Monkey Joes and other things that make my skin crawl

Today we were invited to a birthday party. For tonight. Yes, you read that right. My daughter didn’t go to school Thursday, they didn’t have school Friday, so she got an invitation today for a party this same night. So with 2 hours to run home and change out of yoga pants (don’t judge me- you’ve done it), buy a present, mentally prepare myself for an evening of loud, screeching children without access to liquor while they have access to cake and high fructose red “juice”, AND drive there- 25 minutes away. Needless to say, I armed myself with a Kindle and my phone to work on my product reviews. At 5pm they released the hounds unto inflatable goodness. I quickly made a beeline for a table out of the way after being stopped for everyone to introduce themselves to me. The whole time in my head, “ok, great. Please don’t shake my hand or get too close….. and there’s your hand. Thanks. Thanks for that.” Now, I’m not a germ-aphobe or claustrophobic, I’m just socially awkward and don’t like people touching me (especially strangers- oh or family). After reviewing my new Kukpo Pizza wheel, which I LOVE BTW, I meander around a bit to make sure my offspring is still breathing and sit down again. In a little bit I heard my daughter screaming “Somebody help this girl!” while another child screams. I book it over to the towering inflatable slide, toss my purse and kick my shoes aside. I scaled the rope climb and found a tiny girl sobbing because she was scared to get down (and found my daughter wasn’t concerned with her safety, just annoyed that a small, crying child was in her vicinity- a real chip off the old block). I took hold of her and half descended/half fell down the inflatable stairs single handedly rescued said child. They gathered everyone up and fed them sugar to ensure they could climb for another hour. Released them again, then gathered them AGAIN 10 minutes later to do presents. At this time I sat down in the party room at the end of the picnic table. A small girl wandered in and sighed in an exhaustive way and I mistakenly asked “you ok?” She said, “I just came in to hug you!” and promptly climbed into my lap and wrung my neck hard enough to bend me backwards while I flailed to upright myself,Β  knocking juice cups off the table. Now, the fear of “touching” issue I have is also brought on by strange children with snot who attempt murder by strangulation. And I have to look sane and pretend I’m ok to the hoard of adults watching me and “awwwww-ing” as this overly affectionate child with no healthy fear of strangers, is mauling me. And that was my enthralling trip to Monkey Joes.
Now I have to watch my future hubby down a disgusting bowl of grossness to end my night. Ugh.



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