Parties Are No Picnic for Paupers
by Bonnie Biv	November 11, 9:40 p.m.

In Manicured Lawnville, a vast chasm separates the Haves and Have-nots.

Tucked into submissive little plots between the grassy spreads of MicroMansion lawn, low-income townhomes and apartments beg for beams of exclusive sunshine—thanks to liberal city planning committees who hark from the “diverse” side of town. For every ten BMWs that glide down our immaculate roads, a ten-year-old Toyota dejectedly putts along too. For every ten kids that gobble up name-brand peanut butter and 100%-real juice boxes, one oblivious child is handed a Federally-funded "hot lunch."

Such misplaced social debris is secretly scorned by the Manicured majority. Yea though intolerance is never exhibited in the presence of the wretched here – they are treated with syrupy, if patently false, warmth – attitudes are often different behind mahogany doors.

As elitist ladies recline on their feather-n-leather sofas to gossip over Grey Goose martinis, they outlay in haughty detail the nerve of the low-flying folk: They steal from the rich via scandalous property taxes. They exploit time-generous school volunteers. They impregnate and divorce with the dignity of primates. Their dwellings reek like venison and vinyl.

As for the children of the working poor: the material insensitivity experienced in Manicured Lawnville is borderline criminal. And nowhere is this more evident and hurtful than the typical suburban Child’s Party.

Mothers throw obnoxious mini-celebrations of forty or so gradeschoolers, complete with swimming pools, cardboard movie stars, and little token-bags of dime-a-dozen crap (China-made: lead-poisoning, anyone?) Consequently, every guest feels duty-bound to show up with the hottest new >$25 gift for a vulgar display of Me!Me!Me! paper-throwing chaos. This year’s jouet de vie: Webkinz. Retail extortion at its finest!

Do the mini-Haves really need more stuff, at the expense of their varied-means classmates? Do they really need to publicly open a cubic buttload of presents in greedy volcanic fury, while Mom prepares hollow thank-yous on-the-spot via handy guest-worksheet?! I say it's gluttonous, like watching someone chew juicy Filet with her mouth open.

Of course, the escalation-of-birthday-bash debate is hot across U.S. family blogs these days. But here’s the rub in Manicured Lawnville: Local parents of meager means never deliver their kids empty-handed. Quite often, the gifts of the Have-nots reveal more personal effort and investment than anything delivered by a platinum Mom—who keeps a pile of impersonal stock in storage along with the seasonal foyer décor.

At the same time, the underprivileged are deprived of anything resembling a party of their own. The cost of keeping up here is simply too high. Poor kids forgo Hanna- or Transformer-laden tier cakes as well as anything resembling the Royalty for a Day gift-orgy. For example, every year one special girl shows up to my kid's party carrying a pink package, then celebrates her own birthday sans-friends at Godfather’s kids-eat-free night. No presents, no perks; just a Mom with few resources who loves her.

This is the depressingly young social disproportion that shall – from this year forward – drive my family to host "no gifts please" or "gifts go to charity" birthday fêtes. On principal, I simply cannot continue to obligate a half-dozen paupers – defined here as those who don't show up to my house wearing this season's hottest Uggs – to hunt down and fork over socially acceptable presents. (Besides, I do not need more plastic shit piling up in my house!)

Thus begins our Compassionate Consumption lesson:

My relatively privileged princess was given a choice this year: throw a birthday bash without presents, or host a small, private soiree with presents. Selfless butterfly that she is (yeah, uh, she definitely didn't get that from me), Sweet Pea renounced the offensive unwrapping show. In fact, she grew excited at the prospect of delivering a carload of her own gifts to less fortunate kiddos. (That old, touching Marines ad on YouTube closed the deal.)

The choice was far easier made than executed. Still, Sweet Pea handled it in teary-eyed grace*. Her invitations carried the subtle yet suburbally-uncouth (yes I make up my own words, deal with it) message that “gift of your presence” was all that we sought; any material items would be donated to charity.

No one in Manicured Lawnville verbalized an opinion on our decision—to my face. A few neighbors nodded slightly; a few changed the subject. Most seemed mildly put-off, apparently sensing the inference, “Bank on the less-fortunate for a change, you self-serving bag-hags.” I felt socially condemned – again – until a couple of folks (those in the ~$300K annum range, interestingly enough) expressed glowing approval with written notes and expensive donations on the down-low.

The socialite-wannabes, however, exhibited – er – less enthusiasm in their donations as well as their words. A wide array of cheaper toys found their way to the party, from Nerfs to Barbie-knockoffs to Dollar Store junk. Further, the pile had a strong flavor of regifting, featuring last year's movie-toy trends. Apparently underprivileged tots do not deserve the same shiny new stuff as our own white-bread wee-ones. But I suppose it was better than nuthin'.

It is worth noting that proud, poor fams arrived bearing Webkinz for kids "less fortunate than themselves."

Sigh.

People, the truth is: I’m generally the compassionless conservative speaking from a less, shall we say, Christian angle. I'm right there snarking over chilled vodka too; I get seriously cheesed-off at Moms who pay $0 to the same preschool I pay a flat $K. But my fiscal contempt is reserved for anyone over the working age of 16 who has no ambition or shame or humility. Little kids – for the love of God, man! – are the foundations upon which we all build our futures. Even the ones that don't don perfect Hilfiger haircuts and rolled-down Juicy sweatpants deserve a community that gives a sleek rat’s ass about their emotional well-being.

In my never-humble opinion, little kids on every rung of the economic ladder should be sheltered from the hot pain of induced envy—especially when it's as simple as packing piles of wrapped gifts into the dark car.

Defeat the youngster Gimmies, people. Keep your affluent depravity wrapped up.

*Tune in for another bitter chapter next month.