Christmas Rappin'
I'm not a party-thrower. I hate cleaning for parties. I hate cleaning up after parties. I like the general idea of putting together a party but I always see the down side in entertaining in my home. Not enough chairs. Not enough places to sit. Kitchen too small. Nowhere to park.
I threw a good party one, though. A Christmas party.
It was after my first semester in graduate school. The school is located in, literally, the middle of nowhere in New England, which, despite its location near Boston and New York, is kind of in the middle of nowhere itself. We had a pizza place and a mom-and-pop store where you could take dogs inside. We had three bars, one of which was strictly reserved for town folk. We had a town square with a civil war statue and a monument to a woman killed by Indians sometime before 1750 or so.
Going to school there had its good points. #1: There was nothing to do but study. #2: It generated instant camraderie. #3: I never had to buy gas. #4: No Taco Bell. I lost a ton of weight that first year.
We'd studied hard that first semester. I studied harder than I ever had before. I mean, I actually was forced to learn how to study, since I'd managed to get through pretty much my entire life without having to do much more than reading over notes the night before a test to really figure something out. It had been a long series of months.
So we decided to throw a party. About eight of us. I provided the venue: a large, open apartment that I shared with two people about whom I knew nothing and likely cared less. The others? Provided booze.
And did we have booze. We had a garbage can full of red punch that we stirred with someone's arm. We had a keg or two. We had marachino cherries that we had soaked in Everclear for approximately 2 weeks. We had, I think, jello shots.
Everyone came. People I'd never seen before showed up. We had a grown man in a red union suit, a Santa hat and cowboy boots. We had a dog dressed up in pajamas. We had people making out in stairways. The television fell over. Someone punched a hole in the ceiling.
In short, it was awesome.
I ended up mopping the floor about five times after everyone left, with some horrible environmentally friendly solution that worked for crap. We found cherry stems in the most random of places for months. My roommates didn't speak to me for weeks after we got back. Our carpet was permanently stained with red punch.
People missed flights home because of that party. They fell asleep in the lounge at Logan Airport, waiting for their flight to get called, and got stuck in town for Christmas eve. I drove home to Jersey after having slept approximately one hour, my back aching from mopping so viciously.
I haven't thrown a raging party since then. I don't know if I could top it.
And when I eat a marachino cherry? Or see someone with their cheeks painted with a circle of red? I think of that party and the guy in the union suit. The dog in the pjs. The hole in the ceiling.
Good times.
I threw a good party one, though. A Christmas party.
It was after my first semester in graduate school. The school is located in, literally, the middle of nowhere in New England, which, despite its location near Boston and New York, is kind of in the middle of nowhere itself. We had a pizza place and a mom-and-pop store where you could take dogs inside. We had three bars, one of which was strictly reserved for town folk. We had a town square with a civil war statue and a monument to a woman killed by Indians sometime before 1750 or so.
Going to school there had its good points. #1: There was nothing to do but study. #2: It generated instant camraderie. #3: I never had to buy gas. #4: No Taco Bell. I lost a ton of weight that first year.
We'd studied hard that first semester. I studied harder than I ever had before. I mean, I actually was forced to learn how to study, since I'd managed to get through pretty much my entire life without having to do much more than reading over notes the night before a test to really figure something out. It had been a long series of months.
So we decided to throw a party. About eight of us. I provided the venue: a large, open apartment that I shared with two people about whom I knew nothing and likely cared less. The others? Provided booze.
And did we have booze. We had a garbage can full of red punch that we stirred with someone's arm. We had a keg or two. We had marachino cherries that we had soaked in Everclear for approximately 2 weeks. We had, I think, jello shots.
Everyone came. People I'd never seen before showed up. We had a grown man in a red union suit, a Santa hat and cowboy boots. We had a dog dressed up in pajamas. We had people making out in stairways. The television fell over. Someone punched a hole in the ceiling.
In short, it was awesome.
I ended up mopping the floor about five times after everyone left, with some horrible environmentally friendly solution that worked for crap. We found cherry stems in the most random of places for months. My roommates didn't speak to me for weeks after we got back. Our carpet was permanently stained with red punch.
People missed flights home because of that party. They fell asleep in the lounge at Logan Airport, waiting for their flight to get called, and got stuck in town for Christmas eve. I drove home to Jersey after having slept approximately one hour, my back aching from mopping so viciously.
I haven't thrown a raging party since then. I don't know if I could top it.
And when I eat a marachino cherry? Or see someone with their cheeks painted with a circle of red? I think of that party and the guy in the union suit. The dog in the pjs. The hole in the ceiling.
Good times.
posted by Miss Head at
7:02 AM
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