Bounce House Of Horrors
My host brother had his 8th birthday party one fine Saturday in Ovalle. The following is a true story based on a rough timeline.
7:03am – It’s Saturday morning. I’m suddenly jolted awake by the sweet, sweet shrills of children screaming for no reason other than they fucking can. It’s unfortunate the ability to scream isn’t something that develops later in life when you’re theoretically not as annoying. You know, some sort of biological phenomenon. Humans are full of these. The inability to make loud, piercing sounds until you hit puberty should be one such phenomenon.
7:05am – The screaming continues. My chest tightens.
7:06am – I find some dirty ear plugs at the bottom of my backpack and shove them into my ears.
7:17am – What’s that? Oh, someone using a power drill outside? I am horrified by this savagery.
7:18 – I miraculously fall back asleep. It’s actually not a miracle at all. It’s the Xanax.
11:30am – I wake up in an actual haunted house. You know, the kind infested with loud, smelly children. No, this is not a nightmare. The amount of children has doubled and there is now a giant bounce house being inflated in the area the beloved family trampoline calls home. The trampoline has now taken refuge in the front yard NEXT TO MY WINDOW.
11:32am – There is a sweaty, rosy-cheeked kid with a profound wedgie beating his Hulk action figure against my window, unprovoked. He’s missing his right arm. Hulk, not the kid.
11:33am – I begin to wonder what kind of ghastly behavior I exhibited in a previous life to deserve this. I quickly realize how dramatic that sounds.
11:55am – The bounce house is inflated. I REPEAT. The bounce house is inflated. A stampede of heathens rush toward the backyard. Now’s my chance to scavenge for breakfast without being noticed. I don’t take any chances, strawberry yogurt is my quickest bet. I scurry off to my room but not before I hear my host mom yell, “Em-ee-lee!!!”
12:45pm – I’ve been mindlessly stuffing goody bags for almost an hour. At risk of sounding culturally insensitive, there’s some anxiety-provoking “treats” in these bags. Like, vomit colored gummy characters with lopsided faces.
12:47pm – The party is emoji themed, and with each smiley face I see, I grow increasingly bitter. This feeling, of course, is hidden behind a bright, cheerful smile because I’m not an openly rude person.
12:50pm – I tell myself I need to have a better attitude; that the gaggle of squawking children isn't that unbearable. No matter how many times I repeat this notion, I know I'm lying to myself.
1:15pm – I lay back down in bed to ensure this isn’t actually a nightmare.
1:16pm – Confirmed. It’s not. In fact, now someone’s SOBBING in the other room as kids do at birthday parties.
1:20pm – This crying. It’s not stopping. Should I help? Probably. I get up and look around to see if anyone is planning on tending to this sobbing child because I'd really prefer not to.
1:23pm – The answer is a definitive no. I get up and ask the distraught child what’s wrong. His reply? “Someone pulled my sleeve.” What? I immediately regret asking.
1:23pm – Unsure how to respond, I slowly back up and walk away.
1:45pm – The crying has yet to cease. It’s moved upstairs at the request of everyone else at least. Kids are starting to ask if there is a ghost in the house due to the low pitch, quivering nature of the sobs. I tell them it’s the crying kid. They say he’s dramatic. I immaturely agree.
3:30pm – The party has officially begun and I’ve officially lost my mind.
4:00pm – Thankfully, my friend Cindy is here. We make our rounds and then take refuge on a bench next to a smiley face emoji balloon. I stare at Smiley right in the eye with scathing disdain. I fantasize about popping him with the nearest sharp object.
4:15pm – We take our first crack at a beautifully decorated adult snack table. There are endless amounts of crackers, cheese, cookies and fruit kabobs. I load up as any American in the presence of free food would.
6:00pm – At this point, I’ve made the pilgrimage from the bench to the snack table and back about six times. All of the parents are sitting around the table, conversing as adults do. Since I don’t consider myself a real adult, my only contribution is giving them a first hand look into the problem of food over consumption in the United States.
6:15pm – My host dad is hooking up a karaoke machine in the backyard. Of course there's a karaoke machine.
6:17pm – The karaoke machine is now plugged into a power source and ready for use. A stray kid with a half-eaten emoji cookie in one hand fires it up and screams relentlessly into the microphone with his other hand.
6:50pm – The atrocity continues. I continue eating cheese and crackers.
7:25pm – A random man plops a small crying Asian child on Cindy’s lap, assuming it’s her kid. He runs away crying while Cindy unsuccessfully explains she has no relation to him.
8:00pm – The party is winding down. Maybe miracles do exist. Maybe there is a God. Or, more plausible, this party has gone on for way too long and is finally coming to a natural end.
8:15pm – But, wait! There’s apparently an after party! We’re instructed to come outside and socialize with a handful of friendly couples. We speak briefly about our backgrounds and how teaching is going, and then the conversation extinguishes.
8:30pm – The after party officially starts in the form of an asado (Chilean word for BBQ). I’ve never seen so much meat and wine in my life.
8:35-10:45pm- I am mesmerized by the sizzling flesh being cooked in front of me while simultaneously wondering why no one washes their hands after handling raw meat. I also vow to become a vegetarian when I return home.
11:00pm – At this point, I’ve probably eaten the equivalent to every animal on old MacDonald’s fucking farm, accompanied with five glasses of wine, attributed to sheer discomfort of forced awkward small talk. Unsurprisingly, my stomach is beginning to sound the warning alarm of treacherous bowel movements ahead. E-I-E-I-O shit.
For dramatic effect, this picture has not been resized.
I also can't figure out how to make it smaller.