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Thursday, 13 October
Where The Fuck Was Rebecca DeMornay?

As we all know--at least those of us who were weaned on movies like Risky Business--a modern rite of passage is The Party When Your Parents Go Out Of Town. Why, incidentally, did our parents ever go more than four blocks away from us when we were old enough to start wondering about beer? This phenomenon, on first blush, might lead some to believe that there has been evidence for the conservative assertion that our great country is going into a shithole: we were clearly raised by fatuous, indulgent morons. Unfortunately, since this has been a righty trope for like sixty years now, I cannot see how much traction it has.

Anyway. Like a lot of people, I had parents who were careless enough to leave me in charge of the home for one fateful weekend when I was a teen. "NO PARTIES!" they direly screamed. No problem. I would only have one.

I really doubt that they ever thought I wouldn't have a party, really; my parents aren't complete doorstops. I think it's just that they thought that admonishing me not to somehow filled their parental requirements, as they saw it. They might as well as tipped me a theatrical wink. What they really were saying, as far as I was concerned, was, "Have a party! Please! And if you leave any evidence of it, we have the right to shove pointy sticks into your eyes until you're eighteen."

Things could have ended up so much worse, really, but it didn't seem so at the time.

It all started out fine. People gathered, and gifts were given--get this: the weekend in question was my birthday weekend. Can you figure? I still wonder if John Hughes paid off my folks to make this happen so he could film it all for an as-yet unreleased documentary. Just fun-loving kids enjoying a sprightly time!

Then, of course, everyone simultaneously got drunk.

The first thing I remember getting out of hand was when I heard my mother's old, creaky upright piano getting played. The ancient thing was forever out of tune, and sounded remotely like that guy who smashed Muppets on their heads with a fish to make them howl. Someone was playing it exactly like a deranged fish-wielding person, and I rushed into the den to make them stop, right in time to hear the damper board come unmoored. CRASH! it crashed softly. I pulled the drunken woman off the piano stool and shoved her off into the care of some nearby date-rapist, probably.

Meanwhile, in the kitchen, the old debate about eggs raged. You know this one, right? How, leaving aside years of anecdotal evidence, it is TOTALLY IMPOSSIBLE to break an egg when cradled on its side in one's palms? There, standing over my kitchen sink with an egg in his hands, stood one of my guests. He squeezed mightily, while others chanted, "GO! GO! GO!" I stared at him as he completely demolished the egg, and yolk exploded over everything. I contemplated my befouled kitchen ceiling as Mr. Egg Dominion celebrated his yolky victory by dismissing the rest of the carton as "pussies" and tossing them idly onto the floor.

Hey, time for everyone to get the fuck out of here!

That was when T. flipped out on, I think, her boyfriend. T. had had an awful lot to drink, and was just now responding to some perceived slight. T. was on her last nerve, buddy! Aaaargh! Fuck you, boyfriend! Oh, how T. railed. Then T., at an apex of fury, made her exit. "Fuck you!" she screamed at egg yolk, or something. "I'm leaving!"

And she flung open the door to our hallway closet and stamped right in.

I need to clarify a couple things here. For one, we hadn't been in this particular house for that long. So our possessions weren't as squared away as they necessarily would have been in some place where we'd lived for a while. For another--and really, I don't want to hear about it, okay?--my father is a gun collector. He loves guns, is completely respectful of guns, and instilled in me a total respect for the things. Know this: I would sooner shoot myself into the sun than fuck with my father's guns, or treat one as anything other than what it is: a machine that demands total respect.

T. opened up our hall closet and marched directly inside, and immediately knocked over all of my father's rifles that he had stored insided. They fell around her onto the hardwood floor. I distinctly remember time dilating. I knew that they were all loaded (though not chambered). T. thrashed around as if she were being beset by incubi. "FUCK YOU!" she screamed.

It was totally one of those things where it could have easily led to headlines like, "BIMBO BLOWS BRAINS OUT: Local Teen's Drunken Sex Party Ends In Tragedy." But as it happened, I flipped, and hustled everyone out. I actually believe--I am not proud of this--that I literally gave T. a little kick in the ass as she left. She had scared the piss out of me. Plus, our piano now sounded like a wounded elk, and the kitchen looked like a scare pamphlet from Operation: Rescue Omelette.

I spent the next day frantically cleaning, and doing idiot piano repairs, and most importantly, meticulously reconstructing the impromptu gun closet. I lived in fear for twenty-four hours that I was overlooking some crucial clue, some damning bit of evidence.

I like to kid myself even today that I fooled my parents. It is to their credit that this has never come up. I grew up in a town of around 3000 people. All they would have had to do was go to our neighbors and ask, "So, what happened this weekend?" And the neighbors would say, "What do you think? Your fucking kid threw a party. I heard from Whiskey Joe that T. nearly blew her head off walking into your gun closet."

Fuck, man, John Hughes never even called.

Note: Comments are closed on old entries.


My rite-of-passage folks-out-of-town party resulted in ketchup on the kitchen ceiling (a mystery to this day) and the spectacular smashing (by my boyfriend at the time) of an expensive framed lithograph of my father's. I spent the entire contents of my bank account having the damn painting repaired and cleaned frantically for days, and do you know how my parents farking busted me? I LEFT A BAG OF EMPTIES ON THE BACK PORCH. Don't be like me, kids!

Comment number: 006077   Posted by: Robin on October 13, 2005 01:00 AM from IP:

Remind me to tell you sometime about my party, during which we flooded the living room with three inches of toilet water on the night before we were having an open house to sell the place. Good times.

Comment number: 006078   Posted by: Joe on October 13, 2005 07:53 AM from IP:

My illicit party resulted in fine china being used as ashtrays, puke in the oven, popcorn in the bathtub, and me being awoken by my parents the next day, after they lifted the severed tree branches that were piled atop me. I was on the living room floor.

Comment number: 006079   Posted by: Steve on October 14, 2005 08:05 AM from IP:

My teenage party was a total success and I was a fantastic hostess. No one got sick on the rug, no one cried, and everyone smoked in the garage. And then...I left my perfect hostess directional signs reading "bathroom" and "glasses" in the trash. DUH!

Comment number: 006080   Posted by: SJ on October 17, 2005 09:15 PM from IP:

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