See, on your day off, you want to do the opposite of things. You want to do NOT things.
Things include parties. Parties are fun when they’re gatherings of like minded people, together for laughing and joking and sometimes, for showing off the new furniture- sometimes. Parties are not fun when you have to endure them for any reason. Which is why I flopped down on the ground in front of my mom and threw a loud, wailing tantrum about how I don’t want to go to my stupid cousin’s stupid house and be nice to stupid people.
But, as expected, I wore stinking pretty clothes and went. At least there would be cake, I consoled myself.
There was no cake.
Five hours of talking about clothes, husbands, and the weather later, I have survived, and I am home.
There is a special place in Hell for cousins who hand you their squalling toddlers and run away, leaving you to wrestle a baby you haven’t seen since his intrauterine life.
Satan will bathe in the contents of his spittoon the women who chase you around parties asking why you haven’t gotten married yet.
I’m going to put my pjs on, then I’m going to go sterilise my face because someone’s kid BIT MY FACE. While the mother watched. And then she told me how precious it is that he learnt to that, while the kid hopped off my lap and chewed her toe. My dogs are literally more well behaved than that.
Parties like these are why I have a bottle of whiskey hidden under my bed. I need a damned stiff drink.
I like kids, but if you’re raising brats, remember- they’re not ah-dawwrable to anyone except you.
On that note, I’m going to pass out. And if any of you haven’t read this yet, I highly recommend you do. The Oatmeal is always good for a laugh. 🙂