Birthday Party, Part II

OK, as a prelude, I should point out that I had met Birthday Boy's mom a time or two at daycare, and while no conversation made it much past hello, she seemed nice enough ... normal enough, I should say. I don't remember meeting her husband but guess I did, because I got the "good to see you again" handshake at the party. I'm fairly certain he's the one who came down off the mountain at some point and that the Petticoat Junction faction of this gathering came from his side.

I'm not sure any of that group made it to the pool part of the party. Or maybe it was that I didn't notice. I tend heavily toward tunnel vision when the girls are anywhere near water ... the swim classes still haven't cured me. And then there was the matter I failed to mention before of No. 2 finally deciding she wanted daddy to release her in the pool. So I got her out of the water, carried her over to a rack of floatation devices and, while trying to find one that would fit her, she waddled right back over to the pool and stepped in ... into three feet or so of water. A lifeguard was standing nearby … near enough to beat me into the water. You never feel as worthless (or maybe so ... I just haven't stumbled upon it yet) as when someone is handing your gasping 2-year-old to you up out of a pool.

But I digress. The Jerry Springer contingent did make its way in, or at least part of it. The lead character was a woman who might have been Birthday Boy’s grandmother … or aunt. Hard to tell. I’ll refer to her as Bulldog Woman, because her facial features strongly suggested that there was a bulldog somewhere in her recent lineage. Portly woman, too. OK, big woman. Big as in if she held her arms out, parallel to the ground and then relaxed them, they remained pretty much parallel to the ground. She was wearing one of those long, casual dresses … at least I think it was a dress. Could have been something one would wear to bed, or perhaps I thought so given the fact it appeared that she had. No sleeves on this garment, either, which was good, because that offered everyone a full view of both tattoos on the upper halves of both arms.

And all that was not even what drew attention to this woman. What I’d learn as the evening progressed was that she would be providing party play-by-play via cell phone to someone who could not attend. Someone who was hard of hearing.

A dozen or so kids were in the pool. About half of them I recognized from daycare, the other half from the unfortunate town in “The Hills Have Eyes.” No. 1’s favorite, though … at least while we were in the pool … was a girl I’d guess to be in her early- to mid-teens. No. 1 has always been drawn to older kids, especially at daycare. This one, she couldn’t take her eyes off. As a parent, it’s a challenge to keep young children from staring, but in this case, I wanted this image burned into her psyche as something she’d never, ever, over-my-dead-body want to emulate. Blue-streaked black hair. Nose rings on both sides. Black eye make-up. A lot of it. That or she was the victim of a practical joke involving shoe polish. Black lipstick. Black nail polish. (I know, I know. It’s a statement.)

As was the case with Bulldog Woman, Pagan Girl was extremely adept at projecting her voice (like to another zip code) although her vocabulary left a little to be desired. Well, maybe that’s a bit harsh. I couldn’t understand half of what she was projecting, although the two teenaged guys standing at pool’s edge … two guys who I feel confident in saying idolize Eminem … did not seem confused, a guess considering I couldn’t understand half of what they were saying, either. (In the interest of full disclosure I should confess my position that there’s nothing more pathetic in this world than white guys acting like black guys. They just come off as, well, white guys trying to act like black guys.)

Eventually, it was time to get out. I’m not sure if it was the deepening bluish hue of the girls’ lips or Bulldog Woman’s sudden outburst into her phone (several decibels higher than a Metallica concert) … something to the effect of “You tell him to get off his lazy ass and take you to the store” … that made me decide swim time was over. Could also have been the growing discomfort associated with “shrinkage” graduating to “full-fledged turtle” … yes, the water was COLD. The second half of the party was in another room, anyway, and it was time.

This is where we stumbled upon another member of the Springer Gang. Our bag and towels were on a bench in the corner, and No. 2 actually made the first sighting with “Look daddy! Beebee!” Sitting beside the bench was an infant carrier. With an infant inside. The fact that no one belonging to this child was near motivated me to hustle the girls out, down the hall and into a bathroom to change.

Now, Arlington’s a fairly big city. We’re approaching, I believe, half a million in population. This particular YMCA, however, didn’t see fit to have “locker rooms” or even “family rooms.” Just men’s and women’s. And the men’s featured a sink, a urinal and a stall … a handicap stall, fortunately. So in we went. And, as luck would have it, someone came in seconds later.

Now, normally when I enter a public restroom and see that a stall door is closed, I take for granted that someone’s in there. At the very least, I might glance down to make sure. And beyond that, the adventure that is getting these two changed out of swimsuits creates enough buzz to, at the very least, offer a hint that THIS STALL IS OCCUPIED. But this MIT grad went ahead and tried the door anyway. Twice.

If that wasn’t unsettling enough to the girls, this guy … at the urinal now, I’m guessing … starts whistling. And then coughing. I’m talking a “Wow, I think I just tasted my lung” cough. Followed by a very thick and audible spit and splat. (Couldn't help but hope it landed inside the urinal but also couldn't help thinking this guy wasn't real particular about that sort of thing.)

“Is that man sick?” No. 1 asks in a not-so hushed tone (and I swear, her sentence echoed at least four times). At this point, I’m pretty much resigned to the fact that this guy’s leaving the bathroom before we emerge. Even if it takes two hours.

To be continued …

(Imported from Feb. 11, 2007)