Aselin

Saturday I threw what was likely my last "little kid" birthday party. I love throwing parties and have enjoyed the playfulness that kids birthday parties require. The problem is, I've developed a reputation. A reputation that has brought out "expectations."

Unnamed Child #2 had a party a few months ago. I must say, I outdid myself. The Indiana Jones meets Jack Sparrow themed party was a huge hit. I mean, how can an hour of throwing sticky eyeballs, hurling knives at a heart-shaped cake, fishing snakes out of the swimming pool and other assorted feats of plunder not be fun? When the whole thing was over, one of the usually stoic guests, hopped up on sugar and gummy worms, gushed: "This was the best party EVER!!" Me, trying to be the Martha Stewart of piracy glowed with approbation.

Then, at an evening school wax museum, one of the "wax" statues broke character when they saw me saying: "Hey! Are you Unnamed Child #2's Mom???" "Why yes I beamed." "Can I come to your next party?"

Wow. This was big time. In high school I was the kid who was smart enough never to attempt throwing a party. The mix of parental restrictions combined with my general nerdyness guaranteed failure. I'm confident any such social gaffes would have involved me, sitting on a couch with the guy from biology who ate ants and my dog. (Only some of that scenario has changed)

So there we were, Saturday, 10 a.m., ready for the equestrian themed party to begin. I was nervous. I had a lot riding on this soiree. (Notice the clever pun?) Pacing by the door, I was excited when guests began to arrive, don their handmade horse costumes and prance around the living room.

Moms were gathered in the driveway, obviously impressed by the gummy apple rings I had strung up in our orange tree, buckets with inflatable balls on the lawn and plates of sugar cubes lining the porch railing. I ventured out to say hello. Because I'm such a recluse, I don't know many of the moms, and felt I should introduce myself. As we were chatting, another woman strolled onto our lawn. I didn't see her daughter in tow, and figured she must have run ahead inside while I was busy explaining my dazzling mini polo field.

Waving at the newcomer I strolled over, as she yelled over my shoulder to the other moms - "Garage Sale?"

Um, what?

"Garage Sale?"

The other moms were doubled over in laughter.

"No," I tried to explain, "birthday party."

"Inside?" She pointed.

"Yes." I replied, watching aghast as she started for my front door.

"Noooo!" I called, trying to be nice, but not wanting her to enter my home. Despite ample evidence to the contrary, it's amazing how much can flash through my brain in a few seconds. I was trying to decide if I was going to be able to reason with her or if I was going to have to tackle her, there, in my front yard, in front of all the moms I was trying to impress.

"No Garage Sale!!!" I hollered again. At this point she was half-way up on my lawn, making a bee-line for the house. "No, no, no, no, no!!! Fiesta!!! No Garage Sale!! FIESTAAAA!"

I finally got through to her, and clutching her purse she huffed, turned on her heel and got back in her minivan.

Really. How can you not tell that the stuff strewn all over my lawn on a Saturday morning is crap with purpose, not crap for sale?