Party. A magical word for a child. It is a word that inspires thoughts of cake, ice cream, game and goody bags. As a teenager party meant sneaking beer and liquor from mom and dad, danger, excitement and the thrill of social belonging. Thankfully, at least as far as my parents are concerned, I went from cake and cartoon décor to grown up parties. All liquor was legal.
I grew up watching classic movies where adults wore fancy clothes to parties, champagne flowed like water and Cary Grant swept some lucky girl off her feet. The grown up parties I’ve attended as an adult left a lot to be desired. These parties involved wine coolers, food storage, sex toys and disappointment.
Two years out of college I finally received by first invitation to a grown up party. While my coworker extended the verbal invitation I fantasized about the black cocktail dress I finally had an excuse to buy. “Yes, it’s a purse party!” Wait, what? Purse? My dreams of meeting Mr. Tall, Dark & Handsome by the punchbowl vanished. I rallied, I can do purses. Accessories are fun. Every year I take out my Coach bag and admire the supple leather. Then I quickly wrap it up and put it away. It’s like your great aunt’s living room couch, just for looking not for using.
The following Saturday I dutifully arrived with a tray of homemade straight from a box mix cupcakes. I was ready to peruse faux Coaches and Prada knockoffs. Nope. No cows were harmed in the making of these bags. I was surrounded by stiff, neon animal print plastic with chrome doo-dads. I couldn’t even pass one of these off as a high end Target bag. But at least there was rum. Rum lowers my sales resistance and I left, slightly tipsy, clutching an empty cupcake tray and a plastic bronze alligator satchel. There was a lot of rum, because I was convinced to host my own purse party two months later. Three more plastic bags joined “the gator” in the back of my closet. My final purse party was held at the home of my boss. And when your boss invites you to a party, you go. This time I hid with a coworker in the kitchen downing shots of vodka. I bought a blown glass wine stopper.
Next up in my parting adventures were the Tupperware parties. Now that was something I could get into. I love boxes and storage and all things organization. The thought of organizing my entire life into matching color coded, plastic containers left me breathless with excitement. However, the price of such glorious organization made my checkbook and Visa run for cover. But I still got to demonstrate the manual shopper and receive my complementary citrus peeler. I did breakdown on my way out the door and order the can opener. Best party purchase ever!
The most recent party I graced with my presence was a Pampered Chef party; excuse me, “show.” It isn’t a “party” it’s a “show.” My childhood friend had just moved into her townhouse and wanted to have a housewarming party. The more merchandise her guests bought the more fee stuff she could jam in her new kitchen. This time I came prepared. I forced my mother to make a list of things she wanted from the online catalog. I was able to add her five moderately priced items to my paltry list of an ice cream scoop and pizza cutter.
There was even going to be a cake demonstration at the show, and not just any cake, a s’more cake. A cake filled with chocolaty and marshmallow goodness. I would happily give up my Saturday afternoon and hang out with complete strangers if there would be cake. After sitting through three dip demonstrations the cake part of the show began. It smelled like heaven. Ding! The microwave finished its job and the glorious slices of cake were being given to the waiting guests. I watched, drooling as the hostess handed out the deliciousness to each woman. Success! The gal on my left received her piece, the hostess returned to the kitchen for more slices. My turn was next! I saw the looks of rapture on the other women’s faces and hear the happy chewing and moans of delight. At last, the hostess returned with two more plates. I reached up to relieve her of her sacred burden. She handed a plate to the woman waiting on my right. Okay, so she went out of order, no big deal. My hostess then went to join her guests on the couch and enjoy the fruit of her labor. I was left cakeless, and utterly alone in my despair. I hoisted my big girl panties and went to the kitchen to get my own damn cake. There were no more plates. My eyelid began to twitch. So like any reasonable grown woman would do, I scraped the remnants of the cake from the pan onto a napkin and dug in. Totally worth the effort.
The pinnacle of my party going career was the coed sex toy party. Yup, coed. I had heard of these being held as bachelorette parties, but never coed. My perpetually single self, my favorite gay gentleman, a bisexual couple and three hetero couples made the exclusive guest list for the sinful soirée. All the vodka in Russia couldn’t have made me less uncomfortable. I’m am awkward when meeting new people and am a bit of a prude. My face was red the entire time. Nothing says “Hi! Nice to meet you!” like passing around a ten inch, baby pink, bendable dong that would look more at home on a barnyard animal than in a housewife’s boudoir.
My mother taught me that a good guest always buys something at these parties. But mama never expected me to attend a shindig like this. I had no need for gun oil or a cock-a-doodle dong. When all was almost lost, there it was, my shining beacon of prudish hope in a sea of debauchery; “Pure Instinct,” the sex attractant cologne. A gender neutral fragrance designed to elevate confidence in the wearer and attract potential mates. Four years and half the bottle later I have two cats. Thus far. But I was able to leave the party fulfilling my duty as a polite guest and keep some of my dignity intact.
grownuphood 