Birthday Clown

So, I had an interesting afternoon today, doing a theatre games workshop for a 10th birthday party.

The mother of former student of mine (who I always thought was wonderful and could be a star if she wanted to, she's that good) called me last week and asked me to give a theatre class for her daughter and twenty of her closest friends.

I loved teaching her daughter, Grace. And trust me, the name fits the girl perfectly. This sweet, soft-spoken British-Persian girl with an angel face and the manners of a lady. Sharp girl, very disciplined, quite mature for her age. Anyhoo.

She had a dress-up birthday party and all of her friends dressed up as their favourite characters from the movies. I saw an Elle Woods, Jack Sparrow and Elizabeth, Zorro, D'Artagnan. But Grace had it locked down as Sandy from Grease. But not the sweet Sandy from the beginning of the film. She was the hoochified Sandy complete with off the shoulder top, capris and high heels. And not only did she manage to not look trashy, she can walk in her heels better than I can.

Kids really are older than they used to be.

The workshop was fun, they were a lovely group of girls, and even if things got shrieky at times and it sometimes took awhile for things to settle down, I mean come on, they're ten years old. They were all very polite, and loads of fun. Grace's five year-old brother ("Just Jack" is how he introduced himself to me--how could you not love a kid like that?) participated in the class too, and all the girls were so kind to him and never made him feel like he was slowing things down (well, actually, he didn't, he's freaky smart like a prodigy).

The workshop was a resounding success (YOU try keeping twenty-odd 10-year old girls entertained for two hours) and although things ran a little longer than I expected, it was all good. I keep saying that I don't like kids, but somehow I just keep on managing to like them in spite of myself (seriously) and to have a blast with them.

It might be something like the relationship that my dad has with cats. He's cranky and pretends not to like them, but they see through him and love him anyway, and when no one's looking, he feeds them tuna. Anyhoo.

Just before I gave the parents my invoice for services rendered, Grace's grandfather comes rushing up to me and clutches my bicep to congratulate me on a job well done. Okay, sure, his hand brushed the side of my breast, but I figure hey, accidents happen, like the time Lianne goosed that girl who came to visit her.
However, it was SO not an accident when he put his hand on my butt ten seconds later.

At first, I wished I had a sock full of chalk so I could smack him on the head and say:

"I don't think so! Homey don't play dat."

Then I thought that I would not be a credit to the race for getting dragged into a police cruiser in the middle of Westmount because I gave an elderly man an open-handed smack in the mouth.

Apparently, my body really is too bootylicious for ya, Babe. I wonder: maybe if there was less of it, he wouldn't have had such an easy target. Did he think that just because I have more than my fair share of backy, I wouldn't notice if he grabbed the extra?

I was ready to bounce out the door, and forget about the check, but Grace's mom offered me a glass of wine and a piece of birthday cake, and I thought it was rude to refuse (and Hell-O! She offered me VINO), so I spent the remaining ten minutes eating my birthday cake and sipping a glass of white wine with my back to the wall. Grace's parents gave me a bit of a funny look, but then again, I guess I looked strange navigating the swarms of little girls with my backside resolutely plastered against the walls or moving from seat to seat like a musical chairs game.

Finally, enough time passed that I could politely excuse myself from the party, and said goodbye to all the girls, who were all quite sweet and blew kisses and gave me big hugs. Grace, ever the lady, came up to me, thanked me for the workshop and told me I did a lovely job. The hostess with the mostest. And once I put on my coat and grabbed my purse to go, Grace's dad came up to me, shook my hand, and pressed a folded check into it, with a fervent thank you.

And as I walked out the door, singing to myself:

"Homey the clown,
Don't mess around,
Even though the Man,
Try to keep him down,
One day Homey will,
Break all the chains,
Then he'll fly away,
But until that day,
Homey don't play."

And I stepped out just in time to see a rainbow. And all was forgiven. Grabby Grandpa shrunk from a specter of dirty old manhood down to a harmless horndog in a matter of seconds. When you think about it, it was such a clichéd situation anyway that I just had to laugh.

And then I open my check and saw that they had paid me an extra fifty dollars.

I'm not sure whether that's their way of rewarding me for a job well done, for apologizing for their grandpa: David Cop-a-feel, or if they're just purchasing my silence.

Well whatever it is, it's translating to a much-deserved cocktail for yours truly tonight.

Cheers!

(Incidentally, I just noticed there's a Homey the Clown, Advice Columnist blog. Thought I'd go check it out. Mind you, if you know Homey D. Clown, you know he's not for kids. Visit at your own risk.)