In praise of the humble house party

Jones just recently had a birthday. Girl is about to have one. Both milestones will be rung in by a good old-fashioned house party.

Said party will take place from 1 pm to 3 pm on some Saturday reasonably close to their actual dates. We’ll put up a couple of balloons and put on some inoffensive party mix. Every kid in the class and every kid in the neighborhood close to your age is invited. Exceptions are allowed after third grade or so.

Said party will consist of 30 minutes of arriving, a craft, some punch, some pretzels and such; 20 minutes of breaking and looting a piñata, 30 minutes of decorate-your-own cupcakes with several kinds of ice cream, more punch, blowing out the candles; 20 minutes of opening the presents, which devolves into playing with the presents, which devolves into running around like sugar spaz banshees; and 10 minutes of collecting up your goodies and saying goodbyes.

The themes have been more or less inspired (Make-your-own superhero was a hit.) The fare has been more and less healthy -- though seldom rising above the level of celery with peanut butter on it (Once, we made our own pizzas.) But after some experimentation with Chuck E. Cheese and his brethren, this is the formula I’ve come to.

I am bourgie enough that I essentially do think of a birthday party as a right, not a privilege. And I am proud enough that I do try to be clever. I have had my moments, but I’ll never out-do my writer friends (Let’s play Calvinball and then go geo-caching!) But I also deliberately try to tamp it down.

I'm with Dinosaur Mom. I mean, why mess with it? It’s not your debut. It’s not a field trip. It’s not a statement (Unless the statement is -- Get me. It’s my birthday.) It’s a party -- cake, ice cream, goodie bag -- what?

Bobbing and Pretending

I just recently had the “I don’t vote,” conversation with my neighbor. Instant. Deal. Breaker. “I don’t vaccinate.” Another good one. Is it just Arizona?

Here’s my baggage about this. I think it’s my fault. That my persona doesn’t match my politics, I mean.

I cultivate a shabby soccer mom/ civil servant vibe. I hope that it hints at some depth, some worldliness (but it hasn’t netted me any potluck or book club invitations of late, so maybe I’m kidding myself.) I would like to think, at least, that I’m not indavertently giving quarter to people’s crazy stuff.

You come out with some crazy like that, and I will not only think less of you, I will immediately wonder what I’ve done wrong to make you think I was trying to hear that.

It's well-honed, this persona. Most of the time it handily wards off all sorts of unwelcome conversations -- alpha-mommy competitions, sordid confessions, stock tips, jokes about how white people can’t dance, and all but the most dogged Christian testimonials.

Oh, c’mon. We all do it. We build these defenses and then we riddle them with these little doggy doors. I want to hear your secret trash-tv obsession. I don’t want to hear celebrity gossip. Do come out of the closet to me. Don’t tell me about your hot date. Do snark about your kids. Don’t say your wife doesn’t understand you. Do school me on my fashion don’ts. Don’t talk about fashion.

And you can even have your crazy. Lord knows I’ve got mine. But, just. Not...

Look, I’ve got wing-nut friends who call me pinko and that doesn’t bug me. My dear friend’s husband has a bumper sticker on his truck referencing Hanoi Jane. Really? You’ve got beef with Jane Fonda, you’re 35 years old? That's ok.

But just -- it's like the guy who hit it off so well with my Jewish boyfriend that he invited him to a Klan rally. Yeah, thanks for thinking of me, but...

Albus + Gellert TLF

It's like bloody "Deliverance."