Monday, September 23, 2013


It's been a big weekend here in the 'skills. On Sat. it was Teehoo's 18th birthday and on Sunday Sarah "Birka" Budde gave birth to Rocket "Boy" Budde. I know you think that's a blog name. Guess again. I don't know whether the kid will be up for a baptism on the 28th, but we are available. Rocket is his given name. I had nothing to do with it. Blame the parents. That's just the kind of congregation we have here. Rocket, Wheels, Teehoo, Leila....these are the names of the children who will either drop all this foolishness, or bring it forward into the 22nd century. I won't live to see it.

But back to Teehoo's birthday. The kid's friends are all off at school and she was stuck with Shewho and me, celebrating turning legal. Back in my day the drinking age was 18 in NY. Because we started bar hopping around 16, we never made too big of a deal over turning legal. By that time we were regulars. No sense shoving it in the bar owner's faces, the fact that we had been partners in crime for two years. But these are the days of MADD, DUI, ID and consequences for all parties who dare party in public. They'll be no bar-hopping. In private? That's another matter.
    So while the pink dinosaur cake was being frosted by Shewho, Sat. afternoon, Teehoo and I took off to check out The Last Weekend in Masten Lake. Periodically, someone (outside of Hasidim) gets the idea to bring Brooklyn to the mountains. ATP famously rocked Kutsher's with Iggy a few years back. This time it's a three day camp for big kids with sock hats at Camp Lakota. The flyer stated up front- NO SMOKING, NO ATMS, NO PETS, NO TWEETING, NO CLIMBING OF THE CLIMBING WALL. Where's the bar? Teehoo and I stayed long enough to press some flesh with the organizers, get out of the way of the tie-dyers and leave without having someone paint our faces or slip us some Molly. I'm all for hipster, downward smell the dog fun, but.........artchery?
    Back at the house, Shewho had called Sister Nun of Your Business to come to the party. Lucky for all of us she was available. Forget Dr. Baloonakiss, pony rides, or bouncy castles. You want to entertain your 18 year old (male or female) call 1-800-PARTYNUN. She'll come to your house, eat dinner with you, sing Happy Birthday, bring gifts and when the candles are blown out on the pink dinosaur  cake, it's "Lets Get This Party Started". The only thing missing was a puppy and a pick-up truck. Sister NOYB was the dj and bartender. Half a bottle of good rye whiskey into the evening and the tu-tu hadn't even come out yet. Gladiola sword fights, the spilling of the beans and "what's under your shirt?" are just a few of the party games in this nun's habit. By 3 am, I had to crash, my face hurt too much from smiling. Just before dawn Sister NOYB and Teehoo curled up on the rug and went to sleep like exhausted dogs. I'm sure Shewho and I are bad parental units. Would I have been able to party like that with my mom at 18? No way. It took us 'til I was 19 to tie one on together....without a nun in the picture. Now lets go get you that tattoo. HAPPY BIRTHDAY DARLIN'.      


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