It’s My Party and I’ll Bitch if I Want To

I don’t like it when people throw parties for me. This is a well-established fact. Rarely does it ever turn out well, and more often than not it bothers me to have an absolute lack of control over something that I’m supposed to be a very large part of.

So I really am not looking forward to my grad party. First of all, I’m 35 fucking years old. I don’t need a party. In fact, I don’t even need kudos. I have a stack of degrees in my closet that would be an amusing centerpiece for the cake table. In other words, this isn’t my first time in the back seat of this jalopy. This is not an “accomplishment” by any means. I’ve never claimed it was; that’s everyone else’s doing. I just decided to change careers and educational tracks, that’s all. But if it makes people feel good about themselves to champion someone’s cause, then so be it.

Second, not only will I have to deal with the inevitable questions about my academic future, people will also inquire into my plans for my newfound knowledge, and of course people who possess zero tact will also find a way to ask me about the impending layoffs that I’m facing in less than a month’s time. Hooray! Just the kind of shit I want to talk about AT A PARTY. I’ve gone over this in my head multiple times in the past week, and I can’t find a single tactful way to tell people to go fuck themselves and stop being nosy without, well, telling people to go fuck themselves and stop being nosy. See, when someone gets a degree, it doesn’t mean they have immediate plans for anything. Leave them alone. They just finished several years of grueling schoolwork, and in my case, this was in addition to working 60 hours a week and carrying other hefty commitments. The last thing they want to do is discuss their career path with you. Also, if someone’s job is on the line…I don’t give a shit how publicly the company has made it known that they’re performing these layoffs…it is NONE OF YOUR FUCKING BUSINESS whether their job is safe or not. Again…leave them alone. Unless you yourself have experienced the sudden loss of your high-paying job that you spent almost 2 decades breaking your back for, you have no idea what they’re going through and therefore should just keep your nose out of it.

And again. I remind you. IT’S A PARTY. Stop asking such ridiculous downer questions. Go get a goddamned beer or something.

The big thing that irritates me about this party, however, is that it absolutely 100% in no way reflects me at all. The party is instead a reflection of my mother. I do love her dearly and all, but seriously? If I’d known that my party would resemble nothing more than her own parties, then I would have either requested no party at all or forced them to allow me to pay for it all myself. Because nothing recently has been more disheartening to me than seeing my invitations riddled with what my mother considers “cute” misspellings, printed on the same 8.5 x 11 stationery stock that most people use for barbecues and Christmas newsletters, shoved into envelopes covered in grapevines. I won’t even lie to you, I was absolutely crushed when I saw this. I had selected the exact invitations I wanted to use, and told my parents that I would just buy them and fill them out myself to save them the trouble. Instead they went and did this.

I know what you’re thinking…that’s it? They sent out silly invitations that you don’t like? No, that’s not just it. I was not allowed input into the menu. My parents are having it catered for some reason, and they’ve selected sausage and peppers as the main dish. I hate sausage and peppers. Always have. I am not a sausage fan by any means, and so I am very very VERY picky about which sausages I will eat. Italian sausages are not on my list. I told my mom I would rather have chicken with polenta or baked ziti. But no. I’m getting sausage and peppers. My parents KNOW I don’t like sausage. But I’m getting it anyway.

My mom decided she wanted to decorate the entire house in orange and black paper flowers. I told her that paper flowers were kind of ugly and maybe just some orange balloons would be nice. In fact, black isn’t even officially one of OSU’s colors. OSU’s color is in fact orange. Black and white are allowed to be used as accents. But the school strictly only recognizes the orange. I don’t want people to show up and think it’s Halloween in July. Despite my protests, there will be massive orange and black paper flowers. I am going to end up stabbing my own eyes out within the first ten minutes, I guarantee it.

I told my parents the other day that I would make a playlist for the party on my iPod. I was informed that they were already taking care of the music, as they were going to drag the computer speakers out onto the back deck and queue up KOZT’s online stream. OK, I love that radio station and all. No, really, I do. But I don’t want it as the backdrop for my party. I just don’t. I want an eclectic mix that reflects me completely. When I told my mom this, she said “Well whatever. We’ll get the computer set up anyway. Don’t worry, it’ll be fine.”

And there are more details every day. When I provided my mother the guest list for invites, she balked at me including my uncle Steve, with whom she has had a feud for the last 8 years. I told her that I didn’t care what was going on between them, family is family and he needed to at least be extended the invitation even though we knew he’d not only decline, he’d pretty much ignore us entirely. She relented, but now I’m not even sure if she mailed the damn thing. So now I don’t even get to have a say in my own guest list?

The only bright spot of the weekend is that The Boyfriend will be flying up to join me for the party. He’ll be finally meeting all of these people for the first time, and I know it’s more than just a bit daunting. My family – both sides – can be ruthless when it comes to shaking down a new guy. And since I met mine in an unorthodox way, and he’s already toting his own personal brand of baggage, this should be even more exciting. And of course, it will lead to questions about marriage. OH HOW I CAN’T WAIT FOR THOSE. I should buy copies of Bridget Jones’s Diary and hand them out to everyone in attendance. Just to make sure we’re on the same page.

Maybe I ought to run away and join the circus? I’d make an excellent clown.