Lady Parties and the Women Who Don't Eat at Them

There is nothing more terrifying than women getting together for a party.

Yes, I'm blonde when I entertain.

Like most things, lady parties start out with good intentions. There’s a blessed occasion, a church function, or a book club. Women wear noisy bangles, talk about giving birth in graphic detail, and smile to your face even when they disapprove of you. At the end of the event, an insane woman will say “Let’s do this again!” even when it’s a total flop. This week, I am going to two baby showers. Like a drag queen sewing sequins on an evening gown, I will spend hours squinting at baby outfits in Target.

There are many women’s parties: Baby showers, bridal showers, and potlucks for holidays or because we allegedly don’t see each other enough (even though, as they say, it is such a hassle to get everyone together). Then there are women who want to have a party, think they should have a party, or claim to throw the best party. I’m the first or second. Whether at work or with friends, I’m usually the gal holding a dirty spoon and wearing an apron smudged with tomato sauce. The third does not apply to me. The burning brie incident of 2011 almost set my kitchen ablaze.

Here’s how it happens: You decide to a throw party. You invite all guests via social media or, if it’s a life milestone, call or send paper invitations. Then there’s the two-week honeymoon where you're excited. You drafts menus or keep a spreadsheet to be sure there are no potluck dish repeats.  It’s all fun and games at this point.  

It’s the week of your party. The RSVP list is filled with comments like “So excited!” or “Wish I could make it. Next time!” You cringe at the last one, thinking they’re won’t be a next time if no one comes the first time. None of this makes you feel better about cleaning your house. When you decorate the table, you go for Martha Stewart but end up with kindergartener on crack. The crazy multi-colored craypaper and dusty fake flowers are not shabby chic at all!

No matter how poorly or beautifully decorated, the buffet table will be a war zone. At potlucks, women will crowd into your kitchen like it’s the last lifeboat leaving the Titanic. They will spill ranch dressing on your countertop. Worst of all, Amber will bring a platter piled high with ham pinwheels and hunks of cheddar while Marcie enters carrying the same appetizer. Amber will put her heavy dish on the paper tablecloth, practically lifting her leg and peeing on the table to mark her territory. Marcie tearfully makes room for her plate in the fridge, since there is no sense in having two of the same item when no one has arrived yet. A jilted Marcie says, “I thought you signed up for the fruit cocktail.” Amber just smiles at her.

The real reason for these parties is the food. By that I mean it's a public opportunity for women to pretend they don’t eat. They pick at tomatoes and carrot sticks like anorexic supermodels at a salad bar. They claim to “have a little of each” so as not to offend any of the potluck cooks. Secretly, they want to take a sweaty mound of chili and be done with it, but that wouldn’t be “polite.” Everyone munches on chicken wings daintily and says how “rich” the food is. Towards the end of the meal, someone will contradict herself by saying, “I can’t eat another bite,” as she inhales an enormous forkful of quiche. Then a brave soul gets seconds, plating the chili she wanted in the first place.

  

If your guests haven’t bludgeoned each other to death with salad tongs yet, it is time for the main event. At the bridal shower, the wife-to-be will insist that cooking pot roast for her fiancé every Sunday is better than a week lounging in Saint Tropez. If it’s a baby shower, someone will tell a disturbing birth story (“She was in labor for 90 hours and the baby’s head ripped right through her!”).

If the party isn’t about impending procreation or successful procreation, it’s about how to get in the mood for procreation. At Pure Romance parties, I’ve sampled phallic red-velvet cake and passed a dildo between my legs in a raunchy yet giggled-filled version of Hot Potato. You sit with other women and lick or blow hot oil on the tops of your hands to feel its heating properties. Women especially pretend not to eat at these parties.

The best part of the whole debacle is when people leave, and not just because you’re glad to see a ceasefire to the Marcie/Amber beef. If you’re the host, comments from guests like “Thank you!” and “You did a great job!” gloss over all sins. You forget the long lines at Disney World and only remember eating breakfast with Cinderella in her castle. You swell with pride at all you did and don’t remember that your kitchen looks like a crime scene.

I will go to those baby showers and always RSVP to women’s parties. Why? The only thing worse than getting invited is not being invited at all.