When you grow up in a big city like San Francisco, you have so many options to celebrating each and every occasion you can think of. Wedding? Funeral? Boyfriend broke up with you? Didn't go home with that guy last night for once? There is a venue and/or a party for all of them. Hell, even a few weeks ago when Yelp put on a big event at the Contemporary Jewish Museum for a fashion show showing Andy Warhol's exhibit, my friend A says "This is my first birthday party. It starts tonight."
There is something for everyone in this fair city, but some people don't have it so lucky. These poor souls who grow up in small towns tend to not see the fine line between what's okay and just plain shameful behavior. I'm not trying to knock growing up in a small town, but I lived in the middle of bumfuck nowhere New Mexico (Roswell) for four years and to be honest, I just can't understand the appeal other than a nice place to settle down when you want to die (aka retirement).
Not many parties are thrown here. In fact, I don't think we even have a bar other than ones in the chain restaurants; Farley's, Applebees, Chilis...yeah. Most parties were thrown in hotel rooms by the military school's students, and on more than one occasion they would be broken up by police and reported to the school. There was one time a few people went in on a storage unit and had a fully stocked bar, or that one bubble party where you wear clothes you don't care about and everyone is dancing and covered in bath bubbles...but those sucked.
I know. Crazy. Would it not shock you to find that 70% of middle schoolers there had gonorrehea? Or that a significant number of high school students had kids? Yeah.
Believe you me, I went on a lot of "dates" when I went to school, but they really weren't considered that and besides, it was never with anyone outside of the school. I had standards (okay, not really. My first boyfriend was from Roswell but he went to military school so that evens out, right?).
However, the most embarrassing moment that the intense amount of therapy has let me to remember was when I was having dinner with my dad. Not a date (I'm not FROM the south, just went to school there).
The summer in between my senior year of high school and freshman year of college was awful. Having graduated from a military school I forced myself to go to based on the fact that I needed to improve my grades, I was finally free, in California, and wanted to stay. My dad on the other hand wanted me to go to junior college there as well. Let me tell you that the entire summer I kicked, screamed, and threw tantrums about not going back. Nothing would work. My dad promised to buy me a car, a new flat screen computer moniter, whatever else I wanted, and a large piece of jewelry that he bought when I was born.
To be honest? I went back so he would shut the fuck up. I got a call during the summer from my commander asking me to come back because the person they had promoted in my place originally wasn't going to be attending any longer. Thanks assholes! I'm glad I'm the second choice. No wait--third. Fourth? I hate you.
On the plane ride over, something just wasn't right. My throat was a bit scratchy, and when we landed and got Dairy Queen as a snack, it hurt even more. About 12 hours later, my throat was full blown inflammed and I could hardly put any food down without feeling like someone was stabbing me in the jugular. Maybe this was fate? Maybe it was God's way of saying, "This physical pain is only the beginning. Imagine how fucked up emotionally you're going to get too! Good job on selling yourself out to please your parents." Whatever it was, I wasn't focused because I was too busy dying.
My dad stayed in town for about two weeks to make sure I got better, and I stayed in the hotel room for the first week until they forced me to stay in the barracks at night. During that first week, he decided it would be nice to take me out to dinner somewhere close so I wouldn't have to travel in pain--and that place, was Applebees.
We sat down and my eyes hung open like I had just come off a heroin binge. I was in so much agony that each swallow caused tears to well up and my body would start shaking uncontrollably to get my mind off of it. Tonight, I was going to have water and soup, and holding my spoon halfway through dinner started becoming increasingly more difficult and I would have to stop to take breaks.
You would think that this dinner was already unbearable--to be in the middle of a packed restaurant, shaking, crying, moaning in pain and arguing with my dad about going back to school (even though we were already there). Well no, apparently it wasn't enough.
I look over and there is a Bachelorette party at the table next to us.
Does Britney Spears live here? What are they doing having a bachelorette party at an Applebees? Do they not know that Juarez is only a 2 1/2 hour drive from here, and they can do whatever they want there? Am I the only one who is crazy enough to see that this doesn't look right!? One of these things does not belong: father and daughter having dinner, Applebees, food, bachelorette party.
Soon they were yelling, hooting, hollering, and generally helping the bride-to-be spend her last free night trying to find someone to have sex with and it wouldn't be considered cheating. And honestly, what better way to do this than opening up gifts at the table!
Do you know what goes into bachelorette party gifts? I was 17, I had no idea. I'm from California, where people don't get married unless they truly have to, and all my friends were gay anyways so back then they couldn't get married (and not anymore, either. sigh), and we didn't call those "bachelorette parties" we called them "sneaking into the strip club where this would be acceptable behavior" Wednesday nights.
So here I am, trying to build up the last amount of energy and courage I had to finish my food when a bunch of rowdy drunk bitches start waving around giant dildos at their table and wacking each other with them. Let's all forget that there are kids here too, ladies. Have fun using your presents when you stop putting out for your husband and he starts "working late" and wearing lipstick for the "fun of it". I'm going to go stab myself now.
No, Dad I don't want dessert.