If you're not in your 30's then,
go fuck yourself you're lucky. Not only is being in your 30's a time to discover unsightly hair growing on your chin and breasts, scream crying in your pillow because life is shit, it's also a time for a plethora of dinner parties. Fun...If you're married or dying. Just kidding. Not really. Actually, I enjoy dinner parties. Especially the ones that are all couples! AND I really enjoy the couples that are into PDA and baby-talking to one another. (If you don't know what PDA is, it stands for: PUBLICLY DICK-ISH AFFECTION.) Even better. Pffft, who doesn't want to see a real life porn at the dinner table? SIGN ME UP.
I always show up to dinner parties with
a little meth in my pocket a fear that the host will cook a beautiful meal, and ruin it by putting peas in it. I hate, hate, hate, peas. The last time I ate peas, was when I was 10. My dad wouldn't let me leave the table until I finished my peas, even though I thought I had successfully spread them around my plate enough to make it look like I'd eaten most of them. I remember sitting at the table, glaring down at those evil tiny green balls, and hoping somehow my plate would catch fire or the roof would collapse, then I'd be done with the Prisoner of War exercise my dad was leading.
Now every child knows that look you get from a parent, that does not need words to describe how much shit you're in-you just know it. It's in their eyes. And it's an eery fucking silence. I'd say it's similar to the silence on most of my dates. Sorry, I'm getting off topic. Wait, is there a seminar or secret underground information session that soon-to-be parents take, on how to look demonically possessed when your child is being a little shit? Just curious.
Anyway, back to my refugee camp story. Eventually I broke down, as I couldn't stand the silence, and jammed a fork full of peas in my mouth with tears streaming down my face. I remember chewing as the goosebumps traveled throughout my body. And then, being the little genius I am, I vomited right into the centre of my plate. Take that, Dad. I believe my Oscar worthy performance in my battle to end peas, was followed by some curse words from the adults at the table, but because I'm a lady, I won't fucking share them with you. Since that night, and seeing the wonders that my vomiting trick produced, I've been proudly vomiting around town for the past 25 years to get myself out of awkward conversations and parking tickets.
Whoa. I did not mean to write about peas, I personally don't think they are worth my brain power, or the written word, but this blog is about expressing myself and seizing my demons, so to speak.
So back to dinner parties. I've decided that the next dinner party I go to, I'm bringing a lucky guest-my vibrator. Why not? People bring their boyfriends and spouses. Why can't I bring my dick? It's like we're married. We don't talk and we use each other for sex. And by vibrator doesn't act like a little bitch when I tell him I'm too hot to cuddle and to please get the hell away from me, so he deserves to be wined and dined now and again.
Truthfully, I think my main problem at dinner parties is not so much the party itself, it's dealing with my hangover the next day. You're probably wondering why I would be so hungover, but if you have to ask, you probably don't know me as well as you thought. I ALWAYS drink the majority of wine at the table. Partly because I'm so super shy and need help coming out of my shell and the other half of me has been a hot mess since birth, so it's kind of expected. I will say, the best part about being single and flying solo at a dinner party, is that the host usually takes pity on me and sends me home with a bag full of leftovers. (Which I typically eat in the cab home or in my bed at 1am while I watch infomercials about obese people getting skinny from doing a months worth of Hip Hop Abs... AND NOT EATING. People in informercials have to be the saddest people on the planet. I imagine a lot of their lives are spent listening to Adele and eating powdered donuts in dimly lit rooms.) Anyway, even if I get pity leftovers, I'll take'em! Fuck married people. They can afford groceries and they stay in on Friday nights, drink expensive wine, cook together and talk about how much they love being in love and how much they love their groceries.
So next time you want to invite me to your dinner party. Remember to stock up on wine (it can be the cheap kind...by bottle 3, everything tastes like heaven) and please cook sans peas and be sure to set the table for my battery operated boyfriend.