Behind every responsible parent of older teenagers lives a party animal waiting to get out. It got out at my unbirthday party last night.
A little backstory: I called it my unbirthday party because tomorrow I go in to get my gall bladder brutally yanked out. Apparently, I don't need it. Since tomorrow is my real birthday, I decided that the 20th would be my unbirthday and I was going to have a party, dammit.
I bought goodies at Trader Joes, mucho liquor and my husband called his friends. His friends because my friends are all running around making Christmas happen while their husbands attend unbirthday parties.
The nice thing about parties now as compared to parties in the eighties, is that the guests all bring booze and ice. No freeloaders. Nice. It also meant that we had an inordinate amount of booze to person ratio which set a nice tone for the evening.
So we drank. And drank. And then we drank some more. We drank irresponsibly. GREAT WHITE WAS PLAYED, PEOPLE. My young adult children, who were coming in and out doing their own thing, were astonished at the goings on. My daughter was disgusted by the ribald comments and jokes. Much hilarity was made of my husband, who'd just had hernia surgery, having to wear a panty liner against his wound to stop the seepage. One witty partier called it his manpon. The guitars were pulled out and my husband jammed at mach volume. So did others who had never picked up a guitar in their lives. New hits, like C*&% and B*&&S, were created.
After one of my daughter's "I can't believe you are all so classless and crude" comments, I pulled her aside and explained that this was our generation. This was how we partied. Well, minus the big hair and narcotics lined up on the back of public toilets.
The next morning, my husband and I woke up with our hangovers, cleaned the house, went out to breakfast and proceeded to do all the things grown ups do like make lists, run errands, and worry over bills and kids.
But last night we PARTIED!