Also, I kind of wanted to go old school with the theme. I really, really wanted to do a Rainbow Brite-themed birthday party. I have no idea why. Perhaps because I never got one when I was a kid (not that I was deprived or anything–I just never thought to ask for one. Just kidding; my parents obviously hated me). Perhaps because I’ve had a rainbow fetish for as long as I can remember (not like that, people. Jeebus. Dirty birds, the lot of you). Perhaps because it would let me go crazy with balloons and colors. I have no idea.

In any case, regardless of the motivation, I really wanted to have Rainbow Brite puke all over the party. I made a list of everything I needed to get:

• Balloons in as many colors as possible.
• A Rainbow Brite tablecloth.
• Rainbow Brite napkins.
• Rainbow Brite plates.
• Rainbow Brite cake.
• Streamers in as many colors as possible.
• Favors (that no one would use and would have to be kept away from the kid, lest she swallow them and we spend her birthday in the ER).

And, of course, the glue holding everything together and announcing the rainbow-fest to come:

• Rainbow Brite invitations.

Awwwww, I can hear you saying as you traipse down memory lane. I remember Rainbow Brite! So many Saturday mornings spent with her and Sprite, off on colorful G-rated adventures! Perhaps you even start whistling the Rainbow Brite theme song to yourself (there’s no shame in this, by the way):

So much happiness! The party was really starting to come together. Decorations were on hand. The favors were procured. The cake was on order (my sister-in-law was going to make it, and she was really going to go all-out). The only thing missing were the invitations–and I needed to get on it, since I wanted to send them out at least two weeks before the big date, and preferably three or four. What I really wanted to do was make the invites myself. I’m pretty artsy, and I was looking forward to it.

I figured it would be easy–I was able to get my hands on decorations, after all. All I had to do was get my hands on a Rainbow Brite image I could use. How hard could making Rainbow Brite invites be, really?

Famous last words.

Unbeknownst to me, in the years since I last spent my Saturday mornings with my be-colored pal, a certain…shall we say transformation…had occurred. Suddenly, when I googled “Rainbow Brite image,” this is what showed up:

I’m sorry. Who the shit is that? Because that’s not Rainbow Brite. THIS is Rainbow Brite:

When did Rainbow Brite become a Bratz doll? Since when do six-year-olds have hourglass figures? When did she go from waving to posing? When did Rainbow Brite get “I just got ridden hard” hair? Who decided this was a good idea? WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON HERE? 

I may be overreacting.

But, you guys. Seriously. 

There are no words. I found myself feeling the kind of outrage that only a child of the 80s can feel, the same kind of outrage that people voiced (and I fully mocked) when Nickelodeon made Dora the Explorer go from little kid to sultry tween.

And this, of course, led me to go further, to see what else they had done to my beloved childhood icons. Because, of course, I’m that asshole who needs to slow down at the site of an accident and rubberneck all over the place, because I wasn’t satisfied with watching Rainbow Brite turn into a streetwalker and OH MY GOD WHAT DID THEY DO TO MY LITTLE PONY

WHY DO THEY LOOK LIKE COKED-OUT ANIME CAT-HORSES WITH BOUNCY HAIR?

Do you SEE the size of those pupils? Don’t even tell me they’re not on something.

OMG. This is why Bronies exist now.

I didn’t even have the heart to see what they may have done to the Care Bears, Strawberry Shortcake, or The Wuzzles. I didn’t have the heart or stamina.

I suppose I should let you know that, amidst my multicolored breakdown, I ended up just getting the invites professionally done, and spent too much money on them. But, hey, at least they didn’t have a goddamn whore on them. The party was a success, the cake was gorgeous. The Bean had a blast, and she had a sugar high for hours from all the chocolate.

And, yes, I almost invited a hooker to my one-year-old’s birthday party.

I’ve got permanent psychological scars.

This is all Rainbow Brite’s fault.

#1 : Lady Gaga

“Momma, why is that lady wearing meat?”

“Because, honey, gaga means butcher’s mate in Slovakian.”

#2 : Skrillex

Is it an industrial solvent? A roach killer? An anti-depressant? A hemorrhoid cream? With a name like Skrillex, the possibilities are endless! Oh, wait. It’s apparently a “musician” who specializes in “now-music” with “electronica undertones.”

…So it is an industrial solvent!

#3 : The Real Housewives of…well, Everything

Danielle Staub. ‘Nuff said.

#4 : Twilight

“Back in the 2000s, a woman named Stephenie (no, that’s not a typo, honey–that’s how she spells it) wrote a book about how a girl who was very pretty, yet surprisingly unpopular, fell in love with a vampire who was in her class in high school and had been around for hundreds of years, sparkling in the sun. This vampire often warned her that he could kill her at any time, but this didn’t matter to her. When he left her, her best friend turned into a werewolf and then he fell in love with her. The werewolf tried to kill the vampire when the vampire came back, but they eventually ended up living in a tenuous peace, even after the girl and the vampire got married and the girl turned into a vampire after getting pregnant and the werewolf fell in love with the vampire girl-child she birthed.”

OR I could just say, “It’s 3,000 pages of how if you have sex before marriage, no matter how much you want it, a vampire will kill you. And even if you do wait until marriage, a vampire will kill you from the inside out. Here, take a condom.”

#5 : Justin Bieber

“Momma, why does that girl have a boy name?”

“What do you mean, honey? That’s Ellen Degene–oh, wait. Yeah, I don’t know why that girl has a boy name.”

The problem arose, however, when Proctor & Gamble decided that they had to get into the Olympics ad mix by putting out a fresh batch of “Thank You, Mom” TV ads.

You guys. I can’t.

My sick, sick relationship with these ads started right around the time the Bean was born last year. Of course, everyone knows what a damn hormonal mess you are in the days and weeks after birth, and this goddamn ad didn’t help matters any (Watch at your own risk. You’ve been warned):

The eyes start to get teary right around the 0:38 mark, when Molly Hinka’s mom goes (damn her), “I never saw the things my child couldn’t do.” And then, a mere ten seconds later, right as the music lullabies you into a false sense of emotional stability, AND WITHOUT ENOUGH TIME TO COMPOSE YOURSELF FROM THE PREVIOUS ONSLAUGHT, she takes your heart and CRUSHES IT with her “…I only saw what she could,” as she lifts up baby Molly.

JESUS CHRIST. I can’t even write about it without crying.

DAMN YOU, MOLLY HINKA’S MOM. DAMN YOU TO HELL.

So, here I was. Like a lamb to the slaughter, unknowing of my fate. I thought I was safe from Thank You, Mom ads. No more unsuspecting tugs of the heartstrings, no more trying to hide my tears from Dada as a P&G ad suddenly blasted on the TV in the middle of a M*A*S*H rerun (“I gotta pee, ‘scuse me,” muttered hastily as I ran to the bathroom to bawl silently for 30 seconds).

And then the Olympics happened.

This is me the first time I watched this:

0:04 – OMG is that a P&G Thank you, Mom ad? OMG. NO.
0:15 – OMG that little girl looks like the Bean, but with blonde hair. OMG. NO.
0:25 – Ew, who eats baked beans on toast for breakfast?
0:35 – Ah, the music is soaring. AAH. AAAH. Eyes start stinging.
0:54 – OMG the little girl that looks like the Bean. OMG. Eyes start tearing up.
1:12 – Oh, they made it to the Olympics! Eyes completely teared up.
1:32 – Little girl that looks like Bean just went up to hug her mother. OMG.
1:33 – At the Olympics. OMG.
1:34 – Bean-wannabe mother can barely keep it together. OMG.
1:35 – Tears falling freely now. Hiding face from Dada.
1:47 – Brazilian mom and volleyball Brazilian kid hold faces. OMG.
1:51 – “The hardest job in the world…
1:52 – “…is the best job in the world.”
1:53 – FUCKING BAWLING NOW.
1:54 – Dada looks at me weird and asks me if I’m okay.
1:55 – Shoot him a dirty look.
1:56 – He would never understand.
1:57 – BAWLING.
1:58 - BAWLING.
1:59 - BAWLING.
2:00 - BAWLING.
2:01 - BAWLING.
2:02 - BAWLING.

Fuck P&G. FUCK THEM.

But at least it’s not the Fancy Feast commercial I cried to like an asshole when I was pregnant.

Yeah, I don’t know why, either.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go turn into a giant gland and weep.