Let’s talk about parties. Yup. It’s almost Valentine’s Day, Oscar night, and that big annual football game – whatever it’s called – and I’m sure I could come up with more reasons to get on up and party on down.
Except I don’t want to party down. That’s probably why no one invites me anymore. Although, to be honest, few of my friends even hold shindigs these days. Does that mean we’re all ready for the Grim Reaper? Well, you go ahead. I don’t have anything to wear.
I could blame the pandemic – except that no one invited me to their parties even before everyone became germaphobes who brought tape measures along to make sure you were standing at least six feet away at every outdoor gathering.
I know you’re saying to yourself, “But Marla! A famous celebrity like you must get so many invitations.” Sadly, no. Most of the invitations I receive are from mortuaries offering me a free steak dinner in exchange for discussing my “pre-need planning.”
The month of February means little to me because I don’t have a significant other, so February 14 is just the day before heart-shaped chocolate boxes go on sale. I don’t follow sports, so I usually have no idea who’s playing in the Super Bowl until people start posting about it online. That’s in February, right?
OK, so I know nothing about football, but I do like guacamole and nachos. I like them a lot. So you should invite me to your Super Bowl party anyway.
Truthfully, I don’t inhabit a world where people throw such soirees. None of my neighbors have big backyards with giant waterproof TVs and outdoor kitchens where the guac and nachos can be prepared with freshly made pico de gallo. Even the guys I know are more likely to discuss the upcoming election than the odds of the quarterback actually catching a pass in the Big Game.
Oops, wait. I guess the quarterback throws the pass, right? And someone else catches it? A nickleback? A beer back? A hairy back? An aching back? It had the word “back” in it, I’m pretty sure.
I vaguely remember that much from when my son, Cheetah Boy, played football in high school. Before he got tackled so hard that he went to the hospital in an ambulance and terrified the wits out of me for the first – but not the last – time. It was a harbinger of things to come.
By the way, this column is not a ploy to get you to invite me to your parties unless you’re serving mountains of free-flowing caviar, lobster and French cognac. Then I might be able to stop by for a bite, if it’s the good caviar.
Parties are tough for me because of the chatter. As my friends will tell you (while they roll their eyes), I looove to talk. And talk.
But idle chitchat is exhausting and serves no good purpose. And I hate trying to seem interesting. My friends already know I’m not interesting, so socializing with them is OK.
Since we seldom have actual weather here in Southern California, party chitchat usually revolves around driving, right? While in places like Chicago, it nearly always concerns how bad the weather is. Because the weather is always bad in Chicago, except when there are tornadoes. Then it’s life-threatening.
We never have life-threatening weather here (well, except for fires), but we do have traffic, and I’ve learned it’s always fun to start an argument at a party over whether it’s better to take the 405 or the 10 or the 91 to your favorite destination. Just make sure you have pepper spray for when things get really heated.
My customary behavior when I arrive at your party is to peruse your bookshelves to see what you’ve been reading. That also allows me to locate a good book to sit down and read if I get bored with idle chitchat, which I almost certainly will. If you don’t have any books, I will wonder what I’m even doing at your house when I could have been at home, sans bra, in my pajamas.
If I find disturbing books on your shelf – “Mein Kampf” for example – I will immediately need to reassure myself that you majored in German history, and not that you’re secretly a Nazi.
After I look over your bookshelves, my next stop is the snack table, after which I will likely indulge in an adult beverage. If no one waylays me to talk about how bad the toll roads have become, my next project will be to look for your pets.
I realize they may be locked in the bedroom so they don’t eat all the canapes and try to hump your boss, so I might have to sneak in there and play with them.
My last stop at your party will be the kitchen, where I’ll grab a sponge and start doing the dishes. I never do dishes at home, you understand. But washing up at a party means I can be companionable without actually having to talk to anyone. Sometimes, a like-minded person will grab a dish towel and pitch in. That’s when some good talking gets done. No one expects you to be interesting while you’re cleaning things.
Oh, gee. The party’s breaking up. Let’s talk about those weird books on your shelves.
