I sometimes forget that #notallparties have a theme or stated purpose. This week’s party was but one shining example. I accompanied a date to the home of some grad school friends—theirs, not mine. I didn’t fuck with college, because I’m a dum-dum blessed with a fancy turn of phrase.
I don’t deny my classist tendencies, so I also don’t deny that I was concerned as we pulled up to a gated compound guarded by a pair of plastic deer and a large fountain. Luckily, our destination was the standard cottage-style residence next door, populated by the sweetest and queerest of Portland. They were sweet enough to indulge my singing the words “under the sink” to the tune of “Under The Sea” while locating the trash can.
Being grad school graduates, children were also in attendance—the fart- and musical theater-obsessed child of our hosts and another partygoer’s niece. Though young, the little girl had all the presence of a CEO, and might someday be elected President (unless she decides it’s beneath her). For now, her primary platform was casting the iciest of shade on her mother for changing a play date without updating Google Calendar.
Food was vegan cuisine, including vegetables, the best vegan cheese I’ve ever not hated, and an addictive vegan pâté. By the way, when did addiction become our standard for quality? Anyhow, I’d suck a stranger’s dick and steal my mom’s flatscreen for a hit of this pâté. It was just that good. Are there bugs on me? Is that pâté?
I bonded with our hosts over introversion, and traded introvert pro tips, like hanging out in the bedroom with all the coats and cats. Coincidentally, as we spoke, another guest announced they had to leave early, because they had a busy weekend of bird watching and candle dipping ahead of them.
Naturally, I wasted no time downing as much free wine and liquor as possible, because I’m a responsible adult and, as every responsible adult knows, it’s important to drink as much as possible as early in the night as possible to give one’s body sufficient time to burn it all off. Keep this in mind, if you ever invite me to a party and I get blackout drunk within minutes of my arrival... or show up that way. I only do it to be a safer driver later in the evening.
This evening’s signature drink was a concoction made of La Croix (because of course), bourbon, honey, and ginger beer, of which our host mixed one too many. The bourbon of choice was Bulleit, sparking concern over accusations of distributor Diageo firing Bulleit family heiress and lesbian “First Lady of Bourbon” Hollis Bulleit, because the queers just can’t have nothing. However, the cocktail was abandoned long before the debate, due to a strong and unmistakable stevia weirdness courtesy of the sugar-free ginger beer.
“Curse you, stevia! But not even you can deny this party 10 of 10 points.”