stay-at-home mom vs. party o'clock

stay at home!

by sb

let me say off the bat that i admire teeter's party skills; twenty minutes in a bar and she has the whole room speaking her language, buying whatever product she's pushing, and chanting her name as if she were donna martin, hoping to graduate. moi, if i were to make it went minutes in a bar, i'd be in a corner, sitting down, surrounded by a small gal pal phalanx, waiting to go home. it's not a superiority complex, because really, i hardly know these people, let alone find myself able to judge the quality of their character or party abilities. i just honestly would rather spent my night at home with pita grill delivery, tivo, and my dog, crochet project optional. if you think i am yay close to exclusively wearing hooded sweatshirts and sending mail bombs to academics, you'd only be half-wrong (hoodies yes, explosives no).
again, i'm not saying i stay home sos i can read tolstoy's complete works or finish writing that goddamned novel, unless of course tolstoy writes for us weekly and finishing that novel is a euphemism for pounding a six pack of strawberry jello. honestly, i just hate leaving my own house, especially when it means being in a room full of people i don't know. not drinking doesn't help, but hey, i don't drink because i'm a hermit, not the other way around. if i wanted to bro down with a cluster of misc humanity, i would gladly down a few zimas and let the good times roll, but i don't. i'd really rather just be narc-y and stay at home by myself.
being a hermit, at least on my terms, doesn't mean you can't have friends; in fact, you have a good number of friends with which you do low key things, like make nutritious dinner or watch movies or buy footwear neither one of you needs. the thing is tho, i've had many of my friends for 5+ years, some for 10+ years, and frankly, there is very little room left at the friendship inn. besides, we all know that more often than not, when you go to yr friend's birthday at the current brooklyn bar that always hosts birthdays, aka hipster chuckie cheese, and you meet some dude or lady you know yr never gonna see again, you can lay on the bullshit as much as you want, maybe have some giggles. in the end you're only mildly satisfied, stinky, and wishing you had spent that time flat out on the couch instead of barking back and forth with a stranger, hearing all about their shitty roommate, complimenting their haircut, especially since you can't remember that stranger's name, their relation to the birthday boy/girl, and/or pick their face out of a line-up if you tried, sober or not.
if all of this makes me look like a dick, i apologize, but hey, odds are, you'll never have to deal with me because i'll probably be safely stowed away in my apartment while you're out on the town, being charmed by my counter-pointer. for those people out there who feel my agoraphobic pain, know, brothers and sisters, that you are not really alone. and tonight, when i watch tivo'd bull durham for the 9938934th time over my chicken rice bowl, i will lift my fork to you in appreciation of the fact we never have to meet.

teeter gets her groove back

:

pro-party o'clock

by ts

for many dark years, ts had a small, abusive bf who was straightedge, which rendered her straightedge out of some sort of dysfunctional, flawed logic style default. during this slow season, 'big' evenings consisted of marathoning underground Japanese torture films against her will, watching him read luxury gangster automobile quarterlies, chowing on low rent all-you-can-eat-sushi in that shoppette on long island with his parents, or making iron on shirts in the basement of his childhood and present home with each others names on them. to ts, in retrospect, this time was considered her "stay-at-home-mom" phase.
once released from the vice-like deathgrip of said toxic association, and ts's taking of an emotional meltdown mom and dad's caretaking style hiatus in surburban dirty jerz, both parties began a seperate but equally active social life. his consisted primarily of scooby snax, painkillers, meth-amphetamines, special k, xanex, horse tranquilizers, and grass. thankfully, hers was more of a light and airy Guiness, Captain Morgan's and Ginger Ale, and attempting to death-smooch lowdmowth cute rockers caliber. on the move in motion, this phase was deemed "party o'clock" and ts was totes loving it like jt loves mcdonald's and cameron, or, like, the memory of his pre wt boo, brit - not so much cry me a rive style.
sb and crew have always been hardline stay-at-home-mom's - due to the gravitational pull of tivo, and by tivo ts means 'project runway,' and 'gilmore girls', google image search, and nyc's diverse-n-delicious-n-excessive ordering in choice factor. this is an x-cellent way to spend one night a week, in-effin-deed, but for the other 7 nights a week, 'party o'clock' is ever so clearly where it's at, cause repeated use of this mellow, lame-azing type of powerchill can turn into a total snoozefest. literally. last week during the second to lastest project runway round-up, ts fell asleep under the coffee table using king buzzo as a body pillow. no offense to my girls, who i love more than incessant thrift ninja-ing, but ts's fat ass needz more butt-out, far-flung, full-boar style so wasted shimmy fests and more fair game, non weezer chatroom related forums fer cold mackin' on underserving, jobless emo dudes.
the shonanza behind 'party o'clock' often times means the following: tears, fighting, puking in ones own hair, mortifying drunk dial-ery, repeated make out with said looser emo dudes, peeing behind dumpsterz, falafel face-stuffing btwn 4 and 6 am, puking in ones own mouth, firepoops the following morning, 'tuding off to guido bouncers, hair pulling, sassy outfit mangling and/or staining, fights, sex-making with an ugly person, and puking in ones own hand. rolling out like this SO SO never gets old and makes fer endless stories to mega impress yr next days tell-all crew.
while respectfully respecting the 'stay-at-home-moms' ts needz to pull out all the wiley lindsay lohan style stops while she's only marginally busted and marginally fat - before the days of having to be a grown ass, grocery shopping, lunchables packing, parents nite attending, entertainment industry stage mom/ professional show runner for her cheshire cat mr. whiskers, while living in a darien, conneticut mcmansion.
long live reigned in hi-jinx and tomfoolery and the 212-216 imaginary lingusitics junior wordsmifs crew. in summing up, stay-at-home is totally boring.

ps - this is my worstest point/counterpoint ever because sb has imposed such a super tite deadline one me but i have to crap my gutz and then get my hair cut in order to look like clay aiken. mom says if i wear my 3 tier punk rock belt i look like a lesbian.