The Party Bitch
I’m taking a wee bit of a break from my “no swearing for Lent” plan, because I am actually quoting a real title. A legit title.
A 100% made up title courtesy of my sister.
Let’s step back for a second and delve more deeply in to my relationship with my sister. From the time I was a fetus, until I was say 14/15, my sister and I were natural enemies. Unless of course my parents were bothering the other sister…then we closed ranks and were a united front of sisters vs. mom and dad.
Everything changed when my sister got a car.
No, not because I’m shallow and she could drive me places, but because she was gone more and out of my damn face all the time.
Our friendship evolved from there, and we were actually college roommates for a time. Now, we’re always on the same side, the same team, we have have each others backs. Always.
So last year, when my sister came to me right before Jack’s birthday, and declared herself my “Party Bitch”, I wasn’t phased. Good sisters help each other out, and this just seemed like another way of accomplishing it.
Then, the party started, stuff got real, and I learned the true value of said “Party Bitch”, My sis and I are not ones to buy a cake from Costco, open a few tubs of dip, and unwrap a pre-made fruit tray. There is nothing wrong with those things, but we both enjoy cooking from scratch and sharing the goodies with friends and family. It’s so rare we get to cook for others, that birthday parties are our Oscars.
|No, I don’t know what is up with my hair. Thanks for asking.|
My sis was running up and down the stairs to the garage freezer to grab more homemade pizzas, was refilling the punch container, checking to make sure there were enough veggies and salad, and just in general being the best “girl Friday” a sister could ask for.
After the party was over, Amy, my nephew, and brother-in-law Brian stuck around and helped clean up. They didn’t judge me when I started vacuuming or cleaning the bathroom. After the house was picked up, excess cake was distributed, and presents were organized, we went out to dinner.
The next month, at my nephew’s birthday, I showed up with my party utility belt on, and my name tag said “Hello my name is Party Bitch”. I sliced, I diced, I helped in any way I could. And then, we cleaned the house and went out to dinner.
And so, the Party Bitch tradition was born.
If you have a close friend or family member who you can trade “bitch” details with, I highly recommend implementing such an exchange. As the host, you still have to do work, but the little mundane details that actually DO matter, get taken care of while you can enjoy your guests and the party.
Party Bitch out!