Monday, April 18, 2011
Pimps 'n Hoes
Last week, I got a call from an old mentor of mine at my university who is a reporter with a newspaper I used to intern at. Well actually before I got the call, I got the Facebook message asking me if I knew anything about "pimps 'n hoes" parties for a piece she was writing on. I sat there for a good couple of minutes rereading the message and idly wondering if I could just bullshit a response without further researching the matter. From the way I knew it, pimps 'n hoes used to be a terrible, but nonetheless engaging, card game that I would occasionally play in an acting class I took in high school with my classmates. Though I did have an inkling it was a reference to those themed-costume parties I'd seen on other people's Facebook accounts. A quick Google search revealed I was (mostly) on the money.
"Have I ever been to one?" I repeated back her question while leaving work to go home, "No, not really. I think if I were blond and at least two bra sizes bigger I would probably get invited." I laughed a little. Hey, who doesn't love self-deprecating humor? I know the type of person I am and not only do I embrace myself, but I know how to mock myself too.
After a couple of questions about Girls Gone Wild (again, I would need to be two cup sizes bigger, be slightly drunk, and have self-esteem issues shooting through the roof to fully answer this question) and the women's rights movement, the interview concluded. I was not the ideal candidate to speak to on these matters, most unfortunately.
I did think about it though after the fact as I sat at the bus stop. A bunch of thoughts went rolling through my mind. Like, why didn't I get invited to parties in high school (okay maybe not so much there), but in college where everyone dressed like a slutty nurse or slutty cheerleader or slutty slut? What was it about me that people could instantly look at and assume, why she couldn't possibly drink me under a table! This bothered me a lot. When people tell me they don't think I can do something or when they look at me amused that I might say one thing and potentially look like I won't do it, it sparks something inside of me. The drive to prove them wrong. Through my irritation, I thought to myself, I'd show them! You don't think I work hard enough? I'll graduate with honors while working two jobs, an extra internship, writing for the school newspaper and assistant stage managing the school play. You think I'm too sweet and kind? My patented intense death stare will clear that thought free from yo' mind forever. You don't think I can drink enough? I was raised in Saint Louis, home of Anheuser Busch. Until you've lived in one of the wettest cities in the country and were schooled in the art of drinking by one very awesome set of people you worked at a local Subway with, you don't get to ever make that assumption about me.
Heather, get a grip on yourself the left side of my brain calmly murmurs. The left side of my brain stands quietly in front of me, chuckling at the right side of my brain who is hunched over viciously scribbling on a piece of paper all of the ways in which I am not a person to not not invite to a house party. See what's happening here? You graduated and you're still thinking about this. Let it go. Let it all just go.
But! But! The right side of my brain cries out but ole lefty hushes it. It's not your loss. Nobody's loss but theirs. Besides, knowing you and your Lovely Miss Perfect reputation, you'd only be ruining yourself and that dandy name of yours.
I sigh and smile. The left side, as usual, is all logic.
Imagine for one moment a very different version of me. One who chainsmoked, hooked up with every guy with a pulse regardless of attraction level, wore cut off denim shorts and glitter on my eyes a la Ke$ha (with obligatory stockings ripped all up the sides), had a bra size of D cup, didn't have a job, and basically sat around stoned all day weaving friendship bracelets.
Let's just sit here and quietly think about how ridiculous this image is.
When you write as much as I do, you think about things like this. Spending so much of my time in my head creating characters has made me sometimes look at my life in third person. Like I'm a character in my own life story. Whenever I'm bored, I imagine what life might have been like had I been born a certain way. Maybe I'd have some wonderful singing pipes or be really good at math. What kind of life I'd lead if I had been born in New Zealand or had nothing but sisters. Or if I had been born a boy (if I had been a boy, I guarantee you I would have brought back the style of the Rat Pack overnight and would definitely have dated some of my girlfriends).
The thing is, no matter just how much I can wonder or even when you're younger and can fiddle around with your personality, I know there are just certain things that would keep me from being the type of girl who can easily blend in at a pimps 'n hoes type of party. Whether it's just my conscience, the fact that while I may have both Type A and B personality traits the Type A pushes the Type B far, far to the curb, or just that I tend to listen to my gut instinct too often, I just know myself and how I'll react. Remember that terrible house party I went to with the wigger guy where everyone in the house looked like a douche and I prayed for an airplane to crash through the roof to get me out of there? It's the little things like this that render me completely useless in relating to and becoming a true member of the pimp 'n ho elite.
Some of these little things include:
1) I'm a workaholic. If nothing else in life, the reason I didn't get invited to go out is because I was constantly working. I've usually got my hands buried in about 4-5 different projects outside of my day job, all of which involve writing, none of which I consider work because writing is just a part of my personality, like my fondness for red lipstick. For better or for worse, being at work has been the culprit in ensuring that whatever happens to me that night, I'm getting paid for it.
2) House parties, for lack of a better word, blow. The beer is always out too early, most of my peers (especially when drunk) are terrible drink makers, and affluent suburban kids are declaring that "Snoop be the OG and I be that too" (these are the same kids who constantly remark on their Facebook that "it's time to make a change" while they're still puffing on that kind bud). God help you if you talk to any guy period, because that's my boyfriend bitch! and before you know it some tanned to the point of orange girl in an Ed Hardy hat is snootily referring to you as Wednesday Addams to her friends. Because you have skin the color of Snow White. Wonderful. And you wonder why I wish for the plane to crash. These are definitely the worst kinds of parties.
3) Unless you're at a hipster party. Maybe that one is worse. I wouldn't know. I'm not hipster enough to get invited to that kind of par-tay either. I like to imagine it's less real drunk and more ironic drunk with extra sides of judgment and Velvet Underground playing 'round the clock.
4) At parties, I might say something I probably shouldn't. For example, I might casually mention I've only seen a handful of Entourage episodes and don't understand what's so great about a show with Adrian Grenier in it. I might mention that I enjoy reading about serial killers for fun. Or I might keep disappearing to the bathroom to read the Stephen King book that someone's roommate left in there (for the record, I did do this last one. Plus that same roommate also left graphic novels on a shelf right above the toilet paper in the bathroom. Woo, party in the lavatory!)
5) At parties, you should really go with at least two very close friends with a third's number on speed dial in case of emergencies. Don't go to house parties with friends who won't understand why you feel the need to get the hell out of there when you do. True friends would do it for you if you were in their shoes and vice versa. In cruder terms, yes to the guy you might seem to be a cockblocker, but in reality, do you really want your friend to do it with some guy she's never met until tonight in some random person's guest bedroom? Nope. Just go. Don't apologize and don't look back. They won't remember anyway.
6) I'm not super adventurous when it comes to recreational drug use. This alone is probably hands-down the reason I didn't get invited to party like a rock star or like it was my birthday with the pimps 'n hoes.
7) I also have issues wearing super short skirts unless I have stockings on. All the way on, fully opaque, and not ripped either.
8) Drunk 18-23 year old guys aren't charming. Unless you're drunk too, they're rather large assholes. This is why I'm more likely to be found at a dance club or bar. There's more potential to get a silver fox there than there is at some 30 year old Wooderson "that's why I love them college girls" type's studio apartment. (Disclaimer: I love me some Dazed and Confused, not trying to diss the magnificent Wooderson who is indeed right: you should ditch the two nerds in the back for the fiesta in the making.)
9) Drunk photos of me do not look glamorous. They look blurry and my eyes are always half-closed. The girls at the parties who look super fabulous, with their lipstick never out of place when they're 8 beers deep? I can't even.
10) I only really ever be myself in the company of those who know me best. They know who they are and together, I'm betting we have way more fun. Plus, let's not forget I'm getting old now. No longer in college, I need my sleep for work and doing well within my career. No beer funnel is ever going to matter to me as much as my very own high-rise office on the 40th floor of a skyscraper in (insert metropolis name here). Moreover than that, no pimps nor hoes will ever be able to keep a good girl down. I'm just way too in tune to what I'm working for to give it up for the sake of some hilarious but ultimately forgotten nights.
Hello, Type A personality!
Love to you all,