I Forget Myself Sometimes

What was I saying, ‘normal service will be resumed’??! I completely forgot I had to work today and when I have to work on a Saturday ‘normal service’, whatever the fuck that is, goes out the window – even without a stupid ‘pledge’ (what am I? a fucking boy scout?) to post everyday.

It’s – what? – 9pm, and I’ve just finished.  But am already on my way to being slightly drunk.  Before you judge me, this wouldn’t normally be the case, but I am ‘throwing’ a birthday party tomorrow.  For 6-year-olds.  I need to anaesthetise myself.

I am not a party ‘thrower’.  Bless her little cotton socks, this is Boogie’s first full-on, all classmates invited, birthday party.  Yes, she’s 6.  Do the maths.  And she only got it this year because I managed to get slightly drunk at another 6-year-old’s birthday party and another mother suggested we do a joint one, and I said yes.

I thought she was offering me drugs.

Normally, I steer clear of children’s parties.  It is at children’s parties that parents tend to show their gender prejudices off like patriarcy-compliant trophies.  I fucking hate kids’ parties.  Normally, their very premise drives me up the wall:  X is having a princess party, no boys!, Y is having a Knights party, girls can come as princesses if they can get over their basic redundancy to the point of the party; a knights’ party being just a bunch of small boys trying to swashbuckle the crap out of each other before one by one succumbing to some sword-related injury and crying like fucking girls.

And yes, a knights’ party is precisely the sort of place where you will hear this phrase and, importantly, you will be expected not to kill the speaker or even tell them that come the revolution anybody who denigrates girls while girls are standing there will have their genitals severed while people stand around and debate whether the ensuing tears are of the female or male variety (hint: they will be chock-full of testosterone), just for being fucking impolite.

And that’s before we even get into the details of the ‘gender-specific party bag‘.

I really fucking hate children’s parties.  So I send the BoogieMeister.

Which works out fine.  If I went, I would be expected to be sociable, it would be noted if I didn’t chit and chat, ooh and aah, etc etc.  When he goes, he doesn’t have to say a word to a soul and can spend the entire time reading the paper; it will only be noted if he is sociable (‘oh, yes, Boogie’s dad is lovely, isn’t he?  He chats and everything!  So unlike the normal sociopathic expectations we have of fathers!’)

If you doubt me, think about maybe the one guy in your circle of mothers who takes substantive care of his children, and tell me he isn’t considered a saint for just turning up.

I really fucking hate kids’ parties.

And yes, I do realise that my basic problem is that my body lives a safe, heteronormative, all-white, middle-class life when my head thinks like a down and dirty, lower class oik who lives in a communal, rainbow-tinted farm squat and sleeps with whoever, man, cos I, like, fall in lust with an individual not a gender, y’know?  I’m basically a Socialist Workers’ Party’s wet dream who votes Tory.

I am of course kidding about the voting Tory part.

Still, I really fucking hate kids’ parties.

I am hosting one tomorrow.  Wish me luck.


About MistressofBoogie

Feminist. Loud-mouth. Sometimes those two are linked. Sometimes not. View all posts by MistressofBoogie

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