All weekend I hated the fact that I’d left this space on such a bummer note. I think as of late I have been spending too much time being sad and not enough time moving forward. I was reminded by two separate incidents over this holiday that there are bigger battles than infertility, and I am going to try really hard to hold on to that lesson.
That being said, let’s talk some stuff, shall we?
We had a great party for the 4th. It was worth the soul-sucking planning clusterfuck that preceded it. We set up a screen for a late night movie outside, and it worked perfectly as a backdrop for a little photo booth.
Looking down at the movie and table area:
We bought some silly props, set them out, and let everyone have fun.
The 4th of July is Cath’s (my mom) favorite holiday, so the place was decked out. That’s how she rolls!
We had an outdoor movie, a horse shoe tournament, fireworks, and Chicken Caca Bingo. And yes, I would love to explain what Chicken Caca Bingo is!
First you need chickens! This worked out nicely for us, because my dad had just decided that the boys needed chickens to take care of in order to learn real farm life. So this past Easter, Andrew and Noah (the above pictured nephews) got four little chicks, and everyone got to name one. I named mine Veronica Corningstone. The others are: Daisy, Dinner & Becky. (Please note that Dinner will not actually be dinner, these are egg laying chickens only. Dinner is just my dad being funny and I’m not going to lie, when Andrew shouts, “GRANDPA! DINNER GOT OUT OF THE CAGE!” it’s really funny.)
Sadly, a neighbor dog killed Daisy, so there are only three chickens left. But when they built the chicken house they memorialized her:
So, the game. We put a board numbered 1-80 on the floor of the chicken cage. We made a sign-up sheet with the same grid, and people picked numbers for .25 a square. Then we fed the chickens, and put them in the cage. Whatever number they pooped on was the bingo number, and the person who had picked that number won the pot of money. It’s so deliciously trashy that it was a huge hit.
I know, right?
I was the official photographer, and it was so hot that I started to get all heat strokey and giggly. I somehow ended up singing “I need a penis colada, and a fine case of beer”* to the tune of the song, “Escape, The Pina Colada Song”. I OBVIOUSLY didn’t know the real lyrics, because I couldn’t tell you where the “fine case of beer” part came from. The original lyrics (I just learned) are: “If you like pina colada’s / and getting caught in the rain”.
What was brilliant about it was that I used it to get some really good shots of people who otherwise wouldn’t smile. You try not laughing when a chubby girl with heat stroke starts singing about penis colada’s.
Cath before I sang the song:
Cath after the song:
Anyway, here it is two days later and I can’t stop singing the stupid song, so I pass it on to you. If you are like me and either very hot or very immature, you’re welcome.
*It is worth noting that not only do I not know what a penis colada is, I don’t think I need or want one. The music was speaking to me, it’s an art. You have to just roll with it.