party

Utah. Invitation to a party--a BBQ. Maybe thirty people shuffle in and out over the course of several hours. The living room, kitchen, and deck (and sometimes garage and bedrooms) are filled with happy, chatting people, circulating in and out, greeting and laughing. I know hardly anyone here, but after a shot or two of tequila, I strike up some friendships and talk like we are high school buddies. A counter top is crammed with bottles of liquor and sodas to mix it with. The fridge is full of six-packs of local brews, Polygamy Porter, and Captain Bastard's Oatmeal Stout. The table groans under the weight of fruit soaked in port and other treats, both sweet and savory. I discover my love for brie and bagette. Loud music plays for a while, and some guests dance happily, if a little unsteadily, to the beat. The living room becomes a make-out zone, and I laugh, and stick to the kitchen. I enjoy the commotion and the conversation while my drinks wear off, and I drive home sometime after midnight.


California. Invitation to a party--a game night. Five or six couples, some board games, pink lemonade, three types of chocolate chip cookies, angel food cake, and brownies. I don't know anyone here, and the host forgets to introduce me. Chit chat about children and days gone past. In a game listing famous people, everyone knows who John McCain is, but no one knows Michael Moore. In a game of charades, when I pull thumb and forefinger to my mouth and puff deeply, no one guesses weed. Someone mentions the gathering to Missouri, only half-jokingly. "Don't we believe that?" I've had enough, so I pipe in, "Not if you're Mitt Romney. He denies it." People laugh. But I'm not entirely sure they know what the hell I'm referring to.

We drive home and compare notes on how painful we found the party. I think he wins, since, even though he knew at least half the people there, I'd had a shot of vodka before coming.