Monday at six PM, I was in front of Chase bank struggling to keep ten pounds of potatoes contained in their broken bag that was sitting in the baby seat on the back of my bicycle. To the banker who was walking out, I gave my very best I'm not fat with gray hair smile and said, "Oh, I'm just practicing with this bag of potatoes in case I ever decide to have a real kid." He seemed to believe me.
Seriously, potatoes, flours, eggs... none of those home ec experiments will ever approximate children. I should have sold tickets to my house tonight. Anyone with a cock thirsty teenage daughter would have been privileged to get her a spot at my show tonight. Holy. Cow. Birth Control. Oh.. My. Gawsh. Can I get a late term abortion for my 3, 6, and 8 year-olds?
Seriously, their heads spun three sixty's independently of their bodies, and I was glad, glad that just cake ended up on the floor and that there were no broken windows. Exorcism in aisle five, please.
Let's just say that birthday party, sugar-over load does not go well for us.
But, they're asleep now, an hour earlier than usual, and I have lost the steam to write any more.
I was going to try to loop the sarcasm back to something meaningful like how even though I hate birthday parties, I love to see neighbor kids learn about food at our house. Today, we rolled out pizza dough and topped it. Other times, we've picked cherries, baked cookies, made stock... They've all loved it every time.
The pizza got made and eaten, the homemade chocolate fudge cake with fudge frosting got made and eaten, and when they all left, I mainlined some vodka and fudge. Too much of both. Then, I kept my cool through demon children, and now, I'm spent.