In a stunning display of hypocrisy, I host a birthday party with a gun theme.

I know. I KNOW. It's disgusting. You know I know. You KNOW how I feel about guns. And kids shooting each other. And how COMPLETELY INAPPROPRIATE IT IS to celebrate your child's birth by allowing him to go shoot his friends. I get it. I GET IT.

I totally get it.

And I am standing here before you, with my hands raised in surrender. Because I, Daffodil Campbell, who has grounded her child for shooting a rubber band across the living room, took not just her own child but 4 other innocent children to a shooting range and armed them all with paintball guns and bought them paintball pellets and set them loose on each other. I took Hunger Games and mixed it up with a little Lord of the Flies, added a dash of Goonies and then threw in some paint for good measure and BLAMMO. Birthday party.

Disgusting, right? I should have known better. For years I have judged parents for a decision they have made, only to find myself doing the same damn thing later on. Starting with disposable diapers and toddler leashes, through glitter and play dough, and headlong into arming my children for fun, I have spent the past 13 years backpedaling, issuing mea culpas, swallowing my pride and taking the path of least resistance. I will be the first to admit I was extremely reluctant to send out the invitation, considering how uptight I have been historically about guns-as-toys.

Hi there,
Max asked to celebrate his birthday with a trip to the paintball range.

Solid start, right?

Some of you may know that I have an issue with guns in general, and more specifically with my kid playing with them. In an attempt to find some common ground with Max on this issue, I have come to an agreement with him. He may play paintball at the range under careful supervision and wearing extensive (excessive?) amounts of safety gear.

What is this, therapy? Way to make everyone uncomfortable, Daffodil.

To that end, we would like to invite his friends to join us at the paintball range for a fun game on Saturday. Several of our adult friends will be playing as well, to help with supervision on the course.

"To that end"? What the hell are you even talking about right now? Oh wait, here comes the bold print - PAY ATTENTION THIS MUST BE THE IMPORTANT PART.
Start time at 11am. It is an all-day pass (until 5pm). Every parent should drop their own child off, and make sure they have the necessary documents signed and the necessary gear required before leaving.

#controlfreak

The range has it's own requirements for safety, and a website that outlines the guidelines and also provides the permission slip that MUST be filled out and signed by a parent before the child can play. We will give the kids rides home afterwards if you would like, although you are more than welcome to stay.

Pretty sure no one will want to hang out with me anymore. Ever. And who could blame them.

Max is hoping your son will be allowed to join us,but based on his own mother's past reaction to guns-at-parties, will understand completely if you are not comfortable with that idea, and won't allow your child to attend (Okay, even *I* knew that part was too much. It's like I was trying to talk them out of letting their kids come to the party.) please let me know if we can expect him :)
Thanks

Wow. Amiright? "Thanks"??? Sheesh. Understatement of the year, right there. Thanks? Thanks for what, you freak? Thanks for the total buzz-kill? Thanks for inviting my kid to a party he does not want to miss, and forcing my hand on the gun issue? Don't play it cool. You just totally overshared and made everyone uncomfortable, that's all. NB fucking D.

But you know what? Only 2 kids didn't show up. One of the parents even wrote me a supportive email in response to that hot mess, telling me that he, too, had a "gun thing" and worked it out through paintball. I felt, dare I say it, validated. It was like a virtual high-five. And as the kids stood around at the end of the day, after 6 solid hours of hiding in trees and ducking behind blinds - in 80 degree heat mind you, dressed in jeans and hoodies and helmets and body armor - they were all grinning. Ecstatic. Gleeful. Also, soaked with sweat, hair plastered to their heads and disgusting in every way. Dirt, grime, food, and sweat smeared across their faces, fingernails black with dirt, they reeked. It was the happiest, stinkiest group I have ever seen. And i hang out with derby girls. Have you ever smelled a derby girl's skate bag. I know what stank is.

The car ride home with 4 of them was all the payback I needed for the utter hypocrisy of this party For all of my years of judgement. Today my karma was in the form of teenage B.O., and I have learned my lesson, universe: Next time I take them to play with guns, they have to jump in the ocean and rinse off before we drive home.

Getting hit by a truck, and other good reasons to buy new underwear

Tired of making the same old "eat healthy, get my finances in order, clean the house regularly" New Year's resolutions, the ones that you commit to every year, only to burn out by the 3rd week?
(I know, I know... not this year. Says you on January 7th. Talk to me next month, m'kay?)

I have a New Year's Resolution that I make - and keep - every year.
Buy New Underwear.

My grandmother told me that it was important to always be wearing nice underwear, in case you got hit by a truck and ended up in the hospital where everyone would be able to see your undergarments.

I will pause here to say that reading those words leaves me feeling profoundly disturbed on several levels:

1. Hit by a truck? Really? I suspect this might have also been a lesson in holding her hand and looking both ways before I crossed the street.

2. *If* I were to be hit by a truck and end up in the hospital - or hell, if I am in the hospital for any reason - I would like to think that the people tasked with saving my life would be concerned with more than the condition of my undergarments.

Those two concerns aside, it is a good idea to wear underwear. Nice underwear is just a bonus - and a bonus everyone can appreciate. As someone who wears pants only when absolutely necessary, it might surprise you to learn that I do not include underwear in my "no pants" lifestyle. In fact, before a night of drinking I used to follow the "2 panty rule" to be sure that I would not find myself pants-less at an inopportune time, and also ensuring that I would always have a clean pair on hand for the next morning's walk of shame.

Ahem.

I am like the Boy Scouts of Underpants: prepared for anything. I embrace the wearing of undergarments wholeheartedly, for reasons of both form and function. From my first visit to Victoria's Secret in junior high school, to purchase fistfuls of the shiny, slippery, brightly colored and ill-fitting string bikini underwear that was so popular in the late 80s and early 90s, I have been enamored with underpinnings. Lingerie. Unmentionables to some, but a topic verging on an obsession for me.

It was a big leap in middle school from cotton briefs to silky underthings - one that threw my mother for a loop. "These are disgusting." she informed me in the laundry room. "Inappropriate for someone your age. And this satin doesn't breathe. You are going to end up with an infection." (Side note: this commentary was a very effective way to get me to do my own laundry. Kudos, mom.

Even the threat of a dreaded yeast infection could not keep me away from Victoria's Secret and their sale bins of underwear. I went from bikinis to thongs (which almost caused my mother cardiac arrest) to boyshorts and then back to thongs, eventually settling on a mix of all three. For 12 years I have lived far from Victoria's Secret, but I have continued my annual tradition of buying new underwear each new year. (Also on the annual to-do list but much less interesting: changing the water filter and cleaning the car - but those are usually delegated to other people Sam.)

We always ask for socks and PJs and tshirts for Christmas, things we wear every day and also need replacing at least once a year, but I am not sending my mom out to buy me new pairs of Hanky Pankys. Gift certificates to The Walking Company, sure. Lacy things? Not so much.

In what I consider to be a mind-blowing display of maturity, use of the lingerie laundry bag, and ability to follow washing instructions, I assessed my underwear drawer and came to the conclusion that I didn't really need new underpants this year. I decided to hold off, even though I was in LA and surrounded by places to buy anything and everything I could ever want. And then I took this "mature" business even further: I took my Walking Company gift card and bought orthopedic shoes instead. That's practically the same thing, right?