shrug

I have a SH-T memory, but I know I had a lot of kick-ass birthday parties growing up. That was back when Moms didn't need Pinterest to feel guilty/inspired; they just made rad sh-t like bread in the shape of Winnie the Pooh characters, or jammed one large emergency candle into a Fido Dido DQ cake and called it a day.

Before I hit 13, I had only three expectations: a cake, my favourite song that I also sang ..."to ME, Happy Bir..." and a sleepover with all my friends. And if there were too many to fit into our bungalow's living room then the one friend who was the most timid would get the brick fireplace hearth as her death bed from hell.

Easy.

After 13 the memories expand out a little; great glowing flashes of our tiny house jammed with girls, gifts, headbands, crimping irons, Truth or Dare, Nicky Nicky Nine door, great teetering slabs of black forest cake, fresh Dean Koontz novels with spines meant to be bent, new school gossip and eventually passing out to the soundtrack of soft girl snores in a stuffy room with a deathly cloud of sweet perfume sitting on top of us.

Good times, right?

I was looking at an old photo disc the other day and came across a picture taken at my 6th birthday party. So, I haven't confirmed with my Mom but evidently I f-cked up royally that year and my punishment was to have my birthday party at The Fort in Fort Langley. I'll save you the trip and give you my 31 years later recap of it: brutally sh-tty.

shrug image USSR.jpg

Wood. Tall. Ancient battles. Old stories. Old timey. People in character that looked about as miserable as it must have been back then, so, good job? Old souvenirs that looked gross. It rained too. But the real piece de resistance, as seen above, is that someone thought seductively wrapping the skinned corpse of a wolf? fox? badger? around my slight shoulders would be a GREAT BIRTHDAY UPSELL.

I can STILL feel it. Smell it. I'm exceedingly proud that you can't see the disgusted terror in my eyes - but the glasses are pretty thick. Trust me, it's there. The SECOND the flash went off, that thing was unceremoniously dumped off me like it had just come alive and was hunting down my frantically pulsing jugular.

I lived, which is more than I can say for Old Furry No Face there. The ensuing birthdays rebounded back to glory and #6 is now just a hellish footnote in my fading memory cave, tucked in that part of my skull where that limp thing's genitalia rested right up tight in behind my ear...

THIS IS WRONG, RIGHT? Like, as a parent now, even if Stella suddenly was all, "Taxidermy is totally the devil's freelance, but I think in order to prepare for medical school I need to feel a mink stole wrapped around me, oh so warm and dead," I would immediately play her this scene from Ghostbusters 2 and then she'd join me on Team No Dead Touchy Touch.

My Mom is totally going to call me and be all like, "YOU LOVED THAT PARTY," and I'll challenge her to start her own blog to post fake memories and then get super upset when she tells you about the time she tripped on the top nubbin of a stair on our front porch and me and my brother laughed before helping her up.

So, (MOM), yes, overall my childhood birthday parties were so much better than anything MTV could dream of. Even the one involving a carcass I wore like a dainty murder necklace.

Your turn - what was your worst birthday party? But before you comment - did it involve something dead? Right? Right.

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