Thursday, September 21, 2006

Birthday Wishes

I spent Saturday night with an adorable blonde. . . . And several of his best friends . . . . for his ninth birthday celebration.

I met up with the gang when they were playing flashlight tag in a park about a block from his house. His parents were in the throes of parenting, disciplining, and the usual party games. I offered to take the crowd home with the top down and the music as loud as we could get it given that we were in a residential area. No one seemed to have a problem with this idea.

We made the ride last a while. I was giving mom & dad time to make it back to the house and start the fire (yes, this is Houston and my sweat was sweating, but yes, they built a fire in the backyard for S'mores). Before we unloaded, we had snapshots taken.

Soon, I was staffing the S'mores "bar" preparing the graham crackers and chocolate to readily receive the cooked marshmellows. What I was really doing was getting as far away from that fire as I could. Wouldn't want the chocolate to melt prematurely, would we?

Tyler, who came to just above my thigh as one of the shorter buddies who were there for the sleepover, walked up to my makeshift bar and began a conversation. I looked up and then down to note that he was carrying his drink like I'd seen any number of men do at a cocktail party. Looking over the rim, taking a sip, he asked, "So what's your connection with this crowd?"

I tried not to smile at how by the minute he was becoming a schmoozer. "I'm a friend," I said.

"Oh, I thought maybe you might be the grandmother or something," he offered.

I'm only ten years older than the parents so I respond loudly so they can hear me, "No, I'm not the GRANDMOTHER."

But I'm smiling, actually almost laughing so I'm not sure that he's picked up on his faux paux until he says, with the determination I've seen many a man try to dig his way out of similar verbal holes, "Well, I just wanted you to know, you have a really, cool car!"

And with that he walked away to mingle with the other guests.

Later I judged the burping and arm farting contest and felt the need to insure he knew all was well between us so I declared him the arm fart king.


some chick said...


i'll only pick a few...

and he didn't ask you your sign?

way to redeem himself by complimenting your car.

way to stroke the fragile male ego there, karen! i know adult men who would love to be named the arm fart king.

Finding the Happy said...

Now you've done it...

In the future, he'll expect every hot blond who drives a red convertible to massage his wounded ego by elevating his standing among the other males in the tribe with a solicitous (albeit faux stinky) award!