Let me start by saying that I didn't meet one unkind or stupid person. They were all okay by me, and they were out for a good time, and every one of them donated money to the school in order to be at this party. I wouldn't want anyone to feel disparaged.
So, now, if you don't own a pair of white jeans, you aint no thing. I don't know if fat girls can wear white jeans, so I'll abstain, but half of the hoochie mamas were in white jeans, half in regular jeans, and the third half in black pants. I personally was wearing regular jeans, and all but ripped the cool poncho of my neighbor's back to wear as my own. I've decided I need a poncho. On top, they were wearing a variety of things, but there were a lot of tunic things, peasant blouse things, etc. but the feet were something else entirely.
I'm not sure I've seen that many high heeled shoes outside of a strip club. Considering it was a standing-room-only party, I'm surprised that people were courageous enough to venture forth on their four-inchers. Even I, with arthritic knee and all, wore my higher wedges, but they're Clarks, and can hardly be considered hoochie mama shoes.
It was a mexican themed party, so the margarita's were flowing, and the food was rich and delicious. There were some very tiny MILFs with very large burritos, and I almost followed some of them to see how they were planning on eating them while standing and holding a cocktail. In the kitchen, there was a table of mini eclairs and Mexican wedding cakes for dessert. I'm not entirely sure what eclairs have to do with Mexico, but they were creamy and delicious and I had two. I'm just glad there was no flan. Flan gives me the heebie jeebies.
Next to the eclair table were the incoming and outgoing PTA presidents. Don't let the PTA label fool you: it should stand for Party Till Armageddon. E thought there was too much Britney Spears on the stereo, and plugged in her iPod full of her 80's favorites. She played the part of the party goer who commandeers the tunes, but since the 80's were my era, this did not pose a problem for me. E and C proceeded to lipsync (or maybe they were actually singing, it was hard to tell because each song was louder than the next) to Def Leppard and Journey and Bon Jovi, holding first flowers, then cooking utensils as microphones. The finally settled on an ice cream scoop and one of those olive oil misters as their mics of choice. They were fun to watch, in their white jeans, and even more fun when they climbed up on the kitchen island and danced around on it in their high heels. The hostess, brave girl, told them to get down, which was a really good idea since there was a four month old baby sleeping in a car seat right under the island.
It is amazing how easy it is to entertain women who spend all their time with their children. Blast some Van Halen (with David Lee Roth, not the later stuff) give them a tequila shot and you're all set. Just wind 'em up and watch 'em go. It is also embarrassing that hearing Rick Springfield in a room with a bunch of middle aged mothers who are half in the bag, can turn you into a twelve year-old. You know every single word, and you're not afraid to sing it into a serving spoon in front of all your friends.
Normally, I would have been right there with them, singing, dancing, drinking a teeny bit too much, but my party self seems to he hibernating. I just can't seem to wake up the part of me that would order one to many cosmos and be cracking everyone up. Throw in my arthritic knee, and the fact that I've been eschewing the sensible, supportive shoes I'm supposed to wear for my old flip flops, and I had to sit out all but two songs (if you must know, I danced to Scandal's Goodbye to You, and Split Enz I Got You.)
I then watched a group of women in the other room squeezing their own boobs and poking at each other's boobs, and I had to go over and find out what was going on. Apparently, they were comparing breast size, and my double Ds had them all beat.
I was sober, my dogs were barking, my ears were ringing, there was a line for the can, and I decided to duck out. It was a respectable hour, the porniata had been busted open and sprinkled mini vibrators all over the patio, and if it was going to get any wilder, I didn't want to be there since I couldn't seem to get wilder with it. As I walked out the door, I ran into a very cute police officer coming up the steps to investigate a noise complaint. I wonder if he was surprised to find a bunch of mothers in their mid 40's rocking out to 38 Special.
Thank you, Jamie, brave girl, for sacrificing your house like that!