I’m in a quandary. There is something I just don’t understand. Granted it’s not a mystery of the universe, nothing Socrates and Plato would have debated, but still. It literally keeps me up at night.
Most things seem aptly named, don’t they? I mean, a bookstore sells books. Little Women is, in fact, about little women. If you name your son Jeeves, he will most likely become a butler. So why on earth do they call it a slumber party?
There is no slumber: They don’t slumber, I don’t slumber and I’m fairly certain a few of the neighbors didn’t slumber. So, in an attempt to pay it forward, shall we say, I have a few suggestions for more appropriate names for this auspicious event. You are cordially invited to a:
Apparently, there is a finite number of times kids can ring your doorbell and run away before you snap. More sympathetic I could not be. Also, I would like to take this opportunity to thank our local law enforcement for their restraint in handling what are sure to be several future white-collar criminals.
This one is self-explanatory. Suffice it to say, it is amazing what spray cheese, Silly String and colored hair spray can do to a cream carpet. If there’s a future artist in the group, I have an early original on exhibit.
This one actually is a big advantage: I honestly don’t know how they did it. I had a bag of corn chips in there older than one of my kids.
The one thing the party isn’t is a slumber party. I guess what I should be calling it is an At-Least-I-Got-a-Column-Out-of-It Party...and hopefully, a nap.