Buddy the Anthropomorphic Lump

Over the weekend we were invited to another little girl's birthday party, this time at an establishment called Great Play on Central Park Avenue in Scarsdale.

I loved this party. And the reason I loved it is that it has a mascot named Buddy, who kind of resembles a square of chocolate with bulbous eyes. In some lights, he looks kinda brown. And then he resembles well, you know...a turd. But in reality, Buddy is supposed to be a space alien.

Greay Play has this thing called Interactive Arena that is pretty cool. There are a series of interactive screens around the room, and different images are projected on them throughout the course of the party. The kids can throw a ball at a screen and try to make various images move, make noise, and so on.

The young woman leading the party invited the little princes and princesses to walk down a red carpet of sorts, whereupon they would be transported into a magical kingdom with castles and other magical paraphernalia. And there, among the pink-clad princesses and turrets, was Buddy--projected on all four surrounding walls. Riding on a horse. Later, he appeared as a space alien kicking a soccer ball. Because of the size of the imagery and the sheer amount of virtual Buddies replicated on the walls, it was hard to look anywhere without seeing a big, orangish-brown lump with eyes. Someone near me said, "I wish I had brought the shrooms."

Then Buddy's photo was blasted all over the walls while the kids ran from end to end, trying to "catch" the photo and "tickle" it. They were supposed to be tickling Buddy's feet, but because of the height of the projection, they really ended up tickling his nether regions. "Tickle Buddy!" shouted the assistant. "Tickle his nads!" I wanted to shout.

The other freaky thing about the party was that the young male who ran it sounded very much like Bobcat Goldthwait, complete with weird head jerks and gesticulations of the mouth. It was like he'd been studying the man's moves in an effort to BE Bobcat. "Come on kids," he'd splutter in a maniacal, retarded fashion. "LET'S GET BUDDY! brawhahahahwwww!" And then he'd stomple around frenetically, arms waving, like Bobcat did when he wore the Godzilla suit in the film One Crazy Summer. He sounded JUST LIKE THIS. The kids followed him around like he was the pied piper.

By now we were all tripping. One little girl screamed and said that Buddy scared her. But on the way home, my boys said that they loved the party. And they loved Buddy best of all.

More photos of the event forthcoming.

My Peter Pan Birthday Party

Astute readers of this blog know that The Pony has long been known as a hater of kiddie birthday parties. So it seemed particularly ironic (a la a black fly in one's Chardonnay) that Yours Truly was the lucky winner of a birthday party contest on The Loop.

I gloated about my win. The party was being offered by It's My Party, which then went out of business. It was later taken over by their partner, Applause. Applause runs Broadway Babies and Broadway Superstars, which offer classes and parties built around popular musicals, including High School Musical, Annie, The Sound of Music, and Grease.

Oh, this kind of twee gaiety would be ripe for my pen! Boy, was I going to slag these people! But then, a moral dilemma: How could I possibly be snarky about some nice folks who were offering me a free birthday party? How could I be the meanie that I am accustomed to being?

I went down to chat with the Applause folks and plan my party. When I arrived, a bunch of wee babes were experiencing a Broadway Babies class. The drooling infants were being serenaded by a lovely young blonde in full makeup and a buff, steel-jawed actor who looked very freshly bathed. The woman who ran the place was all smiles and excitement: "We just can't WAIT to have your party!" They were so earnest, so Broadway! I expected a chorus line of Zac Efron lookalikes, all abundantly gay and wearing mascara.

I had, in fact, been offered High School Musical as a theme, but I decided that was too, too much for my five-year-old boy, who doesn't know Sharpay from a Shi'Tzu. Instead, I chose Peter Pan. Flying! Pirates! Lost boys! Crocodiles! How could it go wrong?

Oh, I wish I could say that the party had scarred me, my children, and all their friends for life. But no, dear readers. The party was an absolute delight. The three young performers, all actors from NYC, sang, danced, and engaged the children with songs from the Peter Pan Broadway musical. Before the party even started, my two boys were dancing madly to a CD of tunes from The Lion King, The Little Mermaid, and other fodder that makes my husband cringe and gnash his teeth.

A young woman played Peter Pan, and she whispered to some children early on that Captain Hook was terrified by the sound "Tick tock." The children went wild over this, and proceeded to attack the actor playing Captain Hook with a delighted frenzy (After har-harring and fleeing the scene repeatedly, he wound up at the bottom of a pig pile after being pelted with beach balls to the head. I suspect his "My Career Sux" blog will read more rudely than mine will). Wendy, in a white nightgown, backed up Peter at every turn.

From the start the children were transfixed and thrilled. They loved every moment of the show, and you could see it on their faces. Gosh, it even warmed our cold and prickly hearts to see them all leaping about the room with shiny pom-poms to the tune of "I Can Fly." My almost 6-month-old infant nearly flailed right out of his diaper in an effort to join the festivities.

After the show, they served pizza (Sals, overrated as it is) and juice boxes to the kids, and then a giant cake with my son's face embossed on its chocolatety surface. He laughed most uproariously when he saw himself on the cake. Then the kids all walked the plank, shouted out their names, and received goodie bags.

I confess that at times during the show I wanted to be a part of it all. Performer! Birthday guest! It didn't matter. Everyone was made to feel welcome and it was just a lot of gosh-durned fun. I batted a ball toward the ceiling and popped bubbles with my infant's toe. I found myself smiling with glee. Aw, ain't life sweet? And I'm old and withered, too!

The cost for all this hilarity? The party that I won would have run us a nice four figures. Plus tips for the performers. I can fly, indeed! Because I'm on crack! Well, if you have the dollars floating around, it's pretty swell.

Note: Send someone up the street for a box of Dunkin Donuts coffee. The caffeine makes the party extry-special.

Photo Credit: Cristina Costa-Cerone

I Just Turned 40

Today I was reminded by a friend that one day my blog may disappear--left untended, it may be swallowed into cyberspace or, if I'm lucky, sit unnoticed for year upon year and finally peter out when the entity that manages it goes defunct in the year 2056.

I sort of thought my blog was eternal. But now I feel the need to make a paper record. I like paper. It has the peril of forever attached to it, although moths and mealyworms may render it worthless. When humans go extinct (as they surely will), won't there be some wan scraps of poetry still floating about? Maybe, for a time. But I doubt the bound printouts of my blog will survive much, printed as they are on non-archival paper unprotected from the onslaught of fire, water, mold.

Why so dire, little pony? Maybe, upon learning that the best friend of a friend has died yesterday, I renounce my earlier proclamation that Death Is a Media Conspiracy. I don't know too many people who have died. Mostly the very, very old. Someone who is 30 is not supposed to go. Oh hell, I don't like to be proven wrong! Can someone show me the death certificate?

The other night my friend said "I just turned 40. Soon I'll be 50. Then 60. And soon I'll be dead." I laughed most heartily, but then I stopped.

I went to a funeral earlier this month. It was for my godmother. I brought my young baby, only 5 months. I walked down the aisle before the ceremony, and saw old face after old face. All of them were tearful, pinched, hunched--looking as if their best friend had died. Oh gosh, people, why do you have to look that way, I thought, as I wheeled my baby down the aisle. They all must be about 98 years old! What was their problem?! Their best friend had just died.

Everyone loved that the baby was at the funeral. I felt it was OK to bring him, because a baby at a funeral just says that things are going to go on. The big circle of life and death and all that. When my godmother's brother, a dear man who is a pediatrician, saw the baby, he clutched him to his chest and would not let him go. Other people clutched him, until he had been clutched in a circle of young and old, hoping to smell his sweet baby hair and feel his hands pulling at their lapels.

I'm continuing this post the next day and I just have to say "What a bummer, man! Why do you have to go on and talk about death and all that shee-ite? Just stop, man! Man!" (I'm not a man but I like to use the word "man.")

I thought that I might send this blog dark, because I'm gittin' real old and if I don't work on my novel now I am going to RUN OUT OF TIME AND DIE. But then I realized:

Without humor we are lost
I don't have the wherewithwhatever to work on my novel yet
Drunken typing fingers do not produce novel
Novel can be %^$^%#$%^ published on my ^^&$%^ blog if I so choose, blow ye all!
Novel sucketh? No, it's brilliant, and there's the rub.
Too many bottles. So little time.
Cannot type without serois mispellings.

Death come quick like dagger!

Exposed Breasts, the Rabbi, and the Ham

Live election blogging! Or, just something to kill the time while I gnaw my nails.
Unfortunately, I just shared a bottle of champagne to celebrate the closing of our house. Ah, yes. Let us revisit this bizarre and heretofore unparalleled weirdness that is our new home purchase. Several months in the making, it's a story involving;

Holes dug on the premises
A garage 1 foot and 2 inches from the neighbor's property (variance required 2 feet)
One skunk
A weird living room addition built in the 40s to house an old auntie/uncle
A missing land survey
Electric lines so low a child could grab 'em
A swollen laundry hose, about to explode and flood the basement
A dryer that vents into a crawlspace
A bad cop, a good cop, and a cop with a difficult-to-observe hair appendage
One sweaty guy who ran the open houses
A master bedroom with no doors
A bathroom with no shower
Doorknobs that pop off when you touch them

[Obama now showing a 55% advantage in Florida. "You can see where the night is going" says CNN.]

But first! The story of my birthday party. This blog goes everywhere! It laughs at non sequiturs!

The party started off strong at about 7:15 p.m. when the first neighbors rolled in. We drank, we passed the cheese. All was very pleasant.

The party went on. Our neighbor banged out a Happy Birthday song on the piano to much raucous singing. My husband made a movie-worthy speech from the stairway landing, and delivered unto me a house for my birthday gift. I would like to add here that I will never forget that.

The party went on. Several infants arrived in baby-carriers, and were googled over. A pinata arrived, but I was cautioned not to hang it from the acoustic-tile ceiling. A spiral-sliced ham was heated and plopped on a plate.

Midnight arrived, and I was ready to go to bed. But just then! A silhouette of a strange figure appeared in the back door, as I sat in the back yard. She drew closer. I saw that it was S____, my best friend from CA, fresh in from a delayed flight from Rome. Glory be! S____, for those who know her, lacks inhibition.

She quickly gulped down two large glasses of whiskey, and the conversation between the late-night partygoers (gathered at the picnic table in the back) went horribly awry. I would like to apologize for the following snippets of conversation that the neighbors may have overheard. I also apologize for anything overheard by their impressionable children:

"Some people have their anuses bleached."
"My pudenda are dangling in the wind."
"Do you ever get into girl-on-girl action?"

Sometime around then--or was it before?--the Rabbi arrived.

To be continued!

[New Hampshire will go for Senator Obama, says CNN.]

It's the thought that counts

I have never been a particularly adept gift-wrapper, but this beauty for my son's third birthday was such an atrocious job that I snapped a photo of it. Note the masking tape. Was I drunk? Stoned? No, dear reader, that is simply the lousy wrapping job that I did while perfectly alert and sober.

He tore the paper off without a second glance.

That's Why the Lady Is a Horse's Ass

Overheard today at a child's birthday party (as my faithful readers know, I generally loathe these little affairs--especially when they are populated with nouveau riche nasties with lifelike movements and real eyes that open and close when they move):

Small Lumpen Mother with some frightful skin problems: I really need to lose seven pounds before this wedding.
Soccer Whore 1: What diets are you trying?
Small Lumpen Mother: I've tried the [unintelligible]*.
Soccer Whore 2: I've tried that. It's really effective. I feel faint and headachy all the time, though. Oh my gosh.
Soccer Whore 1: But you've lost weight!
Madame Tussaud's Escapee, made of lifelike wax: So much. You look fantastic. I mean, where else could she lose weight, girls? Her eyebrows? Her little finger? [Witchy laughter.]
Small Lumpen Mother: But I have got to lose these seven pounds. The wedding is at the end of May!
Madame Tussaud's Escapee: You have to try the [unintelligible] diet.
Small Lumpen Mother: Oh, how does it work?
Madame Tussaud's Escapee: My advice? Do not start dieting now. Wait until 9 days before the wedding to start the diet. You will lose the 7 pounds in exactly 9 days. Surefire.
Small Lumpen Mother: But...won't I just gain it back right away after the wedding?
Madame Tussaud's Escapee: Well, yes. You will. But it works!
Me [very silently inside my own mind]: Hey dingleshit! Did you mention that you will only lose the poundage from your brain? [Slappings with shitty, tasteless pizza ensue.]

*I tried to get closer to hear them better and find out about the mysterious diet, but the cloying scent of their perfume and the flinging about of jewel-encrusted fingers seemed dangerous, and drove me back into the crowd of greasy-fingered children. Whereupon I hid, watching them with narrow eyes, and ate a piece of cake.

My Son Danced With a Clown

A recent study from London shows that "clowns are universally disliked by children." This does not surprise me in the least. After my own dreadful experience in the Ob/Gyn Clown Ward, I am convinced that clowns are downright creepy. Nobody likes 'em! Except for, apparently, my eldest son.

I recently attended a children's event at which the clown pictured above was billed as the entertainment. She had been requested not to show up in white face paint because that was deemed too scary for the little ones. Nevertheless, the moment she skipped in, microphone in hand, one child started screaming as if he'd been bitten by the Devil. His father beat a hasty retreat while hot tears flew with dynamic, horizontal force out of the child's eyes. And this was before the clown had even started her act!

My own kids stared at her with round eyes, but did not seem fazed by her shrieky voice or floppy tam o' shanter. They watched with apparent interest her shoddy magic tricks and did not wince when the feedback from the mike sent chills up parental spines.

Distracted for a moment, I turned to speak to another parent. When I turned back, I saw a sight that made my jaw drop. My older child had run out and taken up position right next to the clown, and together--like an old, well-seasoned team of vaudeville actors--they were doing a lively version of the "chicken dance." The one that they do at weddings? Yes, that humiliation. I had seen it performed by an immediate relative only once before. It was not a sight I had wished to see again.

But there he was, flapping his "wings" and shaking his "tailfeathers." He had obviously positioned himself thus to be closer to the clown, maybe elbowing aside a couple of other kids to get there. And he was looking up at her with a googly mixture of awe, admiration, and love. Good god! I have never been prouder. Finally, my son had shown that he was not only fearless--daring to tread where other children wept and soiled themselves--but he was ready to enter into American life as a proud little conformist. He had danced with the clown. He had touched the stars.

The Baby Slagmounts Fashion Show

I know you've been waiting for this one, you heartless birthday party haters!

So, my boys usually get their hair cut by a grandfatherly neighbor of ours who works in a barber shop, the real old-fashioned kind with the pole outside and the photos of the Twin Towers on the wall and the containers of Barbicide, or whatever that potion is called that sanitizes the combs. It's very quiet there except for the snip, snip of the scissors and the occasional banter from the Italian regulars. He does a fine job and he charges about 15 bucks for both boys. Then they get their lollies and we go home in a sticky, happy stupor.

It had been a few weeks since we'd been to see our old pal for a haircut, and unfortunately he is open only on Saturdays on the weekends. Our boys badly needed a hair adjustment, but it was a Sunday.

"No problem!" said I. "There is a place in Larchmont Village called SHARKEY'S. It's all about 'cuts for kids.' Let's go there and get the haircuts over with." I felt disloyal trying out Sharkey's, but figured it was a one-time deal anyway.

So we walked into Sharkey's. First of all, the place was a melee (aha!) of noise and visual stimuli. Televisions blared at every haircut station and music pounded ominously from a back "party room." (Who has a birthday party at a hairdresser?)

To add to the disturbing quality of the place, a child in a wheelchair who was there getting her hair cut was barking and groaning in a horrible, nerve-rending fashion. With every guttural scream, her parents would say hopefully: "Ice cream? You want ice cream? Yes, sweetie, you WILL get your ice cream. Now be a good girl." My boys' eyes got big and round as she flailed and howled, and while I'd like to say it was a good exposure for them to the diversity of life it really just wasn't.

While we waited for our haircuts the party guests started to arrive. They were all tiny JonBenet Ramsays of about the age of six, with their twank moms traipsing behind them. (Twink + skank = twank. Yeah, I just coined it. Use it and pay me royalties.) The moms were all unbearably cheesy and wore too much makeup and pranced about in their high heels. The baby slagmounts went into the back room for what I determined from a menu of options at the counter was a "glamour girl birthday party." They were to get hair treatments, dress up in tawdry fashions, and get mini-cures (awww...that's manicures for wiwwy widdle guwls!) "Be a princess for a day!" gushed the flyer at the front desk.

We heard the pulse of disco music, which always scares me in connection with birthday parties. I now have a Pavlovian reaction of terrible fear. I fought my flight impulse and decided I would venture to the back room under pretext of using the bathroom. On the way, I saw one of the twank moms collaring her young JonBenet, who had had the audacity to have paid for a creepy mechanical ride that was like a mini ferris wheel, taking her around and around and no doubt about to strangle her by her feather boa a la Isadora Duncan. (Who has a birthday party at a hairdresser that has a crusty-looking "ride" in the back room?)

"Jordan Taylor!" she shrilled. "They are about to have the fashion show and take the photos and you are going to MISS IT. Get in there RIGHT NOW, young lady!"

In the back room, the little girls were prancing about on a stage with lights blazing. A bunch of sundamaged and over-jeweled grannies were oohing and aahing appreciatively, while the moms applauded and snapped photos. All the girls looked like they were auditioning for the role of Wonder Slut 2008. I tried not to stare as I darted into the bathroom.

One girl who was evidently younger than the rest--she looked about four--refused to take part in the shenanigans. Her exasperated mother dragged her out while talking a mile a minute on her cell phone: "She won't do ANYTHING. She won't dress up, she won't get her hair done. We're just going to LEAVE. Well, what do YOU suggest I do?!"

I thought of offering a suggestion, but I still have to live in this town. Although I'm sure that most of these moms were bussed in from a friendly little place down the line called HELL. They sure didn't look like local moms.

Meanwhile, the boys had been patiently succumbing to their haircuts--the stylist was actually quite friendly. They sat in a chair built like a big jeep and zoned out to Elmo's World while the music from the back room blasted. In addition to the candy-colored experience of the chairs, the TVs, and the decor, the store was absolutely filled from floor to ceiling with things for sale. Puzzles, toys, gadgets, hair goop, hair sprays, jewelry, headbands, nail polish, rubber animals, feather boas. Just navigating through the place was an exhausting experience, and I'm sure worse for mothers whose wee slagmounts tug on their arms and beg for mom to buy them STUFF.

In the end, the boys' haircuts cost $56, including a tip.