Our annual block party. Planned and organized by all the other neighbors (because I'm a bitch).
We* got a permit to block off the street and a local cyclery, Brown's Cycles, lent us an assortment of fun bikes and a whole bunch of Green Machines — which are fun until one particularly surly Green Machine decides to throw you off in the middle of the street resulting in various minor scrapes and bruises.
*And by "we" I mean, someone other than myself, because all I did was bake three batches of brownies.
Yes, that is my daughter eating the forbidding cotton candy.
I mean, people, seriously, it's whipped sugar. But since I was too distracted (and remarkably not drunk — I wasn't in the mood for beer and too lazy to get something else) to watch her, Margaret smiled when she said, "Don't be surprised when you hear that I had six cotton candies."
But the best part was the the cops only showed up twice.
Once they were invited by us. The nice officer spoke about how important it is to have a strong community, blah, blah and gave us ("us" meaning the kids and myself) "Junior Officer" badge stickers.
I wore mine proudly until Johnny and Bridget's mean baby stole mine.
And the second time when one of our charming neighbors complained about Bill's band making a racket.
The band played from 6 to 8 p.m. and we had a permit.
Luckily another really nice officer showed up and said he had no problem with the music and actually that it was great we were getting together as a community.
So suck it neighbor who called the cops on us.
And despite the fact that both Greedy and Flendard said that there could be nothing gay about Green Machines, they proved themselves wrong by choreographing tandem burn outs in a might gay fashion.
The video proof is below: