Ever been to a party that handed you so much “material” you had to stop and take notes on your phone so as not to forget the good bits? Of course you have. The difference is, most people think it and walk away. I grab a drink and get to work. If not me then who? It’s not like I can break it down play by play to my husband as the action is unfolding. He already thinks me unseemly. He’s not wrong. I live for this shit. This is why I prefer to have a woman close at hand. We are always thinking, judging and looking for eye contact with someone of like mind. I try and hold out for a full post party debrief but some situations call for an onsite intervention. Let’s start the official Post Party Debrief off with our first offender… “Spitty Girl.”
Every woman aspires to a title. “Her Ladyship, Her Royal Highness”- all acceptable. “Spitty Girl” not so much. When attending a party, I pregame with at least 2 glasses of wine prior to engaging in conversation. It increases my tolerance for anyone I may encounter. I want to like you but most likely I will not. My friends quota has been met and the waitlist is closed. My party face vibe is “No Vacancy” at all times. I bring you to the woman that dared approach me. If I’m being kind, her outfit was… horrible. A skin-tight dress with ruching and blazer that was clearly at another party bcs it did not belong with this hot mess. When she told me she got it on sale for $450 I had to slam the breaks on my inside voice via a gulp of wine. She went on to say that she has worn it several times. Well sister, it might be time to donate that bitch to someone about 3 sizes smaller mmmmkkkay. I wish the offensiveness of her attire was the worst of it. I never get out that easy. She went on to tell me all about herself. Not because I asked mind you. Apparently this line of conversation got her all excited as she sprayed me with spit as she broke verbs across her crusty lips. I wasn’t prepared to share DNA with her at this stage in our relationship or EVER. I was trapped between my/her husband and a line of spittle that was acting as a setting spray for my flawless makeup. I did the only sensible thing…I grabbed my stomach to signal “incoming” and my husband knew to clear the runway. Nothing like the threat of your wife dropping a bomb to move things along. Next up… “Meat Hooves”
I feel like parties bring out the “What not to Wear” vibe for so many. From Christmas ties to tights…it’s overwhelming. When it comes to men, I can tell right away if their wife loves or hates them. If she lets you out of the house in a Christmas tie, she’s secretly plotting your murder. Stay vigilant. Women…there’s really no excuse for stepping outside of fashion parameters. There are so many online resources out there. Imagine my horror when I was approached by a portly woman in ballet flats. Her feet looked like meat hooves screaming for the butcher. Why? It can’t be comfortable. I get the “fat equals flat” part. You can only prop so much up on a heel and expect it to hold. However comma, when said hooves have indents from said shoes, we might need to go with a more flexible option… such as Jenny Craig or Monjurno. I couldn’t stop staring at those pigs begging to be put out to pasture. I had a sudden craving for charcuterie and needed to exit stage left. Once again, I played the impending flatulence card and made my getaway.
I would be remiss in my debrief if I didn’t share some of my own dram. I have an affinity for the pantsuit. It’s a solid choice. Sexy but not overstated. Props up the ass without the whole Kardashian vibe. With the right accessories it can be a real showstopper. That is until you have to go to the bathroom. I added the pantsuit to my running list of “what were they thinking” when they made this. Such an obvious flaw. If you multiply the amount of Rose’ I drink by the size of my bladder, I spend a lot of time in the bathroom. Knowing I have to basically get naked to pee is not ideal. Most public bathrooms have those shutter type doors that allow you to monitor the progress of the bitch keeping you from relief so baring all that is me is never ideal. However, one of the ladies in waiting suggested I pull the wide leg up, pull my underdrawers to the side and aim. It seemed a bit engineery to me but I was willing to give it a try. Things did not go well. Said leg did not reach high enough to expose my lady bits. Mental note: Sign up for Yoga. I thought maybe I could pull off some sort of modified version of the plan but….no. MOST of the contents of my bladder ended up in the toilet. The rest…well they hit the floor, the toilet seat and most likely the wall, my legs, my pantsuit and anything else in the immediate area. My husband says he’s never seen anyone pee with such velocity. Clearly he’s jelly. In this case, my hidden talent did not serve me. You don’t come back from this. You simply wipe and walk away. That’s all that can be done. I’ll take Golden Shower Queen over Meat Feet and Spitter any day.
This formally ends my debrief. Until next time ladies…