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.

social lubricant

Since I'm on a word of wisdom-busting kick, might as well continue.

One great thing about alcohol, for me, is its value as a social lubricant. Sure, it's fun to cook with, a glass of wine with dinner makes it more satisfying, and I finally feel like a grown-up. But the fact that alcohol loosens me up, drops that awkward shyness I have around people I don't know well, and lets me just talk and have fun--that is magic.

I can't count the number of dinner parties I suffered through, having declined any wine as good Mormon girls do. But with that wine glass in hand, that faint rush to my brain that subtly asks, "Who gives a damn?" I can converse, debate, joke, and chill with the rest of them. At the very least, we can talk about the wine and at what point I realized I, or they, had a little too much. Because by then, it's just funny. And even if I recognize how stupid I'm being, I just can't care.

Take last night, for example. Our good friends invited us to go out to a club. We've known this couple for years, and always have fun with them. And they also invited several people from their respective jobs, people I didn't know at all. The group ended up being eight, which caused me a little trepidation. But I heartily sipped two shots of black cherry vodka (liquid candy with a kick), gulped a shot of Canadian whiskey to loosen up. And that was before we left for the club. By the time we got there, I was chatting away with my friends' friends like we'd known each other since high school. I had one more drink, enjoyed the buzz for hours, danced, and had a great time. Didn't get in until 2:30am. And for a woman with a 4-year old, that's something.

going out

Last weekend, my husband and I, along with another exmo couple, got all gussied up and went out for a night of drinking and gambling. Well, it was only sort of gambling, because gambling is illegal in my state, so it was really a fund raising event and we weren't playing with real money. Which made it really fun to put down a $1000 chip and not really worry about that fact that I just lost $100 and $200 chips in the last five rounds, and perhaps I shouldn't be risking so much with my poor luck at black jack.

In the end, I had doubled my money, and discovered I wasn't so bad at black jack. But I was terrible at craps, and was too drunk to figure out anything more than "throw the dice and make sure they hit the back wall." But, hey, with drinks only $2.50, who can resist?

The event was semi-formal, Vegas style dress up, so I went out to a consignment store with my friend to look for dresses. There were some great "little black dresses," including some I should have considered because their long sleeves and long length, given the cold November temperatures. But I just couldn't bring myself to buy anything modest. It reminded me too much of my modest Molly Mormon high school days, looking for prom dresses. Partly in reaction to that, and partly because it's just the style, I wanted something slinky. I ended up with a nice spaghetti strap black dress with an interesting, layered hem-line. I forgot to get pictures, but just trust me when I say I was hot.

The night left me in a strange limbo between feeling naughty, but not feeling guilty about it. My true-blue Mormon family would be horrified at my dress, the alcohol, and the gambling. I'm so evil, aren't I?