I was upstate this past weekend for a few reasons. Among them being the celebration of the birthday of this little girl:
My niece, Elizabeth. Look at that face! She turned one year old amid a frenzy of pink tablecloths, Hello Kitty everything and deviled eggs. She even let her battered and hungover uncle hold her and bounce her on his hip without grimacing once at the rancid odor of wedding reception booze seeping out of his pores.
I’m not really a baby birthday proponent. I’ll go to the first birthday, sure. Congratulations, you got the kid to year one, awesome, we are all thrilled. But two, three or four? Forget it. That’s when you start having people with other kids come over. No need for creepy childless people hanging around when you can almost guarantee that the kid will have no memory of them being there. What, are you going to quiz them ten years later on who gave them the best gift? Who played the best round of pin the tail on the donkey? Who sat around looking bored until they deemed it socially acceptable to flee out the door to the nearest bar?
Give me a call when your kid turns 21, I’m way better at corrupting newly minted adults than I am at sitting through an afternoon of reaffirming your belief that your kid is the most special snowflake ever to fall out of the blizzard of your wife’s vagina.
Except my little Weezy up there, she’s definitely a special snowflake. Look at those cheeks! LOOK AT THEM.
You’re not allowed to pinch them, though. I have no idea what other sites you’ve been to before coming here.