I got a call about doing a Princess Sofia party for a 2-year-old.
Who the hell is Princess Sofia? Apparently, it plays on Disney Jr. and is about a little girl whose mother married a king and so she became a Princess by marriage. Great, another nepotism success story in Hollywood. Just what we all need.
I get the details. Beverly Hills party. Good start. $100 for 1.5 hrs. Cool. 7:00 pm start. Ok…ay. Wait, isn’t this a party for a little kid? Why is it starting so late? I start to think on it, then get distracted because Bravo is starting a Real Housewives of Atlanta marathon and Nene isn’t blonde yet, and I just love vintage Nene! You know, after she disclosed that she was a stripper, but before she booked that sitcom and became “an actress”.
I call the parents the day before and speak to the father. He has a very heavy accent and is pleasant. He said his family came into town last minute and they wanted to throw their daughter a party. I said that sounded nice! He made sure I knew that it wouldn’t require very much on my part at all. Maybe some face painting and balloons, but otherwise just taking pictures with the kids. Easy breezy lemon squeezy. He said that. Twice, actually.
I pick up the costume, which is a short, dirty, Auburn wig and purple ball-gowny dress. The only saving grace was the tiara. I’m a sucker for tiara’s. A casual day tiara is something every lady needs! It goes well with day drinking by yourself with the shades drawn!
Anyhoo, I set out to do the party, which GPS said would take 24 minutes to get to from Toluca Lake. I’m feeling very positive about this party. 7:00-8:30pm, no big deal, then come home, traipse around in my tiara and pick up where I left off with the RH’s saga(which, btw, had switched over to O.G. O.C. eps, and you know mama loves her some Jo! What’s become of her? Someone find out and let me know!)
I get on the 101, which is a little backed up, but nothing too bad. I turn the corner on the ramp, and…stop. You know how LA is notorious for bad traffic? This was the worst I’d ever seen. Like, truly. Right then my dad called.
Me: “Hi Dad. what’s up?”
Dad: “Oh nothing, thought I’d check in. What up with you?”
Me: “Nothing, heading to work.”
Dad:”Now? It’s late!”
His tone insinuated that it was in fact SO late that he thought I may be prostituting.
Me: “It’s not THAT late, Dad. What do you think I’m doing, hooking?”
Dad: “Are you driving?”
He never acknowledges my directness.
Me: “Yup. Sort of. It’s dead stopped. No one is moving. At all. I have to go work a party.”
My dad doesn’t really remember any of my 7 jobs, so I’m hoping he thinks “working a party” is code for “prostituting a party”. Why would I hope that? Because I’m an asshole who likes to distress my aging, Jewish father.
Dad: “Oh, a party, huh? That sounds fun.”
He doesn’t bite. I go in for the kill.
Dad: “Yup! I’m dressed like a dirty princess!”
While true, the costume was disgusting and the wig was homeless, this was a little too far. What the fuck is wrong with me?
Dad: “Oh, you’re working that kids party job, huh?”
Dammit, has he read my blog?
Me: “Yeah. I am. But this traffic hasn’t moved at all. Balls! I’ve been here for 10 minutes and nothing!”
Dad: “So you are driving?”
Me: “Yes! Dad, I’m sorry, I have to find out what’s happening. I’m going to be late so I may have to call the parents.”
Dad: “Ok, be careful at the party. Don’t let the kids say bad stuff to you like last time!”
He HAS been reading the blog!
We hang up. I still haven’t moved. I call my boss. She answers out of breath, but she’ s always like that. In a panic. I tell her I’m not moving and have no idea why. She puts on her purry, syrupy voice and says I should call the parent. If it goes much later they will probably cancel. I say ok. I call, the dad says it’s fine, just come when I can. Good, I could use the $100! Also, this tiara needs to see the light of evening.
I sit. And sit. And sit. An hour passes. An HOUR! I’ve moved maybe 5 feet! I call back my boss. Tell her I still haven’t moved.
“Oh”, she said, “Sorry I forgot to call you. I heard there was a bomb threat on the 101 so it’s all shut down.”
“A BOMB threat?!”
“Yes. Call the parents and let them know.” and then in an unexpected twist she says, “I’ll still pay you for the night. It’s not your fault. I’m sure they’ll want to cancel, I mean, it’s for a 2 year old!”
I’m stunned and thank her profusely. I can’t believe she’s being so cool.
I call the dad.
Me: “Hi, it’s Amy again, Princess Sofia.” I have gotten in the habit of following up my real name with my character name. It makes the client feel like it’s more authentic. Can you believe I just typed that sentence? Me neither!
Dad: “Yes, are you here?”
Me: “No, I’m very sorry, I just found out there was a bomb threat on the 101 so they shut it down. I’ll be stuck here for a long time.”
Dad: “So when will you get here then?”
Me: “Oh, I have no idea. But you can reschedule if you’d like.”
Dad: “No, still come.”
Me: “But….it could be another hour. It’s already 8:15, so I may not get there until 9:30 or later. That’s probably too late for…”
I hang up. I call back my boss. She says sorry. I say me too.
Finally, after 2 HOURS!!! I get funneled off the freeway. It was 9:20pm. I call the dad to MAKE SURE he wants me there. He confirms he does. Jesus, is his two-year-old a meth cooker or something? Why are they having this so fucking late?
I console myself by thinking there is no way this party will be going strong. I mean, come on!
I arrive at the party at 9:43pm. I park in front of a duplex. I grab my dirty box and hear loud sounds of a party. It must be next door, because again, come on! This is a 2 year olds…nope, it’s this party. I trip up the stairs on my dirty purple skirt. I push open the door and see…..about 90 people crammed in this house. There are kids and babies running around. Mothers with very dark lipstick and heavy eyeliner complimenting their new tits talking to each other. There are macho men with lots of arm hair and even more chest hair poking out of their unbuttoned shiny dress shirts. The eyebrows are intense in this room. Even the kids have very heavy eyebrows. Everyone is yelling. No one is wincing, so I guess this is just a volume they’re used to. I stand there until someone notices me. A large be-titted lady wearing a low-cut dress elbows her freshly face-lifted friend, who then turns sharply at me. The room gets very quiet. Or maybe it wasn’t that quiet, just my ears hadn’t heard anything softer than a megaphone volume for the last few minutes so they were recovering.
A tall, dark, big haired woman wearing a white jump suit that squeezed her D’s together yells something that sounds angry but might be affectionate at a man, who picks up a curly haired, profoundly browed kid and they both come over. With their eyes, they guide me into a hallway (where another 40 or so people were).
“Hi, so sorry about this being so late! So crazy about the…”
The mother raises her drawn on, jet black eyebrows and cuts me off.
“Why ver yuuu so late?” She spats out.
Me(still smiling): “I called several times. I spoke to your husband. There was a bomb threat..”
She cuts me off again and steps towards me. I think she’s going to assault me with her huge knockers. I wince a little.
“Vhat are you talking? I don’t heard ov any bombed. You are two hours late!”
“I know, I called and said you could reschedule.”
“Ve can’t reschedule. You are late for no reason, now go perform for kids.”
“But…there was a bomb…!”
She walks away, momentarily suffocating me with her Chanel #5 cloud from turning so fast. I look at the father for help. He smiles.
“My boss said you can only pay for half, if you’d like. There was nothing I could do.”
“Ok. Jes, the kids are excited to you.” He walks away, and I cough on his greasy Drakkar Noir cologne, and for a nano-second recall 8th grade dances in the cafetorium, and I’m happy. Then I snap back into reality.
I follow him and the eyebrow kid into the room. Again, all the yelling conversation stops and everyone stares at me.
“Hello. I’m Princess Sofia. Where’s the birthday girl?”
The father drops the little girl he’s holding off in front of me and walks away, going back to a loud conversation with a group of men who start smoking inside.
The little girl doesn’t move. Or make a sound. Just stares. Right into my eyes. She’s looking into my soul. I thought she was trying to communicate with me with her mind, then…
I feel a tugging, no, yanking, on my dress. A woman who just had a chemical peel, so her face was red as rare beef, was pulling on the skirt of my dress and talking to the other taught, shiny women and cackling.
“Excuse me, hi.” I say with a closed mouth smile.
She keeps doing it while looking at me.
“Can you stop?” My lips were pulled so tightly across my teeth I thought they were going to break.
“Keeds”, she screams, even though there are 5 or so kids within two feet of her, “Touch dis clown!”
All the kids start pulling and lifting up my skirt. One took off one of my shoes. The women laugh and clap. Their hard tits not moving an inch. This was turning into a strip show, so my dad’s suspicions of me were right ultimately.
“Stop! Don’t do that!” I say and a tear appears on my eye rim.
Then mean mommy returns. He kneels down and hisses “Vhy don’t you do somesing rather than jus sit der. These kids waited for you for two houvers.”
How did she add another syllable to “hours”?
My eyes are about to start leaking. I look over at the birthday girl, who’s still staring without blinking. Wait, is that a doll?
“Ok! Hey, who wants face paint!?”
The kids stop trying to rip my clothes off and all raise their hands.
Mean mommy: “NO! NO PAINT!”
“But I was told to do face painting.”
She growls, “I guess, since you ver so late you have to.”
“There was a bomb threat!”
She walks away. I start to paint faces. I’m actually crying a little, but no one notices. Maybe it’s too clouded in there from the mix of cigarette smoke and animosity. Every now and then I have to start over because a yank from the women behind me jerks my hands away. I accidentally turned what was supposed to be a cat nose into a very distinct Hitler stache.
Somehow, by the grace of God, 11:15pm rolls around. An hour and a half. No one has left, it’s still going strong. And the birthday girl, now covered in face paint, still hasn’t moved or blinked before me.
I get up off the floor, but will difficulty, because the women behind me have set their bags down on the back of my dress. They laugh as I get up. I kick over a purse and look at them. They laugh more.
I go to the father and tell him its’ time for me to leave. He asks how I can leave when I got there so late. I point out the time, and say it’s very late now! He snickers and says, “Ok, vhatever you say!” Then yells something to mean mommy who glares at me.
I grab the box and say goodbye. The women behind me ignore me. The kids take one last crack at ripping off the dress. I kneel down to the birthday girl, who’s looking at me with her dark, round eyes.
“Happy Birthday. I hope you get whatever you want.”
She looks at me, then puts her hand on my arm and says “It’s my birthday.” Like, it’s MY birthday. No one has even spoken to me the whole night. It’s all about them. Why have I been dealt this hand?! Or, none of that. She’s two, but I feel like she gets it.
I nod and stand. I catch the eye of the father, who comes over. He hands me money, and says “If you verent so late, I would give you teep, but you ver late, so goodbye.”
“There was a…yeah, great.”
I trip down the stairs to my car. I immediately start to cry.
I get home, rip off the dirty wig and now, thanks to footprints and dirty kid hands, even dirtier purple gown.
I turn on Bravo, waiting for my solace that lies within the RHof OC’s hands. To my disappointment, it’s the Rh’s of DC, which brings me no pleasure, only makes me sadder.
Then I remember…the tiara! I put it on and the world didn’t seem so bleak.
Two more parties until the end my friends. Enjoy it while it lasts!
Below is me in my dirty wig stuck in traffic.