Party Hard

I grew up in Maplewood, Missouri, which is a small township that runs right up to the line of the Saint Louis city limits.  It’s an odd place full of odd people.  Any of my friends who are reading this who also grew up in Maplewood can relate to its oddity.  Heck, if you’ve even driven through Maplewood you can relate.  On one side of Maplewood, the closest to the city, there's a few government assisted apartments which serve as halfway houses for some very interesting people recently released from some very interesting places.  On the other side of Maplewood there are these huge three story houses with wrap around porches and picture perfect yards.  And smack dab in the middle of Maplewood is a bus loop where the Albino couple hangs out, along with the people who talk to themselves.  My family was poor. We didn’t live in government housing, but we weren’t in the "good" part of Maplewood either.  We lived where most of my friends lived, in the long rows of working class, Norman Lear types of houses.  Now lately, Maplewood has been gentrified and is (at least, for me) an awkwardly hip place to be.  As soon as I left it became a hotbed of culture; music venues, boutiques, salons and trendy restaurants.  I feel a bit lost when I drive through it to visit my hairstylist in one of those trendy salons.  I don't see the bus loop or the Albino couple anymore.  My mom will be selling her house soon, but even her run down house is probably going to be too expensive for her to ever buy back.  Property value is a tricky thing.

I digress.  My point is that we were poor.  Most of my clothes were hand me downs from my siblings or from the Goodwill, or if we had a bit of extra money, from K-Mart or Wal-Mart.  Soda was a luxury growing up and was usually gone by the end of the night on which it was purchased.  Same story with Saturday morning cereal.  I am the youngest of four and we devoured right away anything that seemed to be a novelty in my house.  We always bought the generic version of toilet paper, cereal, kool aid, soda and laundry detergent.  And yes, with four kids we ran out of toilet paper a lot.  I’m not ashamed to say that when I couldn’t find a roll of the sandpaper that passed as toilet paper in our house I used a generic paper towel to wipe my butt.  I’m not proud.  

Things like Tupperware, Party Lite Candles, and Thirty One handbags were never budgeted into the equation.  My mom was not a "home party” kind of mom.  I see all of you women out there nodding your head.  You know where I’m going with this.

When I got married and moved to the county, the real county, my life changed in so many ways.  My husband had a great job, I had a decent job, and we were pulling in some good money.  We had a beautiful home and I had carefully picked out every piece of furniture and décor from places like Pier 1 Imports and World Market.  We did things like eat out a lot, go on vacations to Mexico and spend Friday nights at Bed Bath and Beyond.  On one of our first nights of being married I told him this rule: we will never, ever buy generic toilet paper or kool aid.  Those two things somehow stood out to be the worst of the worst of my childhood. 

After a while of living this luxuriously I started getting invited to these bizarre things called Home Parties.  It’s a phenomenon of extravagance among suburban women, and your rite of passage into middle class wife-dom. Let me warn you, if you get invited to one of these things, you will get invited to, like, a thousand of them.  My husband’s family is Italian and Catholic so I am probably attending one of these things a week.  Once you become a mom and meet other moms you start getting invited to all of their parties too.  And you will, just as I have, get suckered into actually throwing your own Home Party.  You will be buying and selling out of the comfort of your own home everything including but not limited to: jewelry, purses, makeup, kitchen décor, kids’ toys, Tupperware, cooking utensils, vitamins, even sex toys.  My favorite among the expensive and banal items sold at these things are candles.  I love candles.  I have to admit when I attend any Home candle party, I go freaking nuts.  I’ve even had my very own candle party.  Five people showed up.

Ever since I’ve been living in suburbia I’ve been trying to reconcile the poverty of my childhood with the middle-class comfort of my adulthood.  These parties are the archetype of how far I’m removed from my old life.  I think being able to afford anything at any of these parties is an embarrassment of riches.  But I am not a classist, or a snob.  I don’t think attending or throwing these parties is wrong.  I attend them all the time and like I said, I hosted one and I probably will again.  I’ve bought everything you can think of.  I love my friends, they are good people.  So I am allowed to say that I think most people who attend these parties feel obligated to do so because someone came to their party or it would hurt so and so’s feelings.  I also think that’s how people end up hosting these things.  I’ve known very few hostesses at these parties who actually wanted to have the party.  They are always either having it because someone else could benefit from it or so they could get that one cool item for half off.  Seriously.  That’s why I had mine. 

Before I wrap up I want to share a fantasy of mine.  Just once, I’d like to be invited to a Home Party where every one who attends gets totally wasted on secretly spiked punch.  Because personally speaking, I will buy so much more stuff if you get me drunk, even more if I feel guilty the next day about trashing your house.  Everyone I can think of who would attend one of these things probably needs a nice break from their ordinary lives and could really stand to cut loose.  I envision aunts, sisters, friends, pastor’s wives hanging from the chandeliers screaming “Give me one of everything!”  “Customize that wallet with my monogram!” “Spend sixty dollars and get two tea lights free?  That’s the BEST deal I’ve ever heard of!”  That is worth the price of admission right there baby.  Then we won’t feel so guilty about spending all of this money on things we will never, ever need this much.  Instead, we will feel bad about puking on your front lawn.

I’m kidding of course.  Or am I?  Let this be a warning to you, circle of friends.  Next time you are invited to my Party Lite party you better put the kids to bed early and have a strong stomach.  Because we are not going to Party Lite.  We are going to Party Hard.