Turn Out the Lights, The Party's Over



We had our New Years Eve party on December 30 this year. It was a block party/open house that started at three and was scheduled to run until five. Rhiannon helped us kick the remaining guests out shortly before eleven that evening. Not wanting to keep people from coming over and having a good time, we invited grown-ups and children, too, who could occupy the basement which we converted into a kid-friendly playroom. Big, big mistake.

First, almost no parents showed up. They sent their kids over to eat and drink and basically tear the place apart in our (not Michael Jackson's) small version of Neverland. So Jayni and I and two neighbors from next door and one neighbor from down the street and about fifteen children under age ten enjoyed a bit of Aerosmith paired with cheese, sausage, crackers, sandwich fixings, and about ten pounds of shaved ham courtesy of my brother-in-law.

Other grown-ups finally showed up around 5, found the house warm and inviting, and stayed to eat and drink and meet other nieghbors (which was the goal, anyway). At around 7, two men showed up carrying practice amps and new electric guitars, a microphone, and monitors, and spent the next three hours playing our party, singing hits like "Gloria" and "Born on the Bayou". One of my neighbors, Pete, and I played during their breaks, playing songs like, "I think this is in G" and "Huh?". I even played a solo rendition of "Little Red Caboose" for the ladies.

Meanwhile, the children had regressed to being, well, children. I blame FEMA for not warning us soon enough, because the aftermath included damaged property, spoiled food, trash everywhere, and light vomit. The corner next to the weight bench had been converted to a dumping site for lollipop sticks, candy wrappers, bad nuts, tissues, and assorted debris. The record player had its top removed along with its needle. One cabinet door was torn off the hinges. Jayni's slide drawers had been rifled through. Rhiannon's keyboard had been puked on by one of the sick children from down the street whose parents had sent her over to get her out of their house. One could not see the carpet for all of the toys and food strewn across its surface. On my few trips downstairs to invesigate crying, I variously sw children swinging from the weight set, five children jumping on the exercise trampoline, kids rummaging through video boxes, and more. They were all feral and shared a group-think that succeeded in repelling anyone over fifteen from coming down for more than twenty seconds.

At the conclusion of the party, we all received hand-made invitations to go to Rhiannon's wedding. She was supposed to marry Anthony, also three, from next door, today, with reception at Chuck-E-Cheese's to follow. Rhiannon still thinks this is going to happen, but Jayni and I are trying to talk her out of it as Anthony beats her and has a foul mouth. But still she loves him. I thought girls were supposed to fall in love with boys who were like their fathers. Hmmm. I wonder who Rhiannon's dad is.

So we all slept until 8:30 this morning and spent the next six hours completing party clean-up. The place looks great now, but Jayni says, "never again". And Rhiannon says, "again, again!". Repeatedly cute.

Andrew (Papa)