Spaghetti Wishes and Juice Box Dreams

Last week I rated an invitation to a birthday party that, for the first time in six years, didn't involve a piñata.  I got a call from a friend that has done pretty well for himself inviting me to the bash his step-father was throwing him.  Actually, his assistant called (like I said, he done good).  The only hitch was the party was in Houston.  I live in Austin.  No worries, says the assistant, the guest of honor is chartering jets to take the Austin guests to the party (see above).

I'm pumped.  My wife is totally unimpressed.  I explain that the party will be in a private club on the top floor of a downtown skyscraper.

"I can smell the overdone roast beef from here," opines my wife.

"So you don't want to go."

"Besides, I'd be impossible to get a sitter. You go.  It'll be fun."

So I've got the green light, the full kitchen pass to be a single guy running with the jet set.  Time to buff up the big boy shoes, blow the dust off the Hermes tie, and party with the beautiful people.

But by the time I settled myself into the plush, leather, monogrammed seat with the gold throw blanket and matching gold seatbelt buckles, I was utterly miserable.  Even the cocktail didn't help.

I was miserable because I knew that there was an even better party going on.  At my house.  Perhaps to teach me a lesson by torching my champagne dreams, maybe because it was a Friday night and the wives of our coach friends were without spouses as well, my wife decided to have a few people over for spaghetti dinner.  By the time I headed to the airport, the guest list had ballooned to over a dozen parents and kids.

Our parties are fun.  The wine flows like an open hydrant.  There are lots of laughs, kids acting crazy, and good gossip ripping all over the place.  We know each other very well, our little group of parents.  And the food is always amazing, even when it's comfort food like good old spag and meat sauce (she made artichoke sauce for the grown-ups).

My friend's birthday party was fine (she was right about the roast beef).  I saw some old friends that I hadn't seen in a while.  But as we were taking off, leaving the bright lights of Houston behind, I was full of regret.  I should know myself better.

In the final analysis, Robin Leach can bite my ass; I'm a dad.

Clay Nichols, Health Correspondent:
Clay’s column, Dadventure, published twice monthly to Gather Essentials: Health, is a sure-fire guide to raising flawless, perfectly behaved, and always obedient children.  Yeah, right.
 
Clay is the co-author of Filmmaking for Teens: Pulling Off Your Shorts, an award-winning playwright, and the Chief Creative Officer at DadLabs.com, a fatherhood website.

You can find all of Clay’s Dadventure articles at http://gather.com/dadventure

Keep up with Clay’s other postings and Gather activity by joining his Gather network -- just click here and select the orange “Connect” button on the left-hand side of the page.