Sunday, October 23, 2005

The Death of One Thousand Giggles

The SO can't say No to a female. Normally, this works for me, as I'm evil enough to take constant advantage of him. Unfortunately, I'm not the only person who knows what a pussy, er, soft-hearted guy he is.

I walked into our place Friday night to find it infested with 8,9, and 10 year old girls.

ME: *Picture the Baroness Bomburst of Vulgaria from Chitty Chitty Bang Bang. Hands fluttering as I reel from side to side as if I'll go into a dead faint from sheer horror.* "Children! There are children here!"

SO: * Grinning sheepishly* "Oh yeah, my sister asked if we could watch the girls overnight."

ME: "Correct me if I'm wrong, but your sister has only two kids. There appear to be seven girls here."

SO: "Yeah, it's a sleepover."

ME: *Gaze sliding to smugly simpering manipulative niecelets* "Oh joy. Oh rapture. How long have WE known about this?"

SO: *turns away, mumbling something under his breath.* "I ordered pizza!"

GIRLS: *commence shrieking and jumping*

ME: *shudder* "If you need me, I'll be in the bottom of a martini."

SO: "What's the matter? Chicken?" *lifting one eyebrow*

Oh, he was so going down for that.

Let me just state for the record that I make a lousy girl. The day they taught girls to care about things like make-up, hair, clothes, shrieking, pink, fluffy things, stuffed animals, cuteness, babies, etc., I was apparently still out on the playground with the boys. Most women are a separate tribe from me that speaks a different language and practices strange customs. (One day I will write about the special hell that is the Baby Shower/Wedding Shower ritual. Three words: toilet paper brides. Do a Google image search if you don't believe me. There are stranger things, Horatio...)

The SO went on an indulgency binge in preparation for the sleepover. He takes his role as favorite Uncle very seriously. The girls had craft kits to make necklaces, little make-up kits full of sparkly stuff for them to spill on the furniture, hot chocolate with whipped cream (two sips, then set aside), chips (ground into the carpet), dip (also into the carpet), sodas (opened, left to get warm and flat, never actually drank), ring pops, several suitably girly movies (Princess Diaries, UpTown Girls....), a karaoke machine loaded with Britney Spears songs (for the love of humanity - make it STOP!), popcorn, cake, and ice cream.

We were lucky only one puked.

Those tiny little ballerina wanna-bes shoved our furniture to the far walls and spread out over the floor with their sleeping bags like pilgrims on their way to Barbie-Mecca. Everything was lurid pink and purple. Mercifully, they didn't get into the mean girl mode and make anyone cry. (Even the puker was remarkable sanguine about the experience. After cleaning up, she went right back to the party. I foresee Spring Break greatness in her future.) They were, however, bouncing off the walls. About 1 AM, the SO and I decided to lead by example and crawl into bed.

I have no idea why they call them sleepovers. There was no sleeping involved. The girls had sleeping bags. They had pajamas. They had stuffed animals. But at no time did any of them sleep.

Nor did we.

Over the next four hours, we took turns pleading, cajoling, threatening, and crying for mercy. The girls were on an estrogen high though, and they weren't going to come down. More than anything, it was the shrieking giggles that plucked every nerve up my spine. There was no escaping it. That sound could slice through solid lead like it was butter.

The cruel, long, slow, painful death of a thousand giggles.

About 5AM, another round of riotous laughter burst from the TV room.

SO: *shoving my shoulder* "Your turn."

ME: *shoving back* "Your effing blood relatives."

SO: "I'm too cute to go to prison."

ME: * reluctantly agreeing.* "You so owe me."

SO: *rolls over and puts pillow over head.*

I dragged out to the TV room. Every step down the hall, the giggles got louder. I looked into the room. The TV was on, playing a movie that they weren't watching. They had the pizza out again and were eating the cold leftovers from dinner the night before.

SO's younger niece put her hand to her chest. And then - she belched.

Dark haired girl: "Yeah, but can you do words?" *proceeds to belch part of the alphabet*

Chorus: *giggling*

Blonde girl: "That's so Gross! You're supposed to do --." *Lifts up one buttcheek and farts.*

Older niece: "You should do that in class!"

Blonde girl: "Oh, totally!"

Chorus: *riotous laughter, giggles, forced burps, and more farts*

I tip-toed back down the hall and climbed into bed.

SO: "What was it this time?"

ME: "I think they were gossiping about movie stars."

I may not be much of a girl, but I know better than to give men a sneak peek behind the curtain. Oh sure, you can try to tell men, you can warn them, but they will insist on the feminine mystique. Sometimes, it's just better to let them have their dreams.

We survived the night. Every child was delivered back to her parents-- alive. Just before the designated pick-up time though, I let the girls spray cheap perfume in their hair, gave them full-sugared sodas to drink, and had them main-line pixie stix. By the time mini-vans pulled into the driveway, every girl was vibrating on sugar-induced highs. The puker looked a little green.

ME: *rubbing hands together* "Excellent."

That'll teach those parents to trust me with their kids ever again.

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