The Monkey’s party is going on right now.
I did a pretty good job, I think, as ‘intimidating doorman with guest list.’
I decided not to shave today, so that I’d look even burlier. Yes… that’s the reason.
Oh, I found out another way the twerp was spoiled…
She had her grandfather tole paint light bulbs red to give the proper ambiance.
So I arrived about five minutes before the party was supposed to begin. The Monkey (and two of her cousins) were all decked out in their dresses and fancy shoes. She passed me the guest list. And she was on it. All three of them were. I laughed.
The first guest arrived, as the girls went scrambling inside to act cool.
He is 4’2″ (on his tiptoes) and has a mohawk.
I recognized his grandfather (who was dropping him off) so I crossed him off the list. I looked at him seriously and said, “You’re the first guy. You’ve got your pick.”
Of course, later I growled “No. Slow. Dancing.” at him when he stuck his head out the door. But I cracked up laughing.
You know, because he is 4’2″ and has a mohawk.
Three of The Monkey’s aunts showed up with food. I yelled in to ask if they should be admitted. The Monkey agreed to it.
But then she threw them out as soon as the food was set up..
Kids kept arriving. (Only one no-show.)
I’d step in front of them. Often I’d go with, “Alright… which one are you?”
They sometimes seemed confused by my role. I suspect it was because I was clearly the Chuck Norris of doormen.
One girl tried to rush by me, but I asked who she was. She told me. For a second I actually couldn’t find her name. It was at the bottom. So I said, “I SUPPOSE I’ll let you in.”
And she hit me.
And then walked in.
(I later found out who she was and had a flashback to her mother asking me to dance one night in junior high. I wept a little. Inside.)
When I asked another girl her name, she told me “Ashley.” I looked at her. I looked at the list. I looked at her again, and asked, “Are you sure?”
I said things like, “Alright… you check out.”
I told one girl, “Be. Have” and she loved it. She giggled the whole way in. I yelled back over my shoulder, “You look like trouble.” She didn’t. My sister asked who the girl was. I replied, “Be fucked if I know.”
I think the parents enjoyed seeing me there too. I got a number of, “Are you the doorman??” And “Do you really have a guest list?”
I’d cross my arms and try to look intimidating as my reply.
One father asked where the birthday girl was. I told him she was inside. He started walking towards the door. I said, “Dude… you’re not on the list.” Finally I was nice and said, “You can stick your head in the door. That’s it.” He wished her a happy birthday from outside.
The Monkey made everyone gather on the first floor when they arrived. When she decided there were enough people, she made them all walk the red carpet, in groups of two or three, while my friend Melanie snapped photos. Mel showed me some. Hilarious. The Monkey had told me earlier today that she and one of her cousins had “practiced strutting.” (Melanie is making a photo album for The Monkey. I think I’m also going to make cds with the photos that the twerp can give out to the attendees.)
An adult “complained” to The Monkey that I wouldn’t let them in. She said, “Then Peter is doing his job.”
I said a couple of other ridiculous things, but I can’t remember what they are now. What? I say a lot of ridiculous things.
I was happy that she got such a great turnout.
I hope everything goes perfectly for her. She deserves a wonderful party. Trust me.
My favourite moment of the (outside of the) party?
When one of the girls got inside, I heard her say to The Monkey, “You have a guy with a guest list? That is SO cool.”