Not only did we spend a fortune, but we cooked, we cleaned, we carved 20 goddamn pumpkins. So it is with a heavy heart that I inform you…my Halloween Party sucked.
Sucked is a strong word, as I had a great time from 10:30-12:30. And really, I didn’t mind the girl passed out on my bed. She wasn’t bothering anyone. For me, the party came to a crashing halt when I was informed that the girl passed out on my bed had peed. On my bed. Through my down comforter. All the way to my featherbed.
It went downhill from there.
In addition to a pair of newlyweds getting in an obscenity-laced screaming and shoving match, we had a guest so inebriated and obnoxious, my ever-polite roommate lost it, prompting her peaceful boyfriend to attempt to throw the drunkard out. The two of them gave up and decided to leave themselves, driving Sybil, the gigantic Latina drag queen home on their way. That left me with the domestic abuse duo and a drunk asshole. Not only that, there was pee all over my bed.
A parade of people came through my perfectly decorated doors last night, all of whom seemed to have a shitty time and few of whom I actually knew. As my earrings got repeatedly stuck to my costume, I washed what was left of my sheets, attempted to dry the spilled and staining vodka from my dead grandmother’s dining table and scraped candy corn off my rug, it suddenly occurred to me.
This is no longer fun.
I am too old for this madness, to mature for these alcoholics and too pissed-off to stay at my own hellish party. I wanted out.
I’ll admit, the thought occurred to me. I was one of the few sober enough to drive, and Rhonda the Honda sat mere feet away. I could sneak out and drive to the airport, hopping a flight to somewhere less insanely violent and upsetting, like the Sudan or Rwanda.
But how does one get a giant pair of scissors through customs?
I simply retreated to my room/toilet and waited it out.
With everyone finally gone, even my wonderful boys who stayed to make sure I wasn’t gang-raped on the sun porch or calling 911 on redial, I locked my house, crawled onto my uncovered mattress and prayed it was all a dream.
When I awoke to a beautiful vase of flowers knocked sideways on my kitchen floor, spilled wax on the hardwood and a gigantic stain covering the dining room table, I knew it’d actually happened. Zoe soon arrived back home and within an hour or so, the place was sparkling. So disgusted by the previous nights events, we got on our hands and knees and scrubbed, marveling, “Who raised these people? Have they no sense of shame? My god, she peed in my bed!”
We realized that we’d much rather spend that money and time and effort on having 10 people over for a fabulous dinner, with real wine and expensive meat. Maybe we’re getting old, but all I know is that we both had way more fun when my parents came over. What does that tell you?
There was only one thing that could make us feel the slightest bit better.
A little slice of civilization called The Nordstrom Café…