What was originally going to be a "small affair with some playgroup friends" has transformed into our usual 12-hour, toss the max. occupancy sign-style bacchanalia. I don't know how it happens, but we are always looking for an excuse to clean the place. And it seems a few folks around here like a good party. (Me.) We don't know who to knock off the invite list, and it just seems to grow and grow, but it should be fun! We're renting an inflatable jumper the size of the Hindenburg! And like the Hindenburg, these parties are big, beautiful flying machines -until they go up in flames and come crashing down, people leaping for their lives. Fortunately or unfortunately, I'm the dad and about as helpful as a broken stapler at a dirigible hangar. Mrs. Ditchman is frustrated with me. Anyway, the theme of the party has something to do with Mickey Mouse. I know this because I saw the big round cake with the two smaller round cakes next to it.
Since the alumawork around here has flatlined, we'll spend the day tidying up and prepping the fixin's, or fixin' the preppings. Or frepping the pixin's. The Little Digger apparently has lost the need and desire to sleep, thus depriving all of us. Resentment abounds as he just bounces there on his own, smiling, at 5AM. It's amazing how this little guy can be so cute and so irritating all at the same time. Like a happy little bundle of stinging nettles.
And we broke the bank on this party, just like with the last one on New Year's. I guess it's what we do when all hope is lost. (Hey! My place for the Apocalypse!) If you're coming, bring a sixpack. If you're not coming, bring one anyway. Toast my belated! Toast St. Patrick! Toast the dumb cold we're all gonna get from all these little kids drooling on everything around here!
Gotta go get the yard mowed and ready for the guests. The day has Costco, Bevmo, and Partygo lined up for the missus. Also, I've just been informed that it is Friday the Thirteenth again. Oh, the humanity!
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