I can’t remember the last time I was invited to a chick-party I wasn’t expected to bring my chequebook to. You reach an age, when you’re a woman, when the hostess is hawking something at every function you go to.
Scrapbooking parties. Kitchen-ware parties. Candle parties.
Good good [read: expensive] times.
I’ve spent $100 on a candle sconce that looks pretty nice in the foyer, but I’ve never experienced the fun of having to leave the craps table to drain my Mastercard because I ran out of cash.
The biggest gamble I’ve ever taken while partying is hoping that the pretty bra would keep my boob from popping out as well as the ugly bra. I’ve rolled the dice on some turquoise lace, but it’s never cost me my rent for the month.
The worst of the girly-shindigs are the sex toy parties. Maybe I’m a jerk, or maybe I’ve just not been in the right relationship, I dunno … but I think I’d die of embarrassment, coming home from one of those evenings and saying, “Honey, I’m hoooooooome…. An’ I only spent $87 bucks an’ I got this peacock feather an' this wee jar of honey dust.”
And that’s the tame stuff. If I ever get desperate enough to shop for one of those other things, I’ll do it on-line, like all the other shy people, thank you very much .
I will not be checking one out on the inside of my elbow with a bunch of PTA moms sitting around giggling (they say with me), so later they can whisper,
“Did you see that huge thing she bought?”
“Well, she does have 3 kids, y’know….”
"Yeah, but two of them are step-children."
Besides, if I really want to feel lonely and unloved after sex, there’s an ex-boyfriend or two I could call. Whether I'm in a relationship or not … I'm certainly not gonna celebrate my dissatisfaction in front of a bunch of other moms for the low low price of $100 .. then pretend it's the party of the century.
Seriously? If I was married?
I'd want to hide my husband away forever after that, so they wouldn't all stare at him standing on the soccer field, wondering how freaky-deaky he gets ...
Boys don’t buy those things at parties. If they pass out too early, they do, however, wake up with one tucked into the back of their boxers.
Boys party smarter than girls, completely without planning. Girls plot for months, then spend a few hundred bucks on a limo. Boys have no clue what they’re doing until the last minute, but still manage to get the tickets to the box at the Raptors game for free from their bosses. Girls come home with both their eyebrows. Girls never have a court date two months later. When a girl comes home with a tattoo, it’s a teeny-tiny rose somewhere inconspicuous. A boy will come home with a rabid arctic wolf bursting from his rib-cage.
Boys don’t cry when they party too hard, boys bleed and brag about it for months. Their drinks are harder, their injuries more interesting and their strippers are dirtier.
Maybe I need to be friends with more boys. I’d come home broke and broken, but I’d have more fun flinging my money away.
Now?
Well, I could shove a 20 in someone’s g-string, but I don’t think Carol from Pampered Chef would appreciate it. She seems like a knickers kinda chick anyhow.
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