Party on.

So I went to this jewelry party last night. Effing pyramid schemes, I swear. At this time, I want to make a plea to all of the world’s women – do not let corporate America use you and your friendships to hawk their overpriced wares. Don’t serve up your friends, who only came to your house to see your new dining room set and rifle through your medicine cabinet. Don’t tear babies from their mommas, who’ve spent all day at the office playing Free Cell and want nothing more than to put on their elastic pants, cuddle with the kids and watch “Big Brother.” Men don’t do this to each other. Why do we?

Serve up all the soft drinks and cocktail weenies that you like – it doesn’t make it right. I mean, what is it about getting older that means every party that you are invited to involves shipping and handling? Somewhere along the line, y’all forgot what a party is. Guns-N-Roses, ice cold keg beer, camp fire, peeing in the weeds, screwing in the weeds – that’s a party. This is merely an ass-fucking charading as a party.

All night, the hostess kept telling us, “If you have a party, you can get four pieces of jewelry for $10 a piece!” I’m sure this little incentive worked on some, but it just pissed me off. It means that right now, I am paying three times as much as I should for some stupid necklace that, in a bid for sweet freedom, will break off my sweaty neck and fall into a storm drain the first day I wear it.

I am such an alien, I thought to myself. These other women, they are enjoying this. They’re being social, acting like real women who care about the eating habits of someone else’s three year-old. They’re not all quiet and off on their own, awkwardly pawing jewelry and sidling up to conversations that do not pertain to them. They don’t talk at precisely the wrong second, allowing someone else to talk over them, thus nullifying their comments and ensuring their status as “the slow woman in the corner with barbeque sauce on her shirt.”

Fuck, as if being at a jewelry party wasn’t bad enough, now it seems I’ve been transported back to junior high. Good thing I’ll have a pair of $30 earrings to commemorate the event. For this price, I should hope that they’d engrave them with my graduation year and school mascot.

The dreaded mix tape.

In our desperate bid to purge our home of all things we’d rather not pack for the move, untitledhusband discovered a crate full of old cassette tapes in our garage. Nestled in between the Martika tape that  he had cracked over his brother’s head and the Bell  Biv Devoe (Oh NOOOO!) tape that made a most excellent ice scraper at one time  was this  curious specimen — a mix tape I had Frankensteined together during my freshman year of college. I can tell it was my freshman year, because any year past that would NOT have included anything by Meatloaf.Was my taste in music ever this unevolved? I’d like to think I came out of the womb channeling Ryan Adams or Wilco. I’d also like to to think that if Peabo Bryson had any plums, he would’ve lifted himself up off of track 12 to kick the shit out of track 13. Not to be outdone, Diana Ross would’ve used one of her false eyelashes as a machete, holding all the others hostage until they could sing Please Mr. Postman in perfect falsetto. That’s right, bitches. Ms. Ross don’t play. And she certainly doesn’t take up residence with the likes of REO Speedwagon.I don’t remember any one incident that inspired this creation. I just recall that guys were never that interested in me — not in high school, and not in college. They always liked my friends, blind mutherfux that they were. This was proof enough for me that yes, I would be single forever, and that all guys WERE assholes. Cause if a guy really is an asshole, there’s nothing like spending an entire Saturday afternoon creating a musical homage in his honor, and then listening to it every day for six months.

Mix Tape: Guys Are Assholes