Party Pooper

Okay, I'll just say it. I do not like parties and truthfully, most of the time I hate them. When I was very little, I learned to dislike parties. Birthday parties for most kids are some kind of agonizing arrangement made by adults who conjure up "fun" for kids who'd rather be out climbing trees and puddling in water somewhere far away from party clothes and "your best manners". Even as a child just out of tottism, I loathed the stupid games we had to play. Musical Chairs, to me was one of the worst. I was not an aggressive kid, and that game required pushing and shoving and yes, even in desperation to get the last chair, pinching. You did not squeal on the pinchers for good reason. They'd get you later. You knew it. I used to think when others were scolded for their rough moves, how come? Isn't that what this game is all about. And then there was Pin The Tail On The Donkey in which you were blind-folded, spun and handed a lethal weapon to stab into a picture of an ass. It didn't matter where the sharp end went, everyone laughed at you, and you felt just like the donkey. Another game I rather loved, was Drop The Clothespin In The Milk Bottle. (Those were the days before dryers and milk cartons.) Now, this game made sense. It required some kind of intelligence and skill. Ring Around The Rosy or London Bridge was the height of silliness but what else could we do because the reigning parent needed to be encouraged. She would be serving soon, we hoped, the ice cream and cake. Of course these days, party planners put up candy bars not the chocolate bar kind, but a stack of plastic buckets where you can indulge yourself in cheap penny candy until you are sick. What happened to birthday cake that looked like cake? The cakes now are either those frilly muffin things or some kind of glitzy field of dreams with fairies and cars and animals all over it. Who would want to take a knife and kill it all?  Is that a cake or is it a plastic toy box? The best part of the party was the biggest downer. The kid who lived in the house you were forced to go to for the p-a-r-t-y, got all the presents that the guests' parents bought after deep conferences with the birthday kids'. You felt miffed, but you knew that you would get your revenge because you had a birthday coming up, hee hee and you would get all the presents at your party. Every child was happiest near the end of the event, when the fighting and the yelling and the crying began. We all knew it would happen. It was as sure as shirts. That's when the real party began because we could then let it all out in spite of the neckties and ruffles and petticoats and cute little vests just like mommy's or daddy's. That's when it was okay to be a kid and do what was natural. Even the ride home with the silences of  Stiff Mommy and Growly Daddy! Nuts, there's a holiday party I have to go to this Saturday. Maybe when things get dull as they inevitably do, I'll take out my sack of  old wooden clothes pins and the milk bottle.