So, since my birthday was on Friday--I turned 19, which is really one of the lamest ages you can turn, but I digress--I thought I'd do a birthday-themed blogpost. Okay, maybe "themed" is the wrong word, as I won't be decorating the page with balloons or cake or birthday clowns (because clowns are just downright frightening and anyone who hires a clown for their children's birthday is an evil human being who deserves to be shanked--seriously, have you seen Spawn?). Maybe a more appropriate word would be a birthday-related blogpost. Yeah, we'll go with that. Anyway, here's the story of my sixth birthday party. (There are some pretty cool bongos randomly posted up in this cabin right now, so I just gave myself a drumroll.)
When I was five years old, my family moved to a new house. To the five-year-old me, this was pretty outrageous and unjust for several reasons. First of all, it meant I'd have to change schools. Granted, I had only gone through kindergarten at my first school, but obviously kindergarten is where all social interaction through fifth grade is rooted. I had made some really cool friends (and by "cool" I mean "ultra-nerdy," but I was unaware of that fact until years later), and I was completely in love with a boy named Nathan Wall. Sure, he had totally ditched me on Valentine's Day to go after one of my friends who didn't even notice his cute little striped t-shirts and jorts (before they were considered janky), but that didn't matter. My love remained. I'd always sit by him during story time and make puffy little white hearts for him when we played with shaving cream (I can't believe that was legitimately something they gave us to do for fun in kindergarten--clearly our tax dollars are well-spent on educating the future of America; I mean, we all know Obama sits in the Oval Office, playing with shaving cream while mulling over perplexing political issues). And now my parents were ripping me away from Nathan Wall. I felt like Romeo being banishèd, except that I had no idea who Romeo was nor what "banishèd" meant, so it was probably more analogous to saying goodbye to Barney at the end of an episode or something equally as tragic to a five-year-old. To this day, I pine for my lost kindergarten love.
Second of all, we had just built this pretty radical treehouse in our backyard that was both rugged and woodsy enough to be used as a killer fort/battlefront, and yet classy and polished enough to host a delightful tea party with my Beanie Baby collection. In short, it was awesome, and we had only built it a few months before the move. When I realized that our new backyard didn't even have a swing set, I was furious. (I mean, really, what kind of a gyp is that?)
Third of all, I was being forced to leave my best friend who lived two doors down from us. We were only moving a few miles away, but to a five-year-old, a few miles is roughly equivalent to a lightyear. I was almost positive I would never see him again, and this was deeply troubling. When I went to say goodbye to him, however, he decided to reveal to me a deep, dark secret that he had been harboring for years: the kid loved Barbies. He showed me the loft of his family's garage, and it was absolutely covered in them--and not just Barbie dolls, but cars, houses, accessories, boyfriends, you name it. He had it all. I was flabbergasted. I was disturbed. I high-tailed it out of his backyard and was ready to move right then and there. (And I know what you're probably thinking--this guy's got to be gay, like Neil Patrick Harris Broadway-style flaming. But you'd be wrong. He is now kind of a thug who loves to mack on the ladies. Some dudes just like dolls.)
The point of this tirade is that I was deeply upset that we were moving, and I was openly embittered about it. When it came time for my birthday a few months later, I was still pretty peeved about the whole situation, and my parents weren't helping: they didn't even want me to have a party. Injustice! Oppression! Malfeasance! And to top it all off, my grandparents were coming to town. Now, I'm the first person to comment on how adorable the elderly are, especially in couple form, but I did not consider their visit to be a treat. Sure, my grandpa was a fly dude, a military vet who told you eating horseradish would make you grow hair on your chest and who always smelled like old-school Old Spice, but my grandma is definitely a cheek-grabber. Plus, I'm not a boy, I have no "seed," so I can't carry on the family name--meaning I am the least favorite of her grandchildren. This is clearly evident when she sends me $5 Taco Bell coupons for major holidays.
So my grandparents arrived for their "birthday visit" (since my birthday and both of my parents' birthdays are within two weeks of each other), and I was definitely not a happy camper. I pouted and stomped around the house, communicating my five-year-old displeasure via body language that I desperately wanted my parents to decode, but that I would deny if confronted about it. (*stomp stomp stomp* *angry face* *stomp* *angry face* "Is something wrong, Tina?" "What? No, why would you ask me that?") I know, I was such a mentally-sophisticated kindergartner. I'm telling you, it was the shaving cream.
The Saturday afternoon of their visit, my grandma offered to take me to the movies to see Madeline, the real-life movie version of the cartoon little redhead girl in the funny blue outfit. I was ecstatic. I don't know that I had really cared too much for the Madeline cartoons, but seeing movies was, at that juncture of my life, about the funnest activity that I could possibly engage in. My grandma put me in the backseat of her token old people car (a.k.a. a tan-colored Buick sedan), and we made the daunting five-minute journey to the cinemas.
The movie was alright. Frances McDormand as a crazy nun is a little bit much for any almost-six-year-old, and the little girl playing Madeline was kind of a spaz. The July sun whipped me with its cruel rays as Grandma and I trudged back to her car. Right as I was about to lift the handle to the backseat door, she stopped me.
"Uh, honey, I've got something for you to put on before we go home. Your mom wants you to."
I was instantly suspicious. Put on? Put on what? And why must this be done before we arrive back at the house? Already she wasn't making any sense, and I'm not one to blindly follow along with something just because I'm told to--look where that got the Nazis, and those people who wore those mesh tank tops in the '90s, and those douchebags who drank Zima (probably the same people wearing the mesh tanks). Not happenin'.
My grandma popped her trunk and pulled out a lavender dress with cream-colored lace adorning the neckline.
"What is that?" I asked with some disdain. At this point in my childhood, I was still in full-on gymnastics mode--meaning I was sort of a tomboy. I wore my hair in a ponytail 98% of the time, and wearing dresses and looking cute weren't really my foremost goals in life. I was perfectly comfortable in my shorts and cotton (not mesh) tank top, thank you very much. Why the heck would I want to put on a dress right now? Especially since, with the steamy summer heat, I'd probably just sweat right through it?
"It's a nice dress that your mommy wants you to wear home. C'mon, let's just put it on."
Okay, Grandma, even if I really did want to put this dress on, we're in the middle of the movie theater parking lot. There are countless passers-by and I am not about to get down to my skivvies in front of all these creeps. I may be five-almost-six, but that doesn't mean it's appropriate or cute for me to run around in public half-naked. Have some decency.
"Um, Grandma, I'm not putting that dress on."
"Oh, c'mon, honey, it'll make your mother happy. Just put it on." While I could understand it making my mother happy that I would wear a dress, since my tomboyishness really wasn't to her liking, I couldn't imagine why in the world she'd need me to wear this dress right this minute. What purpose would that serve? I was seriously confused, and, as such, I was getting more and more defensive.
"No, Grandma, I'm not wearing that dress. Let's just go home."
"Sweetie, we've got to put the dress on! Here, let me help you." She started tugging at my shirt, trying to yank it over my head, getting more violent the more I resisted her efforts. I felt extremely violated.
"What are you doing!? Leave me alone!"
"We just need to put this dress on!"
I flailed my arms in an attempt to both inadvertently smack her and to make it more difficult for her to remove my clothing. I felt like I was flailing for my life. She was gravely serious about me putting this dress on, and I was going to have to fight her to the death to keep my dignity. The passers-by began to stare. It was all thoroughly embarrassing. I started sweating enough to fill up a new ocean (the Sweatlantic?). The struggle raged on.
"Grandma, I really don't wanna wear this dress! You can't make me!"
"Honey, just wear the dress. Please!
"No!
"Please!"
"No!"
"OH, JUST PUT IT ON!" she yelled, in a voice very similar to that scary girl with the twisty neck in The Exorcist. I froze. The temperature of my blood went from "boiling with rage" to "sub-arctic."
"O--okay, G-grandma . . . "
"Good. That's better." She pulled the dress over my head casually and tied the strings in a bow in the back, threw my clothes in the trunk, and returned me to the backseat of the car. I didn't know what was going on, but at that point I was pretty sure my grandmother might try to eat my soul if I stepped out of line, so I just kept my mouth shut and hoped I hadn't been abducted by an alien disguised as a sixty-year-old woman.
We pulled up to the house, and the moment the door was unlocked, I bolted out of the car. I needed my mommy and I needed her right this instant. Someone needed to save me from this crazy, dress-wielding senior psycho. As I bounded up the steps to the front door, my grandma called to me: "No, honey, I think we have to go in the back door. I don't think the front door is open. C'mon, let's go to the back deck!"
I was leery of this announcement, because we never entered the house through the back door. I didn't even think anyone owned a key to that door. Maybe Grandma was going senile? That would definitely make sense given the rest of the circumstances. With eyes narrowed, I slowly attempted to open the front door. No luck. I briefly considered ringing the doorbell, but I'd have felt a little silly ringing the doorbell at my own house. I cautiously plodded over to my grandmother, who was smiling wildly at me like The Joker had given her a facelift, and I followed her toward the backyard. When I rounded the corner to the steps of the deck, I heard a small crowd shout "Happy birthday!"
I stopped dead in my tracks, stupefied. All of my friends from gymnastics and from school were gathered there on my deck, giggling and grinning and clapping their hands for me, the girl of the hour. It was then that I understood the lavender dress: my surprise party was "princess"-themed, and all the girls were dolled up in long evening gowns with strings of pearls and shiny tiaras. It was too cool.
Once I recovered from the shock, I joined everyone on the deck and engaged in excited chatter about how awesome it was that our moms let us wear real lipstick for the occasion and how we were never going to wear anything but high heels ever again. I proceeded to open up some pretty great presents: some dolls and some karaoke supplies and some clothes and accessories covered in neon-colored fur (which was all the rage at the time--a trend I am just too sad has died out). My grandparents gave me a suitcase. That was seriously lame. I tried to act like I was excited about it, but come on, it was a piece of luggage--unless it's got Polly Pocket on it, no six-year-old girl is going to go buck nutty over a suitcase. But I guess it was a step up from Taco Bell coupons and fuzzy socks (another item I am frequently given by my grandma--at least my feet will never be cold.)
The party ended up getting ruined by my brother and his neighborhood gang of hoodlum friends who launched a water gun attack on me and my girlfriends, soaking our fancy dresses and making me cry tears of pure rage. But for the most part, it was a pretty enjoyable event, and it's the only surprise birthday party I've ever had (presumably because my mother is horrible at keeping exciting secrets from me), and it removed my pent-up bitterness about moving to a new house. (No, Barbie Boy wasn't at the princess party, but I have a feeling he would have really enjoyed accessorizing an outfit for the occasion.) To this day, however, I am always slightly frightened when left alone with my grandma, for fear that the crazy wardrobe demon will return to her body and she'll start wrapping me in a tablecloth or something--and, let's face it, plaid is seriously not my color.
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