Birthday #2

My enemies change form day to day. The mailman, who leaves important mail sticking out of the box to get wet while somehow shoving circulars into the dryer areas. The Schwan's Man who, after delivering our month’s supply of turkey pot pies, exits while saying “Better put some meat on those bones or you might blow away in the wind”. He says it like being skinny is a bad thing (it's not!). Or the CenterPoint meter reader who not only never closes the gate, may have taken a poop in my backyard. But today I faced my biggest adversary - other moms.

Mom's treat birthday parties as an open season for unsolicited advice. I'd rather have nuclear weapons tested on me than listen to a group of women criticize how I put birthday candles on a cake. Theresa Fendlik, mother of booger eating Stacie, told me I should of had cupcakes instead of a sheet cake - it's less messy & everyone gets the flavor they want. Suzan Funk, mother of neurotic Jacqueline, told me I spent too much money on Dora the Explorer decorations at Party City when they're 10% cheaper at Party America. Gladys Rockerfeller, who is not an 85 year old trustee as her name might imply, is the mother of Stella Rockerfeller, a small child suffering from pica, a medical condition where, in her case, she eats garbage and paint. Gladys said nothing to me, she was too busy keeping Stella away from the trash. However, she did manage to nod her head and utter an “uh huh” when she agreed with one of the other mothers. After 4 hours of 7 year old chaos and 30-35 year old lady hating, I sat back on the couch, exhausted, staring at the gaggle of ladies and I prayed that God would force my claw foot iron tub through the ceiling, crushing the waste-of-space bitches sitting at my dining room table. He did not. Next time God, you better kill someone when I ask you to. Or I am done with you.