As a teen, my hostess skills ranged from zero to zilch. Entertaining my homies was simple. With no snacks or H2O in sight, we went camel toe to camel toe, the true definition of dry humping. Life skills were forged cracking a lukewarm Pil with your trusty Bic lighter. Our signature spirit was paralyzers, mass produced in the cauldron of an Igloo cooler.
Entrusted to an empty house, we’d sneak our peeps in the backdoor as our parents exited the front. The morning after was spent patching cigarette burns in our harvest gold poly-pile carpet, and hiding a water bong simmering in the sauna. All you needed was a turntable and a good dealer. Card dealer, that is.
In college, my first apartment doubled as a frat house. Entertaining had graduated to chips from a bag, and a tub of double dip. Bartles & Jaymes coolers flowed, while academics occasionally interrupted round the clock rummy.
A teal shag carpet concealed ritz cracker shrapnel, eagerly awaiting its semi-annual brush with the Electrolux. Bathroom walls were coated with hair spray….and regret. My GPA dropped so low, it had apple bottom jeans and boots with the fur.
On the cusp of responsibility, community hall parties became the place to get messy, and dance until the rhythm was gonna get you. The highlight of the night was a midnight buffet of cold cuts, cheese, pickles, and white tray buns. The holy grail of weekend warriors everywhere. We’ve learned you’re only as strong as the speakers you dance on.
Everything changed in our 40’s. The bar was raised by stay-at-home Martha’s day-drinking, and cultivating culinary creations. The crowd we hang with puts the whores in hors d’oeuvres. We can spread ‘em like the best of ‘em, but the bottom line is, friends don’t give a shit if you’re a domestic diva or not. Their fancy is tickled with chips and dip!
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