Just beyond the realm of normal everyday life, lurks a grisly cult like fanaticism that fogs the minds and opens the wallets of normally clear thinking adults, leaving them utterly helpless over the powerful pull of the Children’s Birthday Party.
Unwittingly I fell down this bizzaro rabbit-hole when I landed a gig as a character for kid’s parties.
I applied for this job hopeful and naïve. I thought: kids parties, that’ll be fun! I should have known there’d be trouble when I was sent through the interview process used by the FBI. Then I had to audition by parading around a carpeted office, channeling my best Snow White while a starched panel humorlessly took notes on my every move and vocal nuance. Having survived that, I was subjected to an extensive background check and a series of vaccinations.
Somehow I made it through the elimination of 50 or so applicants to the final three. I felt like I’d gotten into Harvard or become a green beret or something. My success probably had to do with English being my first language and white being my primary skin color. Not that these employers are racist, but most of the popular princesses are very Caucasian and speak in full sentences.
There I was, spending my weekends as Cinderella, Bella, Jasmine, Clowns, Power Puff Girls and of course, Snow White. I worked the mental health maximum of four parties a weekend, driving my little pick-up truck to the most obscure parts of Southern California, costume changes and piñatas flapping in the wind.
At first I enjoyed the adventure, it was awesome to show up at a stranger’s house in an elaborate costume and make their day super-duper special. Kids worshipped me, moms tipped me, dads winked and asked if I ever wore my costumes off hours. But the sweet tootsie-roll filled days couldn’t last forever and I began to notice signs that I was spinning out of control, fraying at the pantaloons, losing myself in the world of “make-believe this is a good job.”
The magic lifted one day when, in full clown regalia, including white make-up and rainbow wig, I was driving home from a three-year old’s birthday reception and listening to a very moving piece on NPR about the regrets of fighter pilots in Afghanistan. It was so sad, so haunting; I was brought to tears. Then I was brought to sobs, and finally, uncontrollable hysterics. I was crying my blue painted eyes out and did not get the irony until a van of kids started yelling “Don’t cry Miss Clown, don’t cry!”
“Oh no!” I thought in a panic, “I’m a clown and I’m crying!” I stared in horror at my face in the rear view mirror. What had happened to me, what had I become? A crying clown for god’s sake! I had become the biggest cliché to make it into the cliché hall of fame.
I began to dread my days of jumping castles and cake. Always when dressed in a plushy polyester animal suit it will be over 90 degrees out, but when nearly naked as Ariel the mermaid, the temperature will dip suddenly to 20. After months of screeching in a cartoonish falsetto over the din of ruthless whiners I was developing vocal nodes. I sounded more like Marge Simpson’s sisters then a Bambi eyed princess. But I pushed on. The birthday fantasies of the single digit set resting heavily on my shoulders.
Then it got abusive. I was dressed as a Power Puff Girl: blue mini dress, white tights and a giant bobble head with a huge mesh smile to see through. This particular family decided their kid needed an “authentic piñata experience,” so they blindfolded him, spun him around and armed him with a large stick. The birthday boy, drunk on sugar and ambition, hit the air around him harder and harder with each ninja inspired swing. Swoosh, swoosh, swoosh and CRACK! He hit something! The piñata? No the Power Puff Girl’s arm! Magically it appeared as though it didn’t hurt her, because no amount of pain could wipe that giant animated smile from that big head. But behind the mesh grin tears streamed down my very real face. By the next day nasty blue and purple bruises covered my arm. Diligently, like a good tin soldier, I showed up for my gig as Snow White. The family gasped in horror as I walked in, a sweet Snow White with an arm like hardened junky.
The job ended the way they usually do for me, very badly. I was exhausted, I felt a flu coming on and I needed a day off. I tried to call in sick but my work ethic was immediately called into question and I was instructed to get a note from my doctor. “My DOCTOR?” I yelled, “How could I possibly go to a doctor? With my imaginary insurance or with the buckets of gold at the end of the rainbow?” No, no doctor and no note. With that I shoved away from the candy coated poison world of children’s entertainment. Left to drift again in a sea of career choices.
