children's party, obviously. I went to heaps when I was a child myself because I was really popular and everyone wanted me at their party. Or, perhaps more correctly, I went to a succession of quite small country schools, so small in fact that you were generally expected to invite everyone in the school to your party and when you did your mum still didn't have to shell out for more than one bag of party poppers. Nor, I guess, do I mean my first children's party as an adult because I've been to heaps. Shit, words are hard. So many words to choose from, so many misunderstandings. Interpretive dance, now there's a serious form of communication. The dedication and commitment of dance bringing structure and meaning to communication, that's what we need more of. So, right, imagine I'm dancing. I'm dancing in such a manner as to convey the information that this Saturday I shall be taking my son to his first party and I too shall be attending this party. And then imagine I'm doing the running man because that shit never goes out of style. But I dancingly digress.
So my son received his first party invitation from a pre-school friend. Well, I say "friend" but who knows with three year olds. They make and shed friends like...a currently famous person sheds something humorous and/or topical. Yeah, that fast. But he's super excited and so, of course, I'll take him.
However.
However, I'm not sure, really, how this could in any way be worse. Let's count the ways this is going to be horrible, shall we?
1. No beer. Sure, the kid's turning four and this is Australia but still I have to assume that there's going to be no beer. Maybe light beer but jeeze, why bother.
2. I'm not going to know anybody. Now, I know there are people out there who enjoy meeting new people, who see a stranger as just a friend blah blah blah. I'm not one of these people. I'm 35 years old and the friends I have are perfectly sufficient for my needs. Sure, if a bunch of them died, through some kind of unlikely boardgame/lego poisoning event, I'd probably be forced to go out and get some new ones but for the moment I'm fine. So this turns events where I don't know anyone into some serious social torture. There's an easy way to remedy this torture, of course, but see point 1. Obviously, I'll know my son. But turning up to a party hoping a 3 year old will hang out with you? That's a bad sign.
3. No wine. At all, I'm guessing. Not a natty little Pinot Noir with a nauseating story of how the couple who brought it along found it in this simply delightful little town in Tasmania nor a $7 box of goon, purchased not only for it's efficient map to Inebriation Town but the vast array of amusing purposes to which the silver balloon can be put to on arrival. Neither of them.
4. Cake. Actually, I'm looking forward to cake. I hope there's angel cakes. Remember those? Little cup cakes with the top cut off and cream put on and then the top put back on to make little angel wings? Yeah? Did your mum make you those when you were a kid? No. Mine neither. Because they hated us. Say what you will about this generations helicopter parenting but if it comes with angel cakes then there should be more of it, I say. Well, I would say if my face wasn't stuffed with angel cake.
5. No spiritous libations. No neat little gin and tonic to ease you into the event and no "Only girls go home without having done some rum!" last minute mistake. No Vodka Martini to let you pretend to be James Bond and no Jamesons to let you pretend that you're an alcoholic but, like, an alcoholic from The Wire.
6. Pass the parcel. Sure, it's a great game. Sure, everyone gets a prize. But do you think they'll let a grown man play? A grown man who just so happens to be twelve times State Pass the Parcel champion? Who represented his country at no less than three World PtP ProAm matches? Balls they will. It's a criminal waste of talent is what it is.
But I'll take him. For two reasons. First, I don't want to be explaining to a psychiatrist in ten years time that the reason I turned my son into a social pariah is because I myself am a social pariah. The second reason is that I have this memory of being at a party when I was 4 or 5. We were playing Hide and Seek or some other gormless run til you puke and then run some more game. I ran into an empty room, either to hide or puke I don't recall, and found my dad sitting on his own. He seemed OK, at the time it didn't really seem weird at all, within the general context on adult weirdness. But in retrospect I can see it for what it probably was, a shy guy who didn't know anyone but who took his son to a party anyway. It brings the teensiest tear to the eye, doesn't it. That's because you're a girl. If they ever invent time travel I wouldn't mind going back to that day and to see my dad. And give the poor son of a bitch a beer...
So my son received his first party invitation from a pre-school friend. Well, I say "friend" but who knows with three year olds. They make and shed friends like...a currently famous person sheds something humorous and/or topical. Yeah, that fast. But he's super excited and so, of course, I'll take him.
However.
However, I'm not sure, really, how this could in any way be worse. Let's count the ways this is going to be horrible, shall we?
1. No beer. Sure, the kid's turning four and this is Australia but still I have to assume that there's going to be no beer. Maybe light beer but jeeze, why bother.
2. I'm not going to know anybody. Now, I know there are people out there who enjoy meeting new people, who see a stranger as just a friend blah blah blah. I'm not one of these people. I'm 35 years old and the friends I have are perfectly sufficient for my needs. Sure, if a bunch of them died, through some kind of unlikely boardgame/lego poisoning event, I'd probably be forced to go out and get some new ones but for the moment I'm fine. So this turns events where I don't know anyone into some serious social torture. There's an easy way to remedy this torture, of course, but see point 1. Obviously, I'll know my son. But turning up to a party hoping a 3 year old will hang out with you? That's a bad sign.
3. No wine. At all, I'm guessing. Not a natty little Pinot Noir with a nauseating story of how the couple who brought it along found it in this simply delightful little town in Tasmania nor a $7 box of goon, purchased not only for it's efficient map to Inebriation Town but the vast array of amusing purposes to which the silver balloon can be put to on arrival. Neither of them.
4. Cake. Actually, I'm looking forward to cake. I hope there's angel cakes. Remember those? Little cup cakes with the top cut off and cream put on and then the top put back on to make little angel wings? Yeah? Did your mum make you those when you were a kid? No. Mine neither. Because they hated us. Say what you will about this generations helicopter parenting but if it comes with angel cakes then there should be more of it, I say. Well, I would say if my face wasn't stuffed with angel cake.
5. No spiritous libations. No neat little gin and tonic to ease you into the event and no "Only girls go home without having done some rum!" last minute mistake. No Vodka Martini to let you pretend to be James Bond and no Jamesons to let you pretend that you're an alcoholic but, like, an alcoholic from The Wire.
6. Pass the parcel. Sure, it's a great game. Sure, everyone gets a prize. But do you think they'll let a grown man play? A grown man who just so happens to be twelve times State Pass the Parcel champion? Who represented his country at no less than three World PtP ProAm matches? Balls they will. It's a criminal waste of talent is what it is.
But I'll take him. For two reasons. First, I don't want to be explaining to a psychiatrist in ten years time that the reason I turned my son into a social pariah is because I myself am a social pariah. The second reason is that I have this memory of being at a party when I was 4 or 5. We were playing Hide and Seek or some other gormless run til you puke and then run some more game. I ran into an empty room, either to hide or puke I don't recall, and found my dad sitting on his own. He seemed OK, at the time it didn't really seem weird at all, within the general context on adult weirdness. But in retrospect I can see it for what it probably was, a shy guy who didn't know anyone but who took his son to a party anyway. It brings the teensiest tear to the eye, doesn't it. That's because you're a girl. If they ever invent time travel I wouldn't mind going back to that day and to see my dad. And give the poor son of a bitch a beer...
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