Tag Archives: Candles

Keg-Stand Birthday Party

We threw a keg party for our oldest little dude’s first birthday.

I mention this not to subject myself to abuse, although I have a feeling that’s just what I’ve done.

No, the reason I mentioned it was as a way to continue the discussion about memory and youth. On Monday, I  talked about how I should have saved a lot of money by not taking the young dudes to Walt Disney World until they were old enough to actually remember going.

Here’s the thing: I can’t tell you the number of first-birthday parties to which I’ve gone that were complete wastes of time, energy and cake.

There is no way that a one-year-old little dude or dudette is going to be participating much in the festivities, unless there’s a drool off at some point, much less remember it with fondness later.

A lot of parents seem to forget that their adorable little spawn-of-their-loins doesn’t have an actual brain at one year, nor much control over their muscles (not to mention bowels).

Unless you’re desperately short on cute onesies, then, what’s the point of throwing a huge, big-time party for a one-year-old little dude?

The answer to that question is staring you right in the face. Well, it is provided you’re standing in front of a mirror and looking at it.


It’s you, dudes. You parents are the reason for the party.

No kid will ever remember nor appreciate the party you throw for them. Considering we didn’t remember this when it was time to force Walt Disney World on ourselves, it’s a miracle we remembered this little tidbit.

My wife, known to many as She Who Must Be In Charge Of Every Kegs of beer are one of the most important ingredients when you're throwing a keg party. You could even go so far as to not purchase any cups, but you've got to have the keg and the tap. Can't forget the tap.Little Party Detail Or Else, and I quickly realized that every first-birthday-party was, in fact, for the parents. So we decided, if that was the case (and it is), then let’s really make it for the parents.

Which brings us to the keg party.

Before the actual party began, we had a little celebration with the proto-Sarcasmo involving cake he could barely eat, candles he couldn’t blow out and presents he didn’t understand. But mostly it was about pictures. Lots and lots of pictures.

Then we cleaned up the mess and got to the fun. We held the keg party to celebrate the fact that we’d managed to procreate and had kept the resulting mass of replicating protoplasm alive, functional and cute as all get out for one complete revolution around the sun.

We invited friends, family and, for one rather fuzzy moment, the mail carrier on his appointed rounds.

A good time was had by all.

Although, now that I think about it, I’m not sure we really achieved anything different by holding an adult party instead of hosting a party for a young dude who wouldn’t remember the party.

Considering the number of kegs we upended that day, it’s a cause for another celebration that anyone remembers any of the party at all.

Although I’m sure it was fun. At least, so I’m told.

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She Who Must Be Discussed

Today is different.

Normally, near the middle of November, the nights would be getting darker earlier and there would be all-around less light to guide our way.

Today, though, there’s a bit of a hiccough in that whole less-light thing.

Mostly because of all the candles residing on the birthday cake belonging to my wife, known to me as She Who Must Be Steaming Mad Right About Now.

I really shouldn’t make old-age jokes about her. I really shouldn’t.

I think I can still outrun her, though. In a sprint. If it goes longer than a sprint, I’m a goner, as she’s definitely got the stamina to last longer in that sort of race. Still, when you’re running for your life, you never know what sort of reserves you (and by you I mean I) might find.

It’s tempting to note that she is, as of today, a year older than I am. After all, I don’t turn her age for another seven days, 168 hours, 10,080 hours, 604,800 seconds.

That’s a big number, 604,800.

Must be a loooonnnggg time. It’s okay, though, because I like older women.

But there’s more to She Who Must Be Itching To Get Her Hands Wrapped Around My Throat The Sooner The Better (For Her) than her  age.

In addition to being one of the premier obstetrician/gynecologists in the southeast, she’s also an amazing mother and wife. And I’m almost positive that she’s single-handedly been responsible for the upsurge in Nordstrom stock over the last couple of years.

Dressing well hasn’t always been a priority for her, but I well remember the first time I ever saw her decked out in an expensive, one-of-a-kind outfit.

I was standing at the end of an aisle, next to a very scary dude wearing an odd collar. An organ began playing and, with each note, managed to drag my heart rate higher. My best man, The Principal, stood next to me and had to remind me to breathe. I’d forgotten.

When she first walked out into view, I realized something else: I’d actually forgotten how beautiful she was. I hadn’t seen her in maybe 12 hours, but the last glimpse of her in no way prepared me for the vision that approached down the aisle. I thanked my lucky stars that I’d found her and she’d found me.*

This next bit isn’t really a tangent so stick with me. My Dad told me that he used to call his mom on his birthday to thank her for having him. I’m going to steal that idea. I think it’s about time to call my mother in-law and let her know how grateful I am that she had the foresight and vision to bear into this world someone wonderful who thought I was the same.

She’s not perfect, my wonderful She Who Must Sometimes Be Tolerated, But More Often Be Celebrated, but that’s part of the fun. Finding her jagged places and fitting into them with mine, sanding down the bits that don’t fit and glueing those that match.

So tonight I’m going to give thanks for her as I light a candle, and another candle, and another candle, and another candle. . . Well, you get the point.

Happy birthday, Sweetie. Let’s go have some fun.


*Although right  now, I get the feeling it would be a better idea if she weren’t able to find me. Maybe once she cools off a bit. After the heat from the candles dissipates.
Welp. That’s just going to make it longer.

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And So It Begins

by Richard

I know I’m actually a bit late on this, but I thought I had to wait until at least Halloween was over. (And, speaking of Halloween, how awesome was all that candy? Do you ever get too old to enjoy going door to door and getting candy from people? I know I haven’t yet. Maybe when my knee finally disintegrates, my shoulder locks up and my heart decides to use the tango as it’s favored beat, but I doubt it.)

Stores are already started advertising their Christmas and holiday specials, urging all of us dudes to shop, shop, SHOP! For the love of FSM, PLEASE, PLEASE SHOP WITH US! WE NEED THE MONEY! Please. (oh, why did we ever think a store specializing in candles and hammers would be a good idea?)

Yeah, that’s right. You only have 54 shopping days left until Christmas.

This year, I’m getting a head start. No, really. I am. Stop laughing.

I’ve already bought a present for Zippy the Monkey Boy, a present about which I’ll not be talking any longer because he occasionally stops by here to read what I wrote and then make fun of it. Still, he might enjoy knowing his was the first present I bought this year.

It doesn’t hurt that he’s also one of the easiest of the young dudes to shop for.

The headache comes when I contemplate what to buy for She Who Must Be Placated With Presents, Many, Many, Delicious Presents, Preciousssss, Precioussssss, Presentssssss. Or something to that effect.

See, I know the sorts of things my wonderful wife likes, but it’s actually zeroing in on the exact bit that always gives me the equivalent of a 16-ton anvil to the head.

This year, though, I think I’ll try something a bit drastic. I’m actually going to listen to her. And pay attention when she talks about stuff other than the bedroom or what the safeword is going to be that night.

Wish me luck, dudes.

Just like I’m wishing you the best of luck. If only to survive the coming onslaught.

Duck and cover, dudes. Duck and cover.

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