I got a call about doing a Princess Sofia party for a 2 year old.

Who the hell is Princess Sofia? Apparently it plays on Disney Jr. and is about a little girl who’s mother married a king and so she became a Princess by marriage. Great, another nepotism success story in Hollywood. Just what we all need.

I get the details. Beverly Hills party. Good start. $100 for 1.5 hrs. Cool. 7:00 pm start. Ok…ay. Wait, isn’t this a party for a little kid? Why is it starting so late? I start to think on it, then get distracted because Bravo is starting a Real Housewives of Atlanta marathon and Nene isn’t blonde yet, and I just love vintage Nene! You know, after she disclosed that she was a stripper, but before she booked that sitcom and became “a actress”.

I call the parents the day before and speak to the father. He has a very heavy accent and is pleasant. He said his family came into town last minute and they wanted to throw their daughter a party. I said that sounded nice! He made sure I knew that it wouldn’t require very much on my part at all. Maybe some face painting and balloons, but otherwise just taking pictures with the kids. Easy breezy lemon squeezy. He said that. Twice, actually.

I pick up the costume, which is a short, dirty, Auburn wig and purple ball-gowny dress. The only saving grace was the tiara. I’m a sucker for tiara’s. A casual day tiara is something every lady needs! It goes well with day drinking by yourself with the shades drawn!

Anyhoo, I set out to do the party, which GPS said would take 24 minutes to get to from Toluca Lake. I’m feeling very positive about this party. 7:00-8:30pm, nbd, then come home, traipse around in my tiara and pick up where I left off with the RH’s saga(which, btw, had switched over to O.G. O.C. eps, and you know mama loves her some Jo! What’s become of her? Someone find out and let me know!)

I get on the 101, which is a little backed up, but nothing too bad. I turn the corner on the ramp, and…stop. You know how LA is notorious for bad traffic? This was the worst I’d ever seen. Like, truly. Right then my dad called.

Me: “Hi Dad. what’s up?”

Dad: “Oh nothing, thought I’d check in. What up with you?”

Me: “Nothing, heading to work.”

Dad:”Now? It’s late!”

His tone insinuated that it was in fact SO late that he thought I may be prostituting.

Me: “It’s not THAT late, Dad. What do you think I’m doing, hooking?”

Dad: “Are you driving?”

He never acknowledges my directness.

Me: “Yup. Sort of. It’s dead stopped. No one is moving. At all. I have to go work a party.”

My dad doesn’t really remember any of my 7 jobs, so I’m hoping he thinks “working a party” is code for “prostituting a party”. Why would I hope that? Because I’m an asshole who likes to distress my aging, Jewish father.

Dad: “Oh, a party, huh? That sounds fun.”

He doesn’t bite. I go in for the kill.

Dad: “Yup! I’m dressed like a dirty princess!”

While true, the costume was disgusting and the wig was homeless, this was a little too far. What the fuck is wrong with me?

Dad: “Oh, you’re working that kids party job, huh?”

Dammit, has he read my blog?

Me: “Yeah. I am. But this traffic hasn’t moved at all. Balls! I’ve been here for 10 minutes and nothing!”

Dad: “So you are driving?”

Me: “Yes! Dad, I’m sorry, I have to find out what’s happening. I’m going to be late so I may have to call the parents.”

Dad: “Ok, be careful at the party. Don’t let the kids say bad stuff to you like last time!”

He HAS been reading the blog!

We hang up. I still haven’t moved. I call my boss. She answers out of breath, but she’ s always like that. In a panic. I tell her I’m not moving and have no idea why. She puts on her purry, syrupy voice and says I should call the parent. If it goes much later they will probably cancel. I say ok. I call, the dad says it’s fine, just come when I can. Good, I could use the $100! Also, this tiara needs to see the light of evening.

I sit. And sit. And sit. An hour passes. An HOUR! I’ve moved maybe 5 feet! I call back my boss. Tell her I still haven’t moved.

“Oh”, she said, “Sorry I forgot to call you. I heard there was a bomb threat on the 101 so it’s all shut down.”

“A BOMB threat?!”

“Yes. Call the parents and let them know.” and then in an unexpected twist she says, “I’ll still pay you for the night. It’s not your fault. I’m sure they’ll want to cancel, I mean, it’s for a 2 year old!”

I’m stunned and thank her profusely. I can’t believe she’s being so cool.

I call the dad.

Me: “Hi, it’s Amy again, Princess Sofia.” I have gotten in the habit of following up my real name with my character name. It makes the client feel like it’s more authentic. Can you believe I just typed that sentence? Me neither!

Dad: “Yes, are you here?”

Me: “No, I’m very sorry, I just found out there was a bomb threat on the 101 so they shut it down. I’ll be stuck here for a long time.”

Dad: “So when will you get here then?”

Me: “Oh, I have no idea. But you can reschedule if you’d like.”

Dad: “No, still come.”

Me: “But….it could be another hour. It’s already 8:15, so I may not get there until 9:30 or later. That’s probably too late for…”

Dad:”Still come.”

Me: “I…okay.”

I hang up. I call back my boss. She says sorry. I say me too.

Finally after 2 HOURS!!! I get funneled off the freeway. It was 9:20pm. I call the dad to MAKE SURE he wants me there. He confirms he does. Jesus, is his two year old a meth cooker or something? Why are they having this so fucking late?

I console myself by thinking there is no way this party will be going strong. I mean, come on!

I arrive at the party at 9:43pm. I park in front of a duplex. I grab my dirty box and hear loud sounds of a party. It must be next door, because again, come on! This is a 2 year olds…nope, it’s this party. I trip up the stairs on my dirty purple skirt. I push open the door and see…..about 90 people crammed in this house. There are kids and babies running around. Mothers with very dark lipstick and heavy eyeliner complimenting their new tits talking to each other. There are macho men with lots of arm hair and even more chest hair poking out of their unbuttoned shiny dress shirts. The eyebrows are intense in this room. Even the kids have very heavy eyebrows.  Everyone is yelling. No one is wincing, so I guess this is just a volume they’re used to. I stand there until someone notices me. A large be-titted lady wearing a low cut dress elbows her freshly face-lifted friend, who then turns sharply at me. The room gets very quiet. Or maybe it wasn’t that quiet, just my ears hadn’t heard anything softer than a megaphone volume for the last few minutes so they were recovering.

A tall, dark, big haired women wearing a white jump suit that squeezed her D’s together yells something that sounds angry but might be affectionate at a man, who picks up a curly haired, profoundly browed kid and they both come over. With their eyes they guide me into a hallway(where another 40 or so people were).

I smile.

“Hi, so sorry about this being so late! So crazy about the…”

The mother raises her drawn on, jet black eyebrows and cuts me off.

“Why ver yuuu so late?” She spats out.

Me(still smiling): “I called several times. I spoke to your husband. There was a bomb threat..”

She cuts me off  again and steps towards me. I think she’s going to assault me with her huge knockers. I wince a little.

“Vhat are you talking? I don’t heard ov any bombed. You are two hours late!”

“I know, I called and said you could reschedule.”

“Ve can’t reschedule. You are late for no reason, now go perform for kids.”

“But…there was a bomb…!”

She walks away, momentarily suffocating me with her Chanel #5 cloud from turning so fast. I look at the father for help. He smiles.

“My boss said you can only pay for half, if you’d like. There was nothing I could do.”

“Ok. Jes, the kids are excited to you.” He walks away, and I cough on his greasy Drakkar Noir cologne, and for a nano-second recall 8th grade dances in the cafetorium, and I’m happy. Then I snap back into reality.

I follow him and the eyebrow kid into the room. Again, all the yelling conversation stops and everyone stares at me.

“Hello. I’m Princess Sofia. Where’s the birthday girl?”

The father drops the little girl he’s holding off in front of me and walks away, going back to a loud conversation with a group of men who start smoking inside.

The little girl doesn’t move. Or make a sound. Just stares. Right into my eyes. She’s looking into my soul. I thought she was trying to communicate with me with her mind,  then…

I feel a tugging, no, yanking, on my dress. A woman who just had a chemical peel, so her face was red as rare beef, was pulling on the skirt of my dress and talking to the other taught, shiny women and cackling.

“Excuse me, hi.” I say with a closed mouth smile.

She keeps doing it while looking at me.

“Can you stop?” My lips were pulled so tightly across my teeth I thought they were going to break.

“Keeds”, she screams, even though there are 5 or so kids within two feet of her, “Touch dis clown!”

All the kids start pulling and lifting up my skirt. One took off one of my shoes. The women laugh and clap. Their hard tits not moving an inch. This was turning into a strip show, so my dad’s suspicions of me were right ultimately.

“Stop! Don’t do that!” I say and a tear appears on my eye rim.

Then mean mommy returns. He kneels down and hisses “Vhy don’t you do somesing rather than jus sit der. These kids waited for you for two houvers.”

How did she add another syllable to “hours”?

My eyes are about to start leaking. I look over at the birthday girl, who’s still staring without blinking. Wait, is that a doll?

“Ok! Hey, who wants face paint!?”

The kids stop trying to rip my clothes off and all raise their hands.

Mean mommy: “NO! NO PAINT!”

“But I was told to do face painting.”

She growls, “I guess, since you ver so late you have to.”

“There was a bomb threat!”

She walks away. I start to paint faces. I’m actually crying a little, but no one notices. Maybe it’s too clouded in there from the mix of cigarette smoke and animosity. Every now and then I have to start over because a yank from the women behind me jerks my hands away. I accidentally turned what was supposed to be a cat nose into a very distinct Hitler stache.

Somehow, by the grace of God, 11:15pm rolls around. An hour and a half. No one has left, it’s still going strong. And the birthday girl, now covered in face paint, still hasn’t moved or blinked before me.

I get up off the floor, but will difficulty, because the women behind me have set their bags down on the back of my dress. They laugh as I get up. I kick over a purse and look at them. They laugh more.

I go to the father and tell him its’ time for me to leave. He asks how I can leave when I got there so late. I point out the time, and say it’s very late now! He snickers and says, “Ok, vhatever you say!” Then yells something to mean mommy who glares at me.

I grab the box and say goodbye. The women behind me ignore me. The kids take one last crack at ripping off the dress. I kneel down to the birthday girl, who’s looking at me with her dark, round eyes.

“Happy Birthday. I hope you get whatever you want.”

She looks at me, then puts her hand on my arm and says “It’s my birthday.” Like, it’s MY birthday. No one has even spoken to me the whole night. It’s all about them. Why have I been dealt this hand?! Or, none of that. She’s two, but I feel like she gets it.

I nod and stand. I catch the eye of the father, who comes over. He hands me money, and says “If you verent so late, I would give you teep, but you ver late, so goodbye.”

“There was a…yeah, great.”

I trip down the stairs to my car. I immediately start to cry.

I get home, rip off the dirty wig and now, thanks to footprints and dirty kid hands, even dirtier purple gown.

I turn on Bravo, waiting for my solace that lies within the RHof OC’s hands. To my disappointment, it’s the Rh’s of DC, which brings me no pleasure, only makes me sadder.

Then I remember…the tiara! I put it on and the world didn’t seem so bleak.

Two more parties until the end my friends. Enjoy it while it lasts!

Below is me in my dirty wig stuck in traffic.

Hello my little muffins! I’ve been away so long! My apologies. Life, ya know?

I was inspired to touch back on the good ole days as a sad clown as I saw my former boss who used to run this actual kids party company today at an audition. One glance at her tight, Botoxed forehead and her giant, shiny boobies brought back all those old memories of finger painting and balloon animals in the shape of shame and wieners. So I present to you another costumed tale of woe.

I was asked to do a birthday party for a 1 year old as Tinkerbell. This was a big step up for me. Tinkerbell was a pretty, little fairy. She’s delicate like a flower. Tinkerbell would never have a kid cough in her mouth. Tinkerbell would never have a dad tell her her butt looked delicious. Tinkerbell would just clap her fairyfucking hands and bring your ass back to life! She’s the jam!

So I had a decent feeling about this. Especially since I called the mom beforehand and she didn’t seem the least bit drunk!!

Before the gig I went to pick up my costume, like I always did,  and dirty box of crap for the kids to touch and possible get a rash from, which I always did. I should mention that by this time my boss had decided she was getting back into the biz of show. She wanted to only really focus on that, so she moved out of her house, rented all the rooms, and started living in her garage, which was also her office where she kept all the party stuff, and her 3 unruly dogs. I LOVE dogs, but these dogs sorta sucked, especially one of them. Frankly, he was a total asshole. In their defense, they weren’t taken care of well, but still! I’m a super nice gal and he always barked at me even though he’d seen me 40 times!  Then there was the one I always thought was dead. This dog was 90 years old. I’m not talking dog years. I mean human years, Oak tree, Yoda age shit. Old. I was always so afraid I would walk in to get my dirty wig for whatever dirty character I was doing and catch the asshole dog eating the old as balls dog. Once I walked in and the old dog was lying on it’s side with it’s tongue out. I stared at it for a long time trying to decipher if it was breathing or if the slight movement under it’s skin was it’s soul trying to escape. Then the shitty dog started barking and it startled the almost dead dog away from the heavenly light, so I breathed a sigh of relief, coughed because I breathed in too hard and got a huge nose-full of dog shit, and ran outta there.

Oh yeah, the dog shit.

As I mentioned, my boss didn’t take care of these dogs. I’m not trying to call this person out, but they were pretty neglected. There was a sign on a paper plate on the door that said:

“Watch out for dog poo! Long day and no walks!”

I would have to practically hover over the floor with the amount of piss and shit on it, which, thankfully, seeped into the hems of the overly long princess dresses and cracks in the dirty boxes, so at least there was that.

Anyway, back to the party.

I get partially dressed in the outfit at home. I was expecting to see an outfit like this:

What a cutie! Sparkly, pretty with a cute up-do! Great!

What I pulled out from the ripped garbage bags left a little something to be desired.  It consisted of:

An XL nude bodysuit, a green 1980’s ice skater dress, a pair of filthy wings that only has one wing that stays up, the other flops over on itself like it’s depressed and can’t face the world, a ratty wig with a “bun” on top that for some reason had leaves in it.

So totally normal!

I throw on the body suit and the ice skater dress. I notice that the bodysuit, thought huge, is also pretty see through. It rolled over my ankles and knees, so it appeared I had recently gotten the lap band surgery and lost 150 pounds and my loose skin was starting to pool. I also notice that the ice skater uniform is see through. I figure if I wear nude underwear and bra, it won’t be noticeable. But I’m also a dumb dumb.

I hold off on tacking on the ratty bun wig because I wanted something to look forward to!

I pull up to the address. I see a tarp covering a back area, I hear music, and not inappropriate music, playing, and I smell a grill.

I walk to the back. There are tables set up and a few older women with kids gathered around. They all stop and stare, then the kids start to smile and the older women start to tell them to get ready. I smile back and wave. My eye catches a super, duper masculine lady with grey sweatpants on and a matching grey t-shirt. She had a wrist tattoo that I think said “Tits” on it. Then:

“Hey. Tinkerbell.”

“Yes?” Though I realized I answered like she was asking me a question. It was more like her identifying what she was seeing. Like she couldn’t believe her eyes.

“Tiiinnnkkkeerrrbelll. Yeah!”

“Yeah! That’s me!”

“Yeah! You here to dance for me Tinkerbell?” hehhehehhehehcoughcoughcoughehhehhheheheh. Cracks her knuckles, looks at my crotch.

First red flag has been established. And boy oh boy, this flag was big and wanted to see what my vagina looked like. I pulled down my dirty oversized green skaters outfit, rolled up my excess knee skin.

‘Where’s the birthday boy?!!!” I SCREAM!

Tits tilts her head in the direction of the kids, then stares at my crotch again as if she’s trying to read the fine print of a contract she’s going to sign. I swear to God, I had a moment where I thought I could feel it heating up down there. She was trying to start a panty fire! I cover my cooch with the dirty box(pun intended) and walk to the kids.

“Show time!” I scream again.

I drop my dirty box and start to pull out the face paints. The second the box hits the ground the kids start diving in and taking shit out. So the first 30 minutes was me going:

“Ok, so who…no, no, noooo, put that back, that’s for later! Thank you! Ok, who likes magi…no, that’s not yours. That’s my purse. Put that down. Why do I have a purse? Because they don’t put pocket on fairy dresses. It’s true! Ok, how about we…put that down, seriously. No, don’t eat that. Because that came out of my purse and it’s from a bottle that’s not marked…” etc.

I glance up during this time and “tits” has gotten her phone out and is taking pictures of me. And no, I’m not vain and just assume that’s what she was doing. It’s because every 2 minutes I heard:

“Tink! Tiiinnnkkkkerbelll! Smile for me Tink! That’s right! Ooooh, Tink, when you gon’ dance! Someone turn on the music for Tink! hehecoughcoughhehecoughcrackcough”

Finally the face painting starts. Heart, flowers, easy stuff. Then Batman. Batman got negotiated down to a rendition of a bird. Then Spiderman. Which ended up looking like a horrible, scarred sunburn with a badly angled swastika. I’m not good at face painting.

Kyle, the birthday kid, is awesome. He’s so sweet and cute. He walks up to me and smiles.

“I’m Kyle, it’s my birthday!:

“Hi Kyle! I’m Tinkerbell!

” Can you fly?”

“I can! I flew here in fact!”

“You did?!!!! Mom! She flew here!”

“Tinkkerbelllllll! You like to hehecoughcough fly! I bet you like to fly Tink!”

What does that even mean?

With all the chaos, coughing, sexual harassment, Kyle was a sweet angel. He was polite and adorable. We did the magic and the balloons and I told him I had to go.

“Ok, thank you for coming to my birthday party!!”

Then Kyle gave me a hug. It was heartwarming. For a second I forget about the eye rape and microwaving of my junk. l pick up my dirty box, wave goodbye, and start to walk out of the yard. I don’t notice Tits hiding out by the boom box.

“Tinkerbell? You leaving? Where’s my hug?’

“Sorry, I only hug the birthday kids.”

“But it’s my birthday Tinkerbell. I have a birthday too.”

“Sorry. Where’s the mom?”

“Come sit on my lap Tinkerbell.”

Nope.

I stomp into the house, tripping a little on my loose ankle skin. Mom is sitting on the couch. I realize she hadn’t been out the entire time. She was on her iPhone.

“Hi, Kyles adorable. Thanks for having me. So I need to collect the balance.”

“The what? Oh, yeah. Um, give me a second.”

Mom and who I assume is her boyfriend go into the other room. I hear quiet talking. Then:

“Can you wait outside for a second?”

I go outside. I hear louder, “I didn’t know. No, just…that. Just do that!”

Mom walks out with a tight roll of money thanks my quickly and waves me off. I have a bad feeling. Collecting the balance at these parties is so shitty. It had been fine up until this point, but I knew that when I counted it there would be something wrong.

I get back to the car. I count the money. It’s short. Big fucking surprise. I sit for a second. I walk back in. Mom is sitting on her couch with the two dudes.

“Hi, this is short $25 dollars.”

“No it’s not.”

“Yes it is. You owe me this!”. My voice had gone up 2 octaves. I was practically singing, trying not to make a big deal of these. Like, hey, I’m suuuppper cool with this!

I show her the balance on my sheet.

“No, I paid that already on my credit card.”

“Ok, let me call my boss!!!” I say this with so much glee in my tone it’s as if I was just surprised with a trip to Fiji.  I feel my face getting red.

“Hi, it’s Amy! So Mom said she paid you already! Can you confirm this?!!! I sound like a cartoon mouse.

As I’m talking on the phone her boyfriend starts to stand up and walk towards me. I notice out of the corner of my eye. I smile at him. He doesn’t smile back. My fucking boss is looking on her computer, which must be on dial up because holyfuckingshit it’s taking a long ass time.

“Hold on Amy, I can’t find it.”

“Ok, they’re waiting!” My voice is so high now that dogs within a mile of this location had started to howl.

The boyfriend is standing in front of me now. He says:

“What’s the fucking problem? She paid you already. Leave.”

“Sir I was told to collect a certain amount and it’s short. I’m just making sure it wasn’t an error!” My voice shattered a glass on the patio.

“It’s not an error. She paid you, so get the fuck out of here! Do you want to step outside?”

This dude was asking me if I wanted to fight. This grown man was asking me, a woman in her 30’s if she, while dressed like a fairy who looks like she had been on a drinking bender for 6 days, if I wanted to have a physical fight with him.

I drifted off for a brief second and had a mini fantasy that I went outside to rumble with the big man, but Tits came to my rescue and snaps his neck with one of her giant hands, then she and I take a cooking class together, and she proposes.

I snapped back in.

My boss says “I don’t think she did…oh, wait…maybe..no, that was someone else…”

“Why are you still here?! Do you have a problem? Leave!”

“Amy, I think she gave me a credit card.”

“okaygreatbye!” I am already out of the door, tripping on my excess skin the entire way to my car.

I sit back hard on the wings and bend them so now they’re both bent the wrong way in my car. I drive away so fast I leave tire marks.

I get a call from my boss who tells me the credit card they gave was a fake and I need to go back there to get the extra $25 bucks. I laugh and tell her, verbatim.

“There is no fucking way I am going back there ever again. I felt threatened. You go get the money if you want.”

She put on her fake “soothing’ voice she had probably been practicing in the dog poop covered garage she was living in while she was working on her “acting”.

“Ok, Amy, I understand. But that money was for your payment. I understand if you don’t want to go though. It’s your choice”. Purrsoothpurrr.

“Great”. I hang up without saying goodbye.

I didn’t take that pay cut, I paid myself the full amount. And also, no.

Tinkerbell is not here to fucking dance for you.

I got a text from the boss that said I was needed for a birthday party last minute and she would pay me a $25 more for the trouble. I said ok. I finish my 3rd vodka soda.

On the day of the party I arrive at a house that has a “beware of dog” sign. I’m a dog momma, I love dogs, and I usually don’t judge a dog by his warming sign. But this warning sign had teeth marks in it. Christ.

I knock and knock and knock. No one. I knock some more. No one. Then I hear the music turn up. Loud old school rap. I think, this 3 year old must be an old soul! I follow the bass and arrive in a back yard. Everybody turns and stares.

The mom runs over and grabs my arm.
Mom: “what are you doing back here? You’re supposed to be a surprise!”
Me: “oh, sorry! I didn’t know!”
Mom: “ughgg! Whatever. Where are you doing your show?”
Me: “this happens a lot, I don’t do a show really, just entertain with face paint, and balloons and stuff.”
Mom…”like a show? That’s a fuckin’ show!”
Me: “I guess it is.”
Mom: “that’s why I said show, shit. Ok, set up your show in the front yard, but watch for dog shit and don’t be too loud, the dogs will get upset.”

She runs off to the backyard. I turn around and realized there was a woman sitting on the porch the whole time smoking.

Me: “hello.”
Her: “wha kinda show you doin’?”
Me : “a really amazing one. I use live animals in the magic show, then I do an illusion where I make myself disappear in a puff of smoke. It’s all mirrors though, so don’t be worried.”
Her: “oh shit, animals? The dogs don’t like that.”
She looks down and starts smoking again and never again looked up.

I set down my dirty parachute, take out my filthy face paint, lay out my broken balloon blower, and wait.

I feel a vibration. I don’t know of it’s from the ground or from my intuition warning me danger is near, like how you can sense a rattle snake is near you by the hairs on your arms sticking up when you’re on a hike or puking on a mountain when you go camping.(I mean…not that I would know! I don’t camp.)

I turn around and I see roughly 250 people pour out from the backyard(huge, HUGE exaggeration, it was like 50, but felt insane). It was like in Fantasia, the Disney movie, when the broom breaks and turns into many other brooms. There were a shitload of brooms coming at me.

My mouth drops open to say something, and at that moment a man with a neck tattoo of a vagina or flower or vagina looking flower run over and says:
Man: “I’m the guy who hired you. I’m grandpa.”
Me: “ok.”
Man: “when Rudy* comes out you say “I’m a good friend of your grandpa and he wanted me to surprise you”, and he’ll know what that means.”
Me: “what does that mean?”

Then the kids came out followed by the dogs. Dogsssssssss. 15 maybe? Not big, but small and filthy. They knew it too. They felt bad about how dirty they are and it was evident in their terrible personalities. They felt like, “look, I’m a dog, I never get pet or washed and I’ve grown to love the taste of my own dick, so I’m owning it! Growl! Snap! Shit! Piss! Rinse! Repeat!”

Rudy, who I was told was 4, looked like he’d already gotten into the cake. I’m not making a chubby reference, although he was a large kid(where’s Michelle Obama when you need her?!) it was the fact that he was literally covered in his cake. He was shirtless, and his entire face, torso, one knee and socks had cake on them. He even had a bit on his back. His back?!

He walked up to me chewing. The grandfather says “go!”, and I say “hi Rudy! Are you the birthday boy?”

Rudy doesn’t answer. He continues to chew. I see him eye one of the less filthy dogs, and I think “fuck, he’s going to eat that dog!”
“So Rudy, I’m an old friend of your grandpas! He wanted me to surprise you! Surprise!”

Chew, chew, chew. Holy shit, it’s his teeth marks on that sign!

“Ok, so can the kids come on down here and we can start?”
Kid 1. : “my mom says I can’t walk on the grass barefoot because of all the dog shit.”
Kid 1 mom : “Joseph, don’t say shit! Goddamit!”
A bunch of men laugh really hard and high five the kid. He smiles and says “dog shit!, dog shit!!”, again, but the well of recognition has already dried out for these dudes.

I begin my “show”. It’s not going well. Rudy never said a word, only chewed the whole time. Face painting. One of the little boys asked for a rainbow. The men snickered and called him a fag boy. The other kids join in, then the moms. He says, ok, give me a gun. They all cheer. I say I don’t know how to do that, how about a rainbow with dark colors? He smiles. Then grandpa walks up with a beer in his hand and asks if I only paint faces. They guys laugh. I get the joke, but one of them drives it home with, “can you paint my dick to look smaller?!” His wife, “no Eddie, then she’ll erase it!” I laugh. They stare at me.

The party ends. I say goodbye. I hear a grumble of “that was the show?! I thought she used animals? What the fuck? Hey, did you hear me ask her to paint my dick?, etc”.

I gather my stuff in my dirty bin. Everyone returned to the backyard. Then a woman runs out and says, “thank you so much, he really enjoyed it. We appreciate you coming out!” I thank you so much, feel so much better, and think, aw, it wasn’t that bad.

I walk to my car, then from across the street I hear a young voice yell, “clown! You gota shitty hat!” Giggles. Running footsteps.

I drive away wearing that shitty hat all the way home.

*not his real name. Not because I’m trying to protect his identity, but because I can’t remember his name.