About me: I'm a 40-something mother to a pickle party of a family. My husband Chuck, our tween Junior, our 6-year-old Everett, our toddler Cam, and I live in a town in Connecticut I affectionately call Mulletville Lite (aka my childhood hometown). My friends call me Nutjob, and they're right. In my husband's spare time he dresses up as a Viking and chases ghosts (and I'm the nutjob?). I'm a freelance graphic designer and writer.
Sunday, July 19, 2009
They asked me again and again...and again...and again...
Dear Chuck's friend's girlfriend's breasts,
I want to thank you so much for coming to Junior's birthday party on Saturday. It was a pleasure to meet you...in your entirety. It was so cute how Chuck's friend kept slipping up and saying, "She's my girls." Oops.
I must admit, you threw me for quite a loop. When people came up to me again and again and asked, "Did you see them?" I thought they were referring to the Cookie Monster cupcakes I so lovingly baked and decorated for my son.
Their wide-eyed shock seemed appropriate given my track record with baking. I mean, let's be honest, everything I make usually comes out like shit. It would make sense that they would see the cupcakes and think the cupcake fairy made them, and not me. Alas, they were talking about you.
I also had no idea that so many of my friends and family enjoyed deviled eggs. I'm sure it had nothing to do with the fact that you doled them out while leaning forward. I'm sure if I had offered people a plate of creamy eggs that had been sitting in the sun for two hours I would have had eager takers as well. Wink, wink.
Thanks again for coming. It was the breast—I mean best—toddler birthday party ever.