Doesn’t this weather just make you want to cry salty tears of joy? To quote Rachel Zoe, “I die!” I DIE! Love, love, love me some 70-degree breezes, and that melancholy fall sunlight that suddenly reminds you to visit a pumpkin patch and dig your corduroys out of the cedar closet. We can breathe, finally.
Meanwhile, I’ve been biding my time, waiting to see when the first neighbor on my street will bust out the Halloween décor. It’s a delicate business, because you don’t want to be the first eager beaver out with the coffins and dismembered skeletons and other sordid items of plasticky fake-blooded whatnot, especially when you just moved to the block and you could be a real-live Wicken apostle for all your neighborhood association knows. Not that I have a lot of riff-raff. But what I do have is a giant SPIDER. Fuzzy and brown and Made in China, he’s just waiting to take his place over my front door. I’ve named him Rachel Zoe because he looks fierce in heels and has anorexic-looking legs.
Anyway, this week was Drew’s third birthday and since I promised a blog post on the subject, here we go — except nothing really funny or interesting happened.(Lucky you.) This was fine by me because it was raining like that time in Genesis and the evil tentacles of a cold virus were wrapping themselves around my throat. I kept thinking, “Dear God of Blogs, please don’t make this party at all funny or interesting. Just get me through it.” And He did.
But as long as we’re talking about it, I will say the one thing I was holding my breath about was Drew’s reaction to the Happy Birthday song. The past two years he has been either hysterical or waaaay ambivalent when the cake and candles and song came out. At his first birthday I had to put him straight to bed, so traumatic was the Happy Birthday song. Last year he held on to his grandmother’s leg and stared at the ground; I could almost hear him reciting, “make it stop, make it stop.” This year I was hoping for a better reaction because this was his first REAL birthday party, with a lot of friends at a real VENUE that I paid actual money for. Sold a kidney for, but that’s just semantics. And if you’re at a VENUE, it really ought to count for something.
Let me just stop now and admit to you how disjointed the party’s theme was. You would think with my advertising background I would know to coordinate invitation/VENUE/plates/cake/favors under a central thematic umbrella somehow related to a Disney franchise or unrealistic sports expectations, but what I ended up with was an assortment of ideas – a bounce house invitation, a Shrek cake, and baseball/football tableware. Awesome. How it all came to be is actually more boring than the first half of this blog, so I’ll spare you. All to say: I came out bearing the glowing Shrek cake while everyone was sitting at the baseball tables next to the bounce house while singing Happy Birthday. Gordon held Drew, who laid his head on his father’s shoulder, a faraway expression on his face — like he was witnessing a medieval town-square execution or something he didn’t understand but which vaguely disturbed him.
No crying, though. Victory.
What I don’t get is this: why Drew didn’t freak out at Party City the other day when a LIFESIZE ANIMATRONIC JASON — WEARING A BLOODY SKI MASK AND BRANDISHING A RUSTY BUTCHER KNIFE — started hacking away at the air and moaning when we entered the store? Drew yawned. Could he have some candy? Touch the party favors?
And then get this: later that day in the backyard, Drew rushed over to my side and pointed at a big beautiful yellow butterfly, asking, “Butterfly get me? Get me?”
“No, the butterfly won’t get you. See he’s going home.” The butterfly was in the neighbor’s yard now. I had to admit, he was huge. And fabulous. A big RuPaul butterfly.
“Where butterfly go?” he asked.
“Not get me.”
“No. No, he won’t get you. He forgot to bring his tiny butcher knife.”
So whether it’s songs of merriment sung in his honor, or pretty delicate friends visiting from the world of nature, Drew is lost in suspicion and angst. But if it’s Jason in a ski mask, it’s no big thang. Boring, even.
Great. That’s just great.
On the up side, he probably won’t mind Rachel Zoe peering down at him from her overhead lair. If my neighbors ever get out their stuff first, that is.