further proof
So there I was, enjoying another birthday party filled with 6-year-olds and women. And by enjoying, I mean leaning against a wall. One of the children was late to the party; he ran in and jumped into playing with the rest of the kids. His mother looked through me, smiled brightly and said, “Hi ladies!”
Right. I am the big ugly man doll. This is why.
For those of you who may not yet know the reference, you’ll have to see the second of the wonderful Toy Story movies, called Toy Story 2. (Go figure.) Near the end, the evil misguided Prospector Pete is strapped to the backpack of a cute little girl, next to a brightly painted Barbie. The little girl picks up her backpack, notices the new Pete doll, and exclaims to her mother, “Look, Mommy! A big, ugly MAN doll!”
When I take my children to these birthday gatherings, filled with pre-pubescent partying and estrogen energy sharing, I am that big, ugly man doll. The nannies, the moms, the milfs, they do not speak to me unless in dire need. (“Excuse me, um, the building is on fire, and, um…”) I used to think that by hanging out with a bunch of cute kids – even my own – the cuteness would rub off on me, and perhaps I would be spoken to. I also used to think monkeys would fly out of my butt if I waited long enough. The monkeys are still the more likely outcome. Er, so to speak.
So, I hear you ask, why in the name of Dr. Horrible and his Sing Along Blog would I not simply ask SOBUMD to take the Reigning Queen of Pink, Grand Duchess of Fluff, and High Protector of Barbies to the damn party? Well, I’ll tell you. I did. She decided that I needed to attend this one myself, in my capacity as the BUMD, simply because “you need more material for the blog.”
Now, a person with a larger ego than mine might consider this an accolade, in that my work as the BUMD is being requested, being fed, as it were. There are some issues with this theory. First, it is widely held to be a fact that there is no such person – you may travel from New York to Norway, from Araboth to Arkansas, from Greece to Gehenna, and you will not find anyone with a larger ego. (My ego has its own passport, and travels the world.) Therefore, since only someone with an ego larger than mine would consider this an accolade, and there is no such person, this must be subtrefuge of the highest order.
Since I am, if not the smartest person in the world, the smartest person you’re likely to meet, I have sussed the subtrefuge in play here. SOBUMD sent me on this mission to remind me that our marriage is the best thing that ever happened to me – (true!) – and that, in her absence, the chances of my having sex with actual women are zero. (Also true!)
So there I was, enjoying another birthday party filled with 6-year-olds and women. I was, to the surprise of no one at all, largely ignored – until I overheard someone mention the word Starbucks, whereupon I most cheerfully made it clear that I would certainly be happy to join any such coffee-bound person or group. (Hey, how about a Venti Caramel Milfiato, with extra whip!) As I made my way out the door with one of the women, all the rest – and I am not making this up – decided they’d come too. I can only assume that their decision was based on the desire to protect one of their own. For the record, that one looked like she could hold her own against two of me, the barista, and the truck parked outside, but hey. Women are from Venus, I have a penis, and that’s all there is to it. So, instead of having to actually talk to me, they split into 2 groups – one in front of me, and one in back – and in this fashion we walked to Starbucks. Once there, I ordered something masculine and tossed it back in one shot, crushed the empty cup against my forehead, and nailed the three-pointer by hitting the trash can from 17 feet. After finding a napkin and looking like I’d meant to drip hot espresso down my forehead – which Real Men do all the time, of course – I moved closer to the estrogen constellation and overheard a discussion of the Eighties.
I missed the Eighties, largely due to apathy, but one likes to keep one’s hand in, so I attempted a foray about how old I was getting (relative to said decade). One of the ladies indicated that she’d recently passed her 20th High School Reunion. I mentioned that I had also recently passed – and skipped – the same milestone. Since there was a pause in the general buzz, I asked her if she’d attended high school in this area.
This being MY life, she cheerfully recited the name of my high school and the year of my graduation. When I mentioned that I was in her graduating class, we remarked upon what a small world it was, and checked memories for names in common.
She, of course, didn’t remember me at all, proving that SOBUMD is right – without her, I could build a freaking TIME MACHINE and my chances of having sex with actual women would STILL be zero. I remain grateful that the SOBUMD loves me. I don’t know why, but she does.
Damned birthday parties.
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