Wednesday, February 11, 2009

Where The Party At?

At sixteen years old I had one thing on my mind and one thing only.


Did I ever party? Hell no. But that's doesn't change the fact that that's all I could think about. Boys? Psshhh.
boys? Psshhh. Boys with cars? Maybe. But aside from boys "with cars" (Cute boys with cars was just too good to be true.), I had the party thing goin' on in my head. Like a song. A song you only know ONE freaking lyric to and you just keep reciting that lyric over and over in your head. And you're like, "I have a song stuck in my head!" when really it's much worse. It's, "I have a sentence stuck in my head!" Sure, it has a catchy tune, but it's still just a sentence, possibly even a sentence fragment. NOT a good feeling. So, I had something like that stuck in my head, except it wasn't a song, just a question. "WHERE'S THE PARTY AT?" That's all I could think about. It made me very antisocial.

"Yeah, so he said he loved me, but like, he's not
calling and I've left him messages and I texted him a few times, and that was after leaving him several messages and I don't know what's wrong with him, what do you think, Natasha?"

Where's the party at? That's what I'm thinking.

"I mean, do you think I should just give him space, or like, call him from another phone to see if he answers, or talk to his friends..."


"Or like, should I hit on his friend and then maybe they'll casually mention it to him ad he'll get jealous and call me..."

"Maybe he didn't call you back because he was at a party."

"Maybe...I don't think he really parties though."

"Maybe he heard
of a party and so he was calling people to find out the deets and so he couldn't answer his phone."

"Well the thing is he's not much a a "partyER" so..."

"Who isn't a partyer? We're sixteen, aren't we? Aren't we
supposed to be partying? Isn't that what sixteen year olds DO?"

"Well I'm fifteen."

he could be sixteen, and in that case I mean, DUH, he's partying."

"Aren't you sixteen?"


"How many parties have you been to?"

"What kind of questions IS that? I'm SIXTEEN, for crying out loud!"

This is a common tactic used among homosepians called, "avoiding the question."

"Oh, so you've been to a lot?"

"I'm sixteen, aren't I?"

This is also a common tactic used by homosepians called, "answering a question with a question so you don't really have to answer the question."

"Yeah. So you party like every weekend?"

"Hell yes, I do!"

And yet another tactic frequently used that is most often called, "lying your ass off."

So, truth was, I didn't go to any parties. I didn't hear of any parties. All I heard were the stories on Monday morning of how AWESOME and how CRAZY and how "FUCKED UP, MAN" people's weekend had been. (At the parties.) Was I not elligible for a good 'getting fucked up' session? I would hear about who had hooked up with who. (At the parties.) Was I not fit for some good random fellatio with total strangers? Or better yet, guys who went to my school who I never talked to so I could come back and have countless awkward silences with them? I would hear about who saw who, who ran into who, who drank with who, AND I WANTED IN, DAMNIT. It wasn't until February that I thought I had gotten that chance.

My best friend, (BFF, girl! Turned out to be 'BFFN' friend FOR NOW. Heard that in a movie, thought it was very honest and so I liked it.) So my BFF at the time had a birthday coming up. What do people do on birthdays? That's right, baby. THEY PARTY. After weeks and weeks of planning, we were ready. I, having done none of the work to prepare whatsoever, had no idea what was in store. But oh, did I have my thoughts. BIG mansion, TONS of alcohol, LOADS of people, SEXY fellas, sexy while at the same time NICE AND CARING fellas, (what? nice and caring fellas don't party?), DANCING, MUSIC, DANCING
TO THE MUSIC, all of it. You name it, I imagined it. The time...had come.


I should have paid attention to the warning signs. The signs that were so blatantly obvious that I couldn't see them. The signs that blinded me with their blatanty making it impossible to recognize them. But I was sixteen, and like I said, I was ready to party. That's what happens when you want to party. You get wrapped up in it, man. Like a drug. All I could think was, "BITCH I

Warning Sign #1
I pull up in my car. (Actually it was my dad's car, being that I was sixteen and did not have a car of my own yet and therefore rocked the shimmery beige Buick LaSabre that I now miss since I never got pulled over in that thing because only 90 year old men drive those things and who's going to give a 90 year old man a ticket? Who's going to even try and
communicate with a 90 tear old man?) (Besides Anna Nicole, that is.) (Yes, that was uncalled for because she is dead and yes, you read correctly. BUICK. LASABRE.) So I pull up in my beige "boat" that people used to refer to it as, and a 50 year old man with white chops speed walks over and taps on my window.

Since I had never been to a party, I did not know at the time they they usually had middle-aged men as crossing guards. How clever!


Since I had never been to a party before, I did not know at the time that the crossing guards extended all of the vowels in their words at a heightened volume right in your face. Party tradition, I guess!

Warning Sign #2
The door was locked. So I rang the door bell.

Do people usually answer the doors at parties?

"Why, hello! You must be NATASHA!"
Do 50 year old women in velvet track suits usually answer the door at parties?

"Yep, that'!"

"Come IN, come
IN! Just head on over to that table and Dot will help you!"
Finally, some ALCOHOL!

Warning Sign #3
Do people usually keep the kegs hidden? Duh! So cops don't see! I am such a party pansy.

"Here you go, little darlin'!"
Dot hands me a permanent marker...oh wait, DUH. To write my name on my cup, I'm sure!

"And here's this!"
Dot hands me...a name tag?

"Write your name on this name tag and stick it right on your bosom there, honey. That way folks here know who ya are!"
After poking my bosom with a permanent marker of her own, Dot shuffles over to some stoned little mother fuckers who have probably done more drugs than centimeters her boobs have sagged and hands them a name tag. You know those times when you're embarassed for someone else? That was not this time. I was embarrassed for MYSELF.

Warning Sign #4
I walk into the kitchen. One, two, three, four, five, six, SEVEN adults stand there, clutching their booze. At least I get to drink! I head over to what looks to be "the bar."

"Ah Ah Ah! Miss...
Damn this name tag.

"I don't think you're 21, little missy!"
I don't think you are either, ya old fart.

"But we have something special for YOU!"
If he gives me a fucking goody bag...

Man I wish it was a goody bag.

Warning Sign #5, a.k.a. The Last Straw
"Who wants to dance?"
Music blasts on. Rap. Typical. But hey, it's a party, isn't it? People start dancing, grinding even! and I start to get excited for the first time that night. I rip off my name tag (it's good to start small), and start to head over to the dance floor. Time to PARRRRTAY!

Music cuts off. Everyone stops. Ol' Mr. Rogers lookin' ass is standin' there holding the iPod.

"Too loud, guys. Come on now, you all know better than that."

So I leave. Yeah, I left my best friend's birthday party, without even saying goodbye. Or thank you. Or picking up the name tag I had tossed to the "dance" floor. (More like "FANCE" floor. FUCK. ALL. NAME TAG. CARRYING. ELDERS. FANCE.) That was one of the lamest things I have done. But you know what? That was THE lamest party I had ever been to so I think that must give me SOME kind of leeway. I guess what I took from that experience was that I had been asking the wrong question all along. You don't ask, "Where the party at?' What you need to be asking is, "Where the party at and WILL THERE BE FUCKING NAME TAGS BECAUSE IF SO THEN I'M NOT GOIN." With that advice, all you 16 year olds of the world, go party.

1 comment:

julieta...not such a niƱa? said...

" "WHERE'S THE PARTY AT?" That's all I could think about. It made me very antisocial. " that's ironic. you should have a prominent syndicated newspaper column or something.