Six parties in hell

by tess



Nobody would mistake The Hubs and me as preferred party guests. I should amend that – although I’ve never been even vaguely congenial, I’m quite sure that he was once party animal non plus ultra. But fifteen years of constant exposure to my APG (anti-party gene) infected him, so now he, too, is defective at social functions.

The first party I remember attending is my own fourth birthday bash. I got the chicken pox, or mumps, or measles, or some hideous childhood disease that made my very grumpy little face look all blotchy and sad beneath my little cardboard party hat. I know this because the hideous illness didn’t stop my mother from photographing the “celebration.” So picture it: one pathetic little blonde girl all alone having a sad little birthday wearing a crappy little hat.

Amazingly, it went downhill from there. I attended my first boy-girl party with the older brother of a dear friend. The mercy date began as a disaster since he’d clearly been forced at gunpoint to go out with his little sister’s friend. As seventh grade parties are wont to do, it turned into a make-out binge for everyone but me. Even my date got in on the action, but not with me. By the end of the evening not only had I lost the boy, but also my friendship with his sister. My young psyche heard the death knell of my social life loud and clear.

Fast forward to college. Parties where everyone seems inexplicably to know one another. Parties where everyone else is doing drugs I’d never even heard of. Parties where fraternity boys mack on sorority girls. And this weird blonde chick in the corner trying to look like she belongs. Lonely, desperate, and clueless about how to insert myself into the general mayhem, that cheerless little party hat would have completed the look.

Long ago and far away, The Hubs and I were invited to a Halloween party given by a co-worker. Fran and I weren’t exactly friends but we lived nearby and her table seated 8, so she invited us. Important safety tip: Don’t show up at a Halloween party without dressing up. You might look like a dolt in costume, but you really feel like an idiot without one. The high point of the evening was when The Hubs managed to spill half a glass of red wine on the white carpet in front of everyone and then pretended he didn’t do it. Wait, no. The high point was leaving. Fran had these pumpkin lights set in the snow along the sidewalk. It might have been wine-related but somehow these little pumpkins seemed to leap out of the snow and dance into the pathway beneath our boots. We honestly didn’t mean to kick them, but they finished their lives as collateral damage of an already deeply fractured evening.

Sam, unaware of the shattered pumpkins in the snow, invited us to a dinner party. All four couples were new to the area and the guys were still reveling in the halcyon days of new jobs in a bright and shiny cutting-edge department, convivial with a hint of competitive sneaking out at the seams. Newly divorced from his first family, Sam introduced us to his Russian mail-order bride, Olga, who was clearly 30 years younger than her new husband. At no time during the evening did Olga consider rising from her throne to greet the guests, to offer drinks, to collect empties, to assist with dinner, to serve dinner, to clear dinner, or to bid farewell to us. I wondered if she might be disabled but then remembered that Princess Olga insisted on Sam taking her to South Beach every weekend. She desperately wanted to see and be seen by the SoBe glitterati. Having broken bread with pathetic and deluded Sam and the Pwitty Pwincess Olga, I can tell you exactly how she maintains her 94-pound fighting weight: they eat dreck. Sam served salad, a heinous collection of ancient lettuce and unknown fruit elements swimming in a cloyingly sweet dressing. Our scrumptious repast was completed by thoroughly inedible tofu-veggie lasagna covered in faux-ketchup and soy cheese. Happily he hadn’t bothered to prepare a dessert; choruses of Hallelujah whispered throughout the house. All four couples smiled happily and laughed engagingly. The Hubs didn’t spill any wine or say anything any more outrageous than usual. We all air-kissed our goodbyes swearing to reconvene very, very soon. Clearly six years isn’t long enough to expunge the horrible memories. We have yet to hear from anyone at that table.

Another neighborhood, another party. Devoted Wife asked us to attend the surprise 40th birthday party she was throwing for Loving Husband. We lived next door so they could see our trucks in the driveway. There was no way out. We had mistakenly anticipated something vaguely more upscale than folding tables and warm Pabst Blue Ribbon, and dressed accordingly. Most of the guests were Loving Husband’s co-workers; bad memories of frat parties past danced in my head. Apparently fearing blue-collar reprisal, The Hubs managed to keep his insults minimal. He only once referred to a woman as “beastly” at the top of his lungs while managing to share that she clearly didn’t wear make up often enough to know how to trowel it on properly. [Side note: The Hubs neither wears make up nor works in the fashion industry in any capacity. But to be fair, she was a bit of a beast and her make up was a disaster.] And then it happened. Loving Husband spotted Young Stud who had no reason to attend his festive fortieth. Young Stud was clearly a special guest of Devoted Wife – special as in don’t-worry-baby-Loving-Husband-is-too-fat-and-stupid-to-know-about-our-affair. Public displays of passion belong only on soaps and in romance novels, never at surprise 40th birthday parties. Within days Devoted Wife’s car vanished. During the police door-to-door sweep we learned that a SWAT team was called responding to threats of murder and suicide. It was a surprise party alright, I’m just not sure who was most surprised. Divorce, counter-lawsuits, rehab, bankruptcy, foreclosure and another sweet tale of happily-never-after.

Forty-three years of parties and a formidable anti-party gene later, I know that I’m not fond of attending celebratory functions. Jubilant just isn’t my best thing. I’ve chosen instead to memorialize that morose little girl in the dismal little party hat, the brat who preferred to glare at the camera rather than blow out her candles or mug for her well-meaning mom. She may not be the embodiment of my best self, but she is most truly the essence of my inner party-goer.