Party Like A Party Dancer

The same day that Michael turned one, Sam turned 13 and had a Bar Mitzvah. And Balloon Lady was there.

When I was thirteen, I oftentimes dreaded going to Bar and Bat Mitzvahs because 13-year-old girls can be so mean to other 13-year-old girls. I realized last night that 13-year-old girls are mean to everyone, even if you're more than twice Bat Mitzvah age.

A sampling of things said to Balloon Lady last night:

"What am I going to do with this [in regard to very cool balloon rainbow]?"
--Mean 13-year-old-girl #1

"Why would I want a balloon? I'm just going to throw it out when I get home."
--Mean 13-year-old-girl #2

"I don't get it. You just go around and make stuff for people?"
--Mean 13-year-old-girl #3

"Uh, thanks? [In response to my handing her a balloon butterfly. Insert look of utter disgust]"
--Mean 13-year-old-girl #4

The crowd was tough, but mostly because the kids were much more into the African-American party dancers that were hired to rev up the party (read: teach white people to dance.) The whole scene was problematic on many levels: African-Americans hired to entertain, Hispanic waiters doting on the elite, elderly and deaf coat check women...all to serve the overprivileged and underappreciated future leaders of corporate America. I took a break from twisting, went to the bathroom to wash my face (and the metaphorical scum of the Earth I was feeling all over me), looked at myself in the mirror and thought, "Am I really part of THIS world? The black party dancing, spoiled rich kid entertaining party world?"

After the kids cocktail hour, I bonded with Cypress, one of the party dancers, over well-whipped guacamole and expensive nachos chips. "Tough crowd, " I said, telling him about the boys who asked for balloon whips and chains and then laughed as they popped everything right in front of me. "They're so damn spoiled," he said, "they have no idea." We both looked out on the beautiful landscape view from the Rotunda Room for a moment and took deep breaths. And then Cypress put on his dancing shoes and I snapped on my balloon belt again and went to work.

Baby Michael Turns One and I Hate Magicians

Several weeks ago, I received a phone call:

"I am having a very elaborate birthday party for my one-year-old. Are you available to do balloons for the party to bring in the party mode?"

She had money to spare and flattered my artwork nicely so of course I was available.

It was indeed a very elaborate party: A stilt walker who juggled rings and blew a whistle (?), a strolling magician (more on that later), full catering (oyster bar, mini hamburgers and pizzas and plenty of not-so-friendly-for-a-one-year-old beer), a professional cameraman (asking people to leave their thoughts and messages on tape for Baby Michael) and me, the Balloon Lady.

Baby Michael was so excited for his first birthday party that he, well, slept through the entire thing.

Aside from the slight absurdity of the whole event, people were friendly and appreciative and praising of the fish hats, butterflies, monkeys on palm trees, baseball hats, superheroes, turtles and octopus I made.

I got stumped again though...I just couldn't figure out how to make a Saab convertible. I tried really hard though, as the kid who asked me for it was wheelchair-bound and had some other medical difficulties as well and he sat so patiently watching me and asking me questions while the world of able-bodied people strolled and schmoozed around him.

And now for why I HATE MAGICIANS.

Apparently, the Magician who was one of the other "featured" performers at Baby Michael's 1st birthday party is a "well-known" magician in this area. He seemed to be perturbed by me from the get-go. Maybe because more people were into my balloons than his lame-ass magic tricks. Maybe because he hadn't heard of me and saw that I was pretty damn good. Maybe because little Amy asked me to make a balloon tomato to throw at the magician because she thought he was stupid (Didn't make it for her, though.)

Whatever it was, I played it cool and was very friendly and nice to him, because there is no need for children's birthday party entertainers to be at war with one another. There's enough war already and you would think we would at least bond over being paid to perform at a drooling 1-year-old's elaborate party.

So the Magician comes up to me towards the end of my gig:

"So you should give me your card."

Ok, I say. And I pull out a card and hand it to him. This is nice, I think to myself. The Magician and I are going to become friends. You should give me your card too, I say.

"Oh, I...gave them all out."

Which was a total lie. There's no way he gave out all of his cards, because a) no one asked him for a card the whole time he was strolling; and b) he's a professional magician and they get all of their gigs by handing out cards and there's no way he wouldn't have brought enough cards with him. The Magician was lying like a dead white rabbit on the wide of the road.

I didn't get what he was trying to do at first (and maybe I still don't) so I asked him what his name was.

"Oh, I'll email you."

So basically the Magician would not tell me his full name so that I could look him up and be in contact with him. But he wanted my card so he could, what scope me out and stalk me and blacklist me in the children's entertainment community? I don't get it. What trick is he up to? And what a total prick to treat the Balloon Lady like that!

I hate magicians, I tell you. Always have.