The Countdown to Madness Begins...

The time is upon me to earnestly begin planning my sister's baby shower. How do I know this? Because my darling mother told me in no uncertain terms. I believe her exact words were "Don't you think it is time you got off your ass and did something about your sister's shower? It is not going to plan itself, you know."

With those warm words, she sat me down and gave me explicit directions, heaped with a side of guilt, about what she expects for her baby girl's shower. (Before you roll your eyes, just know that I love my mom. At least that is what I keep telling myself.) She wants food; nothing fancy but not as classless as beer and pizza. (Apparently, mommy dearest may know me too well.) She wants a nice location, big enough for 25 people, and it needs to be decorated appropriately. I suggested blowing up condoms and using them as balloons but apparently this falls under "classless." (In my defense, it's not like I have claimed to be the epitome of sophisitication.) And most of all, she wants to ensure my sis has a good time. I will do my damndest with that one. With all the booze I will be swilling, I am sure to be the life of the party!

And with those words of encouragement, I started planning the party from hell shower. The first obstacle - where to host such a party. My sis lives in a rather small apartment, fit for herself, her baby and her cat. Any one else has to stand out in the hall and yell through her door to talk to her. Obviously, not an ideal choice. There is my place, but city dwellers tend not to want to drive an hour out to the middle of nowhere to eat old egg salad sandwiches and slimy fruit. (And yes, dear internet, before you ask, that is what I plan on serving. Nobody can say eggs and fruit aren't classy.)

So that leaves my brother's house. Complete with girlfriend who hates me and dogs who try to hump my leg every chance they get. (Which is not very often if the girlfriend has her way.) And since none of her friends (or my mother) have offered up their homes, the dog humpers house wins. (Say that three times fast, I dare you!)

Now on to the guest list. Which means I will have to crawl out of my hole and tear myself away from the computer screen to call these girlies. Actually talk. On a phone. Shudder. Women, who no doubt will expect party favors, games and cucumber sandwiches. Served on good china. I'm developing a twitch just thinking about it.

Most of these people don't even know I exist. By tacit agreement, my sis and I try not to advertise our familial ties. After years of having our childhood friends run home crying because my brother pantsed them or my dad walked around in nothing but his dirty tighty whitey's, we tend not admit to having any family. At all. We were dropped off by the stork and raised by elves. Which we have no memory of. This is a system that works well for us, so why rock the boat?

Oh dear God, I fear there isn't strong enough liquor to make this pain go away. I'll be posting this blog from a prison cell. Where I will be serving time for choking my mother with condom balloons after poisoning a gaggle of girls with rotten egg salad sandwiches. The Redneck mommy driven to homicidal madness by silly shower games.

Somebody shoot me now.